pip adam[1] is a fiction writer and podcaster living in Te Whanganui-a-Tara. She is interviewed by writer and lecturer, Whiti Hereaka.
Whiti: Kia ora pip! It occurs to me that we often talk about our work—what we’re currently working on, our frustrations and discoveries, and impending deadlines—but we don’t really talk about our process. And maybe that’s because when you’re in the middle of the work it is hard to see the work—at least it is for me! There might be a bit of superstition there too: If you talk too much about something, if you pull it apart, perhaps the magic that holds the thing together might escape. But maybe if you articulate something, it is easier to reign. What do you think? Do you think about your process in the midst of writing, or is that something that comes later?
pip: i do find it tricky to talk about the ‘content’ of what i’m working on—its ‘story’. i think all ideas sound weak in the abstract. You know, like, ‘This young guy lives on a farm with his uncle and aunt, then one day a stranger called Ben comes to town’ isn’t as original as A New Hope in its complete form. i also think it’s hard when talking about ‘story’ not to slip into cliché. i’m not disparaging cliché or trope—i love them both, i just think it can feel quite vulnerable to say, ‘Look it’s a story, it grows out of every other story ever told, it’s not original or clever.’ So i think this is why i’m more comfortable talking about process and craft. The ‘how’ rather than the ‘what’.
i love hearing about how you’re thinking about your work—how you’re imagining its final form, how you’re navigating the roadblocks it is throwing up. Writing is often a really good way to invite trouble in. It throws up personal memories, insecurities, fears, and also it challenges itself. When i’m not writing, writing seems easy—when i am writing, it seems impossible. i think my process is a lot about dealing with this kind of trouble and carrying on, so i think a lot about process when i’m in the midst of writing.
A writing lecturer told me years ago that i have no natural talent but i did seem like someone who will work hard at writing and this is probably the greatest gift anyone’s given me. i’ve never depended on talent, it’s just me and writing—struggling to make a rock fly or talk a cloud into coming inside. So in this way, process is probably all i think about when I’m in the midst of a project. i also just want to say that sometimes process is not about action, action, action. Sometimes it’s about intangibles, things that often look like i’m wasting time—imagining, feeling, daydreaming.
Whiti: I used to take the question ‘where do you get your ideas from’ quite literally, and answer —perhaps too glibly—that my problem is that I have too many ideas. Thinking about that question recently, I think there are a couple of questions in that question that people are actually asking. The first one is where does a story start for you? I often start with a voice or a character. Where do you start?
pip: Usually, something starts with an irritation, a sadness, or a sense of awe—so the idea is more in my body than in my mind. It’s a discomfort or a pleasure, or it’s an outsized emotional response to something—a stab in the heart, a sinking in the stomach, or tears that i don’t have any ‘mind’ control over. So then the next step is to try to capture the body reaction in words. i think this is why i like writing because it’s an impossible task, but something in the attempt creates something—often something quite different—and then i am in the swing of trying to make this non-lexical thing conform to ‘story’. This is why i love cliché and trope—to me they’re ‘knowledge’ and ‘rules’. So that is where i start and i think voice and character come out of that because these are the tools of ‘story’.
Whiti: I think the second question is around how do you know that a story has ‘legs’? How do you recognise the inspiration that will turn into a story?
pip: Oh. i don’t [laughter]. i have no idea, like i’m in the late stages of something now—page proofs—and i’m still not sure it has legs but to me that’s part of the conversation. i’m not trying to be definitive or profound or even like, ‘finished’. i’m more like, ‘Hey, reader, this is weird and possibly wrong, eh? What do you think?’ So yeah, i don’t think i’ve ever abandoned anything. Once that body thing gets me, i feel committed to trying to write it out. i have thrown away versions of things—i’ve had to start new but once it has me i feel like maybe it’s my job to give it legs? Maybe.
Whiti: I’m a little bit jealous of my first draft. I think I work best if that draft is for me first—it allows me to experiment and take risks that I might not take if I think about an audience. Is it the same for you? When do you start thinking about audience?
pip: That has changed for me a lot. i used to think i didn’t think about audience at all but i have always thought about individual people reading my work—the people i love and respect. i think about them from the start. i have to imagine them in the room to keep me honest—to stop me from taking the easy route, which tends to be the inhumane or cruel route, the route that tries to over-simplify things, the route that aligns with the powerful, which is often to say the mainstream. Sometimes these are people i know but, also, they might be literary heroes. Like, i might think to myself, ‘What would Bae Suah say about this? Would i be comfortable with her seeing me make that decision?’
Whiti: I tend to think of myself as the first reader of my work, so to some extent the wider audience I picture has some of the same characteristics as me. But if you want to effect some change then you’d need to reach audiences that think differently to you. Do you think about how you reach those readers?
pip: Oh, i don’t think my work has the capacity to effect change. i’m not really sure if fiction has a place in the revolution, if it has any radical potential at all. What i do know is that in 2024, when Brannavan Gnanalingam’s novel The Life and Opinions of Kartik Popat came out, i felt at my core like it was worth carrying on fighting. i think there’s a solidarity and encouragement to be had in novels. So, in this way i don’t feel like i need to speak to a wider audience because i won’t convince anyone.
People with different life experience have read my books and they’ve talked to me about them and I’ve had some great conversations but i don’t think they’ve changed anyone’s ideas. In some ways, i think they’ve entrenched people’s ideas, which is quite a difficult thing to face.
Whiti: Your work tends to centre around characters who are outside the majority in society and who are vulnerable. I admire your advocacy in your work. This is probably a chicken and egg question, but where does opening up the conversation about social issues (like unrecognised trauma or the inhumanity of the prison system) sit in creating your stories? Is it the impetus? Or do the issues arise as you are creating a character or story arc?
pip: i think the question of where or when these social issues or traumas or vulnerabilities arise comes directly from where my ideas come from. The body reactions come as i’m living my life—as i’m in society where social issues are and they come from my body, which is a machine that is made up of all the things i’ve experienced. All the things that have rained down on my body and all the resulting beliefs and thoughts.
Whiti: You’ve been adapting your novel Audition for the stage recently. I started off as a playwright and my transition into writing fiction was rough—it didn’t occur to me to describe the world or characters in my first draft of my first novel. How has the process been for you so far?
pip: Oh, thanks so much for sharing that. It really is a completely different thing, eh? i’ve found it really rough. It’s kind of like, ‘Hey, i can ride a bike. i bet i could eat a bike.’
Despite using the same physical tools—words—the discipline is completely different. i feel like i’m writing with tone and rhythm and mood and space in a way i never have before and yeah, it feels daunting but i’m keen to keep trying. It’s tough to write ‘bad’ as well. To know what i want the writing to do but fail at that. It’s tough but also exciting. i think failure is really useful to any practice and i feel excited that I’ve found a whole new way to fail.
The thing i’ve found really amazing is how generous theatre people are and how practised they are at explaining their work. I’ve asked questions to lots of people who write theatre—you included—and they’ve given me a lot of time and their answers have been really helpful. i wonder if it’s because intrinsic in theatre—like it’s part of the job—is the translation of your vision to other people.
Whiti: As someone without a background in theatre, where did you start in learning how to construct a play?
pip: i sort of started by reading and doing. i find it a useful feedback loop. The reading helps me understand what a play should ‘sound’ like and then, when i go back to writing, i can work out if it sounds the same or different from the noise it is meant to make. Big shout-out to Playmarket! i’ve also been going to a lot more theatre because even though i’m concentrating on writing not performance, it is really helpful to see what is possible. i went to see Bleed Out created by Miranda Manasiadis, Georgia Beechey, and Luke Hanna, and i was like, ‘Woah. Bodies in space. Bodies in light and dark.’ It was wild.
Also, i’ve been listening to theatre writers talk about their work. Emily Perkins put me onto this amazing podcast, Royal Court Playwright’s Podcast. It’s so good.
Whiti: What skills do you think you’ve brought to your play from fiction? And what do you think the experience in playwriting will bring to your fiction writing?
pip: It’s really hard to be in that ‘beginner’s’ mind space. i guess maybe dialogue? i think the first art i came into contact with as a kid was eavesdropping. i love listening to people talk. Love it. And i love trying to replicate that in writing. i also love the odd cadence—the awkward turn of phrase or the jarring.
Whiti: Performance and comedy also feature in the novel you’re working on—there must be some cross-pollination?
pip: Yeah, definitely. i think this was what first got me interested in theatre. The idea of the audience—of there being this completely unpredictable component in the room. (i am a big fan of The Great British Throw Down and i love the raku episode in each season.) For kluge i went to a lot of live comedy and talked to a lot of comedians and it was wild to hear them talk about how the audience is part of their work. One night, i went to see James Nokise and this heckler was out of control and to watch James handle it was a moment of revelation. Then i got onto clowning—as you do—and i was like i want to write for three dimensions and for immediacy and for unpredictability.
Whiti: My favourite part of quiz shows are the quick-fire questions! So I have a few for you, if that’s pai?
pip: Awesome!
Whiti: What does a great writing day look like for you?
pip: Reading, writing, and a walk—possibly all this takes place in crowded places, like i walk on some busy streets to the library maybe.
Whiti: How do you stack the deck so (hopefully!) each day is a great writing day? Are there things you do to get you into ‘the zone’?
pip: Music and reading. Music kind of ‘Pavlov-dogs’ me into the work. Reading someone else’s writing helps me see it’s actually possible. Helps me keep the faith.
Whiti: If you could send a message to past pip—perhaps working on her first short story collection—what would it be?
pip: Use sunscreen and be kinder. Your writing doesn’t have to be so tough. You think being tough will protect you from the things you can’t face, but it won’t, so you might as well face them now.
Whiti: I’m a big believer in bribing myself to get the work done. How do you get out of the doldrums?
pip: i take dance breaks. i do laundry—i love laundry. Sometimes it’s lunchtime.
Whiti: What have you read/watched/seen/experienced lately that has twinged your writer spidey-senses?
pip: This week, i got to be part of an amazing workshop facilitated by Jessica Hansell and nothing has made me more hopeful and exhilarated for art in a long time. i’m a member of the Wellington Film Society and this week i saw Kwaidan by Masaki Kobayashi and it has been dominating everything i think about this week.
i saw Jo Randerson’s Speed is Emotional and that made me excited about the possibility of space and time and voice. But i have to say, the thing that’s making me write today is the absolute rage and hopelessness i feel at the fact New Zealand First’s Legislation (Definitions of Woman and Man) Amendment Bill was pulled from the ballot [and introduced to Parliament]. Our current Government cares about no one if they can get a vote out of knocking them down. My spidey senses are very much trying to put out ‘vote’ vibes.
Whiti: pip, can you tell me about what you love?
pip: i love people deeply. i love reading. i love going to the movies and theatre. i love hot chips. i love Te Matapihi ki te Ao Nui[2]. i love kindness and patience.
Whiti: Ngā mihi nui, pip! I feel like I know so much more about your process and approach to work—and more about you. We should go and get some hot chips soon!
[1] pip prefers ‘pip’ and ‘i’ (lower case).
[2] Wellington central library, opened in April 2026 following major structural repairs (having been closed at short notice in 2019).