Matariki, Stories, and Borrowing the Right Way... JULY 2026

Living in New Zealand has given me the chance to experience traditions that weren't part of my childhood. 

One of those is Matariki.

For anyone reading from elsewhere in the world, Matariki marks the rising of the Matariki star cluster (known internationally as the Pleiades) and signals the beginning of the Māori New Year. It's a time to remember those who have passed, celebrate the people around you, and look forward to the year ahead with intention. Reflection, gratitude, hope. Looking back so you know how to move forward.

As a writer, that's... pretty much the job description.

I spend an unreasonable amount of my life living inside other people's heads. Not literally—that would require either magic or several conversations with my therapist—but every novel asks me to become someone else for a while. To see the world through a different set of eyes.

And that inevitably leads to culture.

I'm British by birth. I live in New Zealand. I write speculative fiction. My stories take me to places that exist and places that don't. Some I've been lucky enough to visit. Others I've only explored through books, maps, research, and conversations. The worlds may be fictional, but they're always shaped by real people, real cultures, and real histories. 

Done well, that's inspiration.

Done badly, it's tourism with dragons.

The older I get, the more I realize that culture isn't something you can sprinkle over a story like seasoning. It isn't there to make your world feel "exotic." It's the invisible framework that shapes how people think, celebrate, mourn, argue, love, and survive.

So, when I write characters whose experiences aren't mine,

I don't start by asking, How do I make them different?

I ask, How do I make them human?

That means doing the work.

Reading books by authors from those cultures. Listening to interviews. Learning the history, not just the highlights, but getting out of my comfort zone and asking. Understanding why traditions matter instead of simply borrowing them because they look interesting. Accepting that sometimes the answer is, "This isn't my story to tell."

It's not a limitation.

It's respect.

One of the joys of speculative fiction is that it lets us build new cultures inspired by many different influences without pretending they're direct copies of real ones. A fictional kingdom can carry echoes of Celtic storytelling, Polynesian navigation, West African oral traditions, Japanese craftsmanship, or Andean ideas about community, but those inspirations should come from understanding, not surface aesthetics.

Readers can tell the difference.

They might not be able to explain why one world feels authentic and another feels hollow, but they'll feel it. Because real cultures aren't collections of cool facts. They're living things. Messy. Contradictory, and constantly changing.

Just like people.

That's why Matariki resonates with me.

Not because it belongs to me—it doesn't—but because living in New Zealand has taught me to appreciate the value of pausing for reflection. Of remembering where you've come from before deciding where you're going next.

As writers, we ask readers to trust us with imaginary worlds.

The least we can do is approach the real world with curiosity, humility, and enough respect to know that every culture has stories worth listening to long before they're worth borrowing.

Maybe that's the lesson I'm taking into the next writing year.

Look up. Look back and take a deep breath.

Then tell better stories. Hopefully, those next stories will resonate with your audience.