Pramudith D Rupasinghe

In the classroom, the discussion of writing methodologies often centres around a seemingly fundamental dichotomy: the structured approach of ‘plotters’ versus the improvisational style of ‘pantsers’. This classification, whilst useful as an initial framework, belies the nuanced reality of the creative writing process that most published authors actually employ.

Professional writers understand that effective storytelling rarely adheres to rigid methodological boundaries. Rather, it emerges from a personalised process that may draw elements from both approaches, adapting as necessary to serve the narrative at hand. The journey to discovering this individualised approach represents one of the most significant developmental milestones in a writer’s career.

‘I’ve been writing for 30 years,’ the late Hilary Mantel once remarked, ‘and I’m still discovering what works for me.’ This observation from a two-time Booker Prize winner illuminates an essential truth: despite the abundance of well-meaning advice in writing manuals and creative workshops, the most valuable insights emerge through personal practice and reflection.

Consider the contrasting approaches of two bestselling authors. J.K. Rowling meticulously plotted the Harry Potter series with detailed grids, timelines, and character arcs long before writing the opening chapters. Her colour-coded spreadsheets mapping out the complex narrative strands of Hogwarts have become almost as famous as the books themselves among aspiring writers. In direct contrast, Stephen King describes his writing process as archaeological rather than architectural: ‘Stories are found things, like fossils in the ground… The writer’s job is to use the tools in his or her toolbox to get as much of each one out of the ground intact as possible.’

Both approaches have yielded remarkable literary achievements, suggesting that success lies not in adhering to a prescribed methodology but in finding the approach that best aligns with one’s creative temperament and the demands of the particular narrative being crafted.

Many professional writers, having experimented with both extremes throughout their careers, ultimately settle into what the writing community has termed ‘plantsing’ – a hybrid approach that accommodates both structured planning and spontaneous discovery. This flexibility allows writers to adapt their process to different projects or even different stages within the same project. As Neil Gaiman explains: ‘I’m not really a plotter or a pantser. I’m more of a “let me tell you a story and find out what happens” person.’

What proves particularly instructive is how established authors frequently modify their approach throughout their literary careers. Philip Pullman, whose intricate His Dark Materials trilogy represents a masterclass in world-building, observes: ‘I’m not interested in techniques. I’m interested in stories… The techniques look after themselves.’ This evolution in methodology shouldn’t be interpreted as inconsistency but rather as professional growth – a refinement of craft in response to accumulated experience.

A comprehensive survey of contemporary novelists would likely reveal as many different writing processes as there are writers. Some begin with character sketches, others with setting or theme. Some write chronologically, others skip between pivotal scenes. Some require absolute silence, others the ambient noise of a busy café. The consistent element across these diverse approaches is authenticity – each writer has discovered the process that enables them to access their unique creative voice.

Toni Morrison’s oft-quoted advice to ‘write the book you want to read’ transcends matters of technique to address the more fundamental question of authorial purpose. This deceptively simple guidance invites writers to move beyond prescriptive methodologies to engage with their deepest creative instincts. The writer who dares to experiment – plotting one chapter, pantsing another, and perhaps employing a different approach entirely for a third – develops not merely technical versatility but a more profound understanding of their own creative rhythms.

When Samuel Beckett advised writers to ‘fail better’, he was acknowledging the inherently experimental nature of the creative process. Each draft represents not a definitive statement but a hypothesis – an attempt to translate nebulous ideas into coherent narrative. This perspective liberates writers from the paralysing pressure of immediate perfection, encouraging instead a process of continuous refinement through which authentic voice emerges.

For emerging writers, perhaps the most valuable skill to cultivate is not plotting or pantsing but discernment – the capacity to recognise which approach best serves both the current project and their own creative temperament. This may mean outlining extensively for complex narratives with multiple viewpoints while adopting a more exploratory approach for character-driven pieces. It might involve detailed planning for the narrative’s structural framework whilst allowing characters to develop organically within that structure.

The enduring debate between plotting and pantsing ultimately dissolves in the face of this more essential truth: effective writing emerges not from rigid adherence to external guidelines but through patient self-exploration and creative integrity. Through this process of discovery, writers develop that singular voice which, once found, becomes their most valuable professional asset – a literary fingerprint that cannot be replicated or mistaken for any other.

Pramudith D Rupasinghe

About the Author

Pramudith D Rupasinghe is a Sri Lankan writer and humanitarian. His literary works predominantly unfold in settings beyond his native Sri Lanka, for which he earned the name ‘Writer Without Borders. His work of fiction, ‘Bayan,’ set in pre-conflict Ukraine, won the Golden Aster Prize for Global Literature in 2020 and was longlisted for the 2023 Paris Book Festival. Rupasinghe’s works have been translated into several languages, including Sinhalese, Burmese,  German, Spanish, Russian, Polish, Bulgarian and French. He has also dedicated two decades to humanitarian work, drawing inspiration for his writing from his missions to Africa, Europe, Southeast Asia, and the Middle East. He is known for his thought-provoking narratives that delve into the human psyche, cultural identities, and global experiences.

 

 

In the ever-shifting landscape of human knowledge, both truth and fiction possess curious lifespans, evolving and transforming through time’s passage. What begins as accepted truth can fade into mythology, while yesterday’s fanciful fiction might become tomorrow’s lived reality. This dance between fact and fantasy reveals not fixed categories but a continuous spectrum where truths and falsehoods exchange places with remarkable fluidity.

Consider how historical ‘facts’ once held as absolute truths now provoke disbelief. For centuries, medical texts documented with absolute certainty that women’s wombs could detach and wander through the body, causing ‘female hysteria’—a ‘truth’ defended by the greatest physicians across cultures. The miasma theory of disease transmission, attributing illness to ‘bad air’ rather than microorganisms, guided public health policies for centuries before being thoroughly discredited. These weren’t merely opinions but firmly established ‘truths’ that eventually crumbled beneath the weight of new discoveries. And often, the truth lies inside the lie itself, and vice versa.

Literature offers compelling examples of fiction that transcended its imaginary boundaries to become prophetic through sheer coincidence rather than deliberate speculation. As you’ve mentioned, my novel ‘Bayan’ portrayed political scenarios in Ukraine that later materialised with unsettling accuracy. The book, written in 2014, depicted circumstances that preceded Russia’s annexation of Crimea and the Donbas conflict—fictional narratives that subsequently played out on the world stage without any speculative intent from the author. This transformation from fabrication to historical record demonstrates the peculiar lifecycle where fiction outlives its fictional nature through pure accident.

Morgan Robertson’s novella ‘Futility’ (later renamed ‘The Wreck of the Titan’) provides perhaps the most striking example of accidental prophecy. Published in 1898, it described the sinking of a supposedly unsinkable ocean liner called the Titan after striking an iceberg in the North Atlantic. Fourteen years later, the Titanic sank in shockingly similar circumstances. Robertson’s fictional vessel bore remarkable similarities to the actual Titanic in size, speed, and passenger capacity—despite being written years before the Titanic was even designed. The fictional ship even lacked sufficient lifeboats, just as the real Titanic would. This wasn’t speculative fiction attempting to predict the future; it was pure coincidence that transformed fiction into a disturbing premonition.

Edgar Allan Poe’s only complete novel, ‘The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket’ (1838), includes a scene where shipwreck survivors, stranded on a lifeboat, resort to cannibalism and eat a cabin boy named Richard Parker. Forty-six years later, a real shipwreck occurred involving survivors who, after drawing lots, killed and ate a cabin boy—whose name was Richard Parker. This macabre convergence of fiction and reality occurred without any possible causal connection, demonstrating how fictional narratives can eerily materialise in reality through pure coincidence. Later Yann Martel’s Booker winning novel, not a total coincidence, uses the name Richard Parker to The Royal Bengali, the tiger, one of the two main characters in the novel. Therefore, the relationship works bidirectionally. 

Historical accounts once treated as unquestionable fact gradually transition into recognised fiction or myth. The extensive writings about the court of King Arthur were long treated as historical chronicles before being understood as largely fictional. Marco Polo’s detailed accounts of his travels, once considered reliable geographical documentation, now contain elements historians recognise as embellished or fabricated. Ibn Battuta’s travel writings, while valuable historical documents, include geographical impossibilities and timeline contradictions that reveal the presence of fictional elements presented as factual observation.

Ancient medical texts offer compelling examples of ‘non-fiction’ that gradually became obsolete. Galen’s anatomical writings, considered medical gospel for over a millennium, contained fundamental errors resulting from his reliance on animal rather than human dissection. His incorrect descriptions of human liver shape and uterine structure were taught as absolute medical fact until Andreas Vesalius demonstrated their falsehood in the 16th century. What began as authoritative medical documentation slowly transformed into medical mythology.

Historical chronicles frequently underwent similar transformations. Geoffrey of Monmouth’s ‘Historia Regum Britanniae’ (History of the Kings of Britain) was long considered authentic British history before gradually being recognised as a creative blend of myths, legends and fabrications. Its accounts of King Lear and Cymbeline provided Shakespeare with material but represented fiction masquerading as historical record. The boundary between documented history and imaginative storytelling often becomes apparent only across centuries.

Even carefully documented ethnographies and travel accounts frequently contain elements that transition from accepted fact to recognised fiction. John Mandeville’s 14th-century travel accounts were considered factual geographic references for centuries before being recognised as largely imaginary. Similarly, numerous anthropological accounts from the colonial era described cultural practices that were either fundamentally misunderstood or occasionally invented outright by observers who believed they were producing objective documentation.

This transience suggests that both truth and fiction serve as temporal vessels rather than eternal categories. They function as containers holding human understanding at particular moments, subject to reexamination and redefinition as our perspective shifts. All knowledge exists in historical context, making its categorisation as ‘fact’ or ‘fiction’ contingent rather than absolute.

Perhaps most fascinating is the moment of transition—when fiction crosses into fact by sheer coincidence or truth dissolves into mythology through evolving understanding. These threshold events often mark significant shifts in human knowledge. When archaeological discoveries revealed that Heinrich Schliemann’s excavation of Troy had discovered a real city behind what many had dismissed as Homeric fiction, it transformed our understanding of the relationship between myth and history. Similarly, when medical texts documenting the efficacy of bloodletting transitioned from accepted medical fact to recognised pseudoscience, it marked a fundamental shift in medical epistemology.

The labels themselves—‘fiction’ and ‘non-fiction’—reveal our problematic tendency toward binary categorisation. Reality operates in gradients rather than absolutes. Historical accounts invariably contain interpretive elements that introduce subjectivity into supposedly objective records. Even meticulously documented journalism includes framing choices that shape meaning beyond raw facts. Meanwhile, fiction frequently incorporates genuine historical events and sociological insights that provide genuine illumination of reality.

This transience needn’t inspire the nihilistic dismissal of all knowledge claims. Rather, it invites intellectual humility—recognising that today’s certainties may become tomorrow’s quaint misconceptions. The most robust approach involves holding multiple possibilities simultaneously, maintaining receptivity to evidence that might transform our understanding. This perspective allows us to engage meaningfully with both factual accounts and fictional narratives, recognising their potential to exchange places through the strange alchemy of time and circumstance.

Pramudith D Rupasinghe

About the Author

Pramudith D Rupasinghe is a Sri Lankan writer and humanitarian. His literary works predominantly unfold in settings beyond his native Sri Lanka, for which he earned the name ‘Writer Without Borders. His work of fiction, ‘Bayan,’ set in pre-conflict Ukraine, won the Golden Aster Prize for Global Literature in 2020 and was longlisted for the 2023 Paris Book Festival. Rupasinghe’s works have been translated into several languages, including Sinhalese, Burmese,  German, Spanish, Russian, Polish, Bulgarian and French. He has also dedicated two decades to humanitarian work, drawing inspiration for his writing from his missions to Africa, Europe, Southeast Asia, and the Middle East. He is known for his thought-provoking narratives that delve into the human psyche, cultural identities, and global experiences.

 

When most of us think about the perfect writing environment, we always tend to look at the physical attributes: the ergonomic desk, the selected stationery, the ambient lighting, and perhaps that quintessential cup of coffee or a pot of tea. Well, these tangible elements surely facilitate the creative process, but they represent the sheer manifest content of what writers truly seek; but there is much more in the latent end of that.

The notion of ‘right space’ extends beyond the commonly understood physical limitations and penetrates the psychological sphere. Virginia Woolf’s ‘a room of one’s own’ supports the idea that ‘the room’ exists within one’s mind. For fiction writers especially, whose craft demands immersion in imagination and exploration of emotions, establishing a tranquil mental space becomes not just beneficial but essential. This mental sanctuary, accounting for perhaps most of what makes up an effective writing environment, serves as the true foundation upon which creative work flourishes, regardless of whether one writes at a fancy desk in a cozy hotel room, or during a commute on a crowded train.

The psychological dimensions of a writing space have been explored by numerous authors across generations. Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami describes his writing process as entering a different mental plane, stating in his memoir ‘What I Talk About When I Talk About Running’: ‘I’m not a person who can work well in noisy surroundings. I’m the kind who doesn’t need anything else when I write. I just need to be alone, in a kind of trance.’ This trance-like state exemplifies the mental space that supersedes physical requirements. Similarly, British author Zadie Smith has spoken about the necessity of creating ‘internal silence’ amidst external chaos. In her essay collection ‘Changing My Mind,’ Smith reflects on writing parts of her acclaimed novels in cafes and public spaces, noting that the ability to psychologically withdraw from immediate surroundings becomes a cultivated skill. American writer Jonathan Franze worked in a sparsely decorated office wearing noise-cancelling headphones—not merely to block sound, but to signal to his consciousness the transition into a creative mental territory. I have done most of my writing at cafes. Whether they are busy places in the heart of a South Asian city, or else peaceful places in Europe does not matter. My creative process triggers in the cafes. I have all adjustable tables, and multiple writing spaces in my houses in all the countries I share my year, but those tables are serving as beds for my laptop and notebooks. They have not done anything substantial when it comes to my creative process. These diverse approaches from writers across continents including, my own experience, underscore a universal truth: the physical writing environment serves as a gateway to the psychological space where creation occurs. Often, the mental space is the one that creates the perceptual set, as our brain does not differentiate what is imagined and what is real.

The cultivation of this mental landscape requires deliberate practice and often evolves throughout a writer’s career. Pitchaya Sudbanthad, a contemporary Thai author, wrote his debut novel, ‘Bangkok Wakes to Rain,’ in various locations across multiple continents, ranging from peaceful libraries to vibrant street food markets. ‘The constant changing of physical spaces,’ he notes in interviews, ‘forced me to anchor my writing not in location but in mental discipline.’ This sentiment echoes across cultures and eras. I am no exception, for the last two decades, I have been travelling in over fifty countries, and I always have a writing project with me—transit airports have witnessed me completing chapters. Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky wrote some of his most notable work amid personal turmoil and challenging circumstances, demonstrating that internal sanctuary can withstand external adversity. American poet Mary Oliver frequently composed while walking through natural landscapes, carrying only minimal writing materials, allowing the rhythm of movement to shape her mental space. In today’s connected world, where diverse distractions compete for attention, the crafting of psychological space has become profoundly challenging, yet more vital than ever. Writers now must not only find physical quietude but also digital silence, creating boundaries that protect the fragile mental territory where imagination is birthed.

Mindfulness practices have emerged as valuable tools for contemporary fiction writers seeking to establish this essential mental space. British novelist Jeanette Winterson incorporates meditation into her daily writing routine, stating that ‘clearing the mind before writing allows characters to speak without the author’s ego intervening.’ Chinese-American author Yiyun Li describes in her memoir ‘Dear Friend, from My Life I Write to You in Your Life’ how periods of focused contemplation help her access the emotional depth required for fiction. Even Ernest Hemingway, writing in a pre-digital era, practiced his own form of mindfulness through his disciplined approach of stopping each day’s writing session at a point where he knew what would happen next—a technique that allowed his subconscious to remain engaged with the narrative during non-writing hours. During one of our chats, Somali-Eritrean writer Sulaiman Addonia told me that his writing happens in a subconscious state where he does not see the world judging him. So, he allowed that mental stage to set in, creating a creative space within. These can be diverse in the methods but share a common purpose: to create the psychological conditions conducive to sustained creative work. For today’s writers, techniques borrowed from mindfulness traditions offer structured approaches to establishing mental boundaries in environments increasingly hostile to focused attention.

The relationship between physical and psychological space manifests differently across cultures, influenced by varied philosophical traditions and material circumstances. Indian author Arundhati Roy famously took years to write her second novel, ‘The Ministry of Utmost Happiness,’ creating what she called ‘internal architecture’ before committing words to page. This concept reflects Eastern philosophical traditions that emphasize internal preparation and contemplation. Meanwhile, German writer Jenny Erpenbeck describes her writing process as requiring ‘emotional emptiness’—a state she achieves through rigorous scheduling and physical ritual. Nigerian novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie transitions between continents and works in various environments, yet maintains that her true writing space exists in what she calls ‘emotional memory,’ a psychological territory she can access regardless of location. These diverse approaches reveal that while cultural contexts may shape how writers conceptualize their process, the fundamental need for psychological space transcends geographical boundaries. The universal challenge for contemporary fiction writers lies in reconciling traditional needs for mental sanctuary with modern realities that increasingly blur the boundaries between work, leisure, and creative endeavour.

In our current era, where productivity is often equated with constant output and digital connectivity has redefined presence, fiction writers face unprecedented challenges in establishing the mental space essential to their craft. The Finnish author Sofi Oksanen notes that “fiction requires a different kind of time—not the fragmented attention of social media, but deep, uninterrupted immersion.” This distinction highlights perhaps the most significant contemporary obstacle to creating psychological writing space: the fragmentation of attention and the commodification of time. Spanish novelist Javier Marías, before he died in 2022, spoke of writing as ‘a form of resistance against the acceleration of modern life,’ suggesting that the act of creating fiction has become inherently countercultural. For today’s writers across continents, establishing mental space often requires deliberate resistance against societal pressures toward constant productivity and connectivity.

The ideal environment for writing fiction is internal—a carefully built and guarded space within one’s mind. The physical aspects of my writing space—from the desk to the coffee cup—act as tools and rituals that help me access the boundless world of my imagination. As American author George Saunders once told: ‘Don’t worry about the room. Make room in your mind, and the words will find their place.’

Pramudith D Rupasinghe

About the Author

Pramudith D Rupasinghe is a Sri Lankan writer and humanitarian. His literary works predominantly unfold in settings beyond his native Sri Lanka, for which he earned the name ‘Writer Without Borders. His work of fiction, ‘Bayan,’ set in pre-conflict Ukraine, won the Golden Aster Prize for Global Literature in 2020 and was longlisted for the 2023 Paris Book Festival. Rupasinghe’s works have been translated into several languages, including Sinhalese, Burmese,  German, Spanish, Russian, Polish, Bulgarian and French. He has also dedicated two decades to humanitarian work, drawing inspiration for his writing from his missions to Africa, Europe, Southeast Asia, and the Middle East. He is known for his thought-provoking narratives that delve into the human psyche, cultural identities, and global experiences. 

 

Fiction possesses a remarkable ability to heal us in a world increasingly constructed of narratives. As we navigate lives shaped by social media personas, political storytelling, and corporate mythmaking, literature offers us both escape and confrontation with the truth. Fiction paradoxically becomes one of our most reliable tools for making sense of our fabricated realities.

When we immerse ourselves in stories, we aren’t merely retreating from reality—we engage with it through a different lens. Fiction creates a safe distance from which to examine painful truths that might otherwise be too raw to process directly. This psychological buffer allows us to confront difficult emotions, traumatic experiences, and existential questions.

Consider how dystopian novels like “1984” or “The Handmaid’s Tale” provide frameworks for understanding authoritarian control and manipulation of truth. These fictional worlds illuminate patterns in our own society that might otherwise remain invisible to us. Through stories, we develop a vocabulary for experiences that defies easy categorization in our everyday discourse.

Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami once noted that even the strangest fiction must retain a core of believability, a certain resonance with reality. Emotional authenticity, not factual accuracy, is the focus of this reality. A well-crafted story resonates because it speaks to something true within us, even as it presents impossible scenarios or fantastical elements.

Our modern existence increasingly blurs the line between authentic experience and constructed narrative. We curate our lives for social media, presenting polished versions of ourselves that become fictions of their own. Political discourse relies more on compelling narratives than factual accuracy. Corporate branding creates mythologies around products and services. We live surrounded by fictions masquerading as reality.

Fiction helps us reclaim agency within this landscape. By consciously engaging with invented worlds, we develop critical faculties that help us identify the constructed nature of our supposed “real world.” Reading fiction enhances our empathy by allowing us to inhabit perspectives different from our own, and this empathic capacity becomes a tool for piercing through the falsehoods that divide us.

There’s something profoundly healing about recognising the fictions we’ve internalised. Many of us operate according to narratives we’ve absorbed unconsciously—about success, relationships, identity, and purpose. Fiction can make these implicit stories explicit, allowing us to examine and revise them. A character’s journey might illuminate our own self-deceptions or reveal alternatives to the stories we’ve been living by.

Art therapists have long recognised the therapeutic power of fictional storytelling. Creating or engaging with narrative allows us to externalize internal conflicts, making them more manageable. We can project aspects of ourselves onto characters, working through our own struggles through their fictional journeys. This process provides emotional catharsis and cognitive clarity.

Fiction’s healing capacity extends to collective trauma as well. Societies process historical wounds through literature, film, and other narrative arts. Stories help communities integrate painful histories into their collective identity without being defined solely by suffering. They offer frameworks for reconciliation and renewal.

In our hyper-connected yet isolated world, fiction also provides a sense of connection. Reading a novel is an intimate experience, a communion between writer and reader across time and space. We recognize our own struggles in fictional characters, realizing we’re not alone in our confusion, pain, or yearning.

Perhaps most importantly, fiction reminds us that alternative realities are possible. If our present reality feels constraining or false, stories show us that different worlds can be imagined and created. This imaginative capacity is essential for personal and social transformation.

The poet Muriel Rukeyser wrote that “the universe is made of stories, not atoms.” If our reality is indeed constructed of narratives, then engaging with fiction isn’t escapism—it’s a vital engagement with the very fabric of existence. By reading, writing, and sharing stories, we participate in the ongoing creation of meaning.

Fiction transcends mere escapism; through stories, we can confront the fictions imposed upon us, challenge narratives that no longer serve us, and pen new possibilities for our individual and collective future.

Pramudith D Rupasinghe

About the Author

Pramudith D Rupasinghe is a Sri Lankan writer and humanitarian. His literary works predominantly unfold in settings beyond his native Sri Lanka, for which he earned the name ‘Writer Without Borders. His work of fiction, ‘Bayan,’ set in pre-conflict Ukraine, won the Golden Aster Prize for Global Literature in 2020 and was longlisted for the 2023 Paris Book Festival. Rupasinghe’s works have been translated into several languages, including Sinhalese, Burmese,  German, Spanish, Russian, Polish, Bulgarian and French. He has also dedicated two decades to humanitarian work, drawing inspiration for his writing from his missions to Africa, Europe, Southeast Asia, and the Middle East. He is known for his thought-provoking narratives that delve into the human psyche, cultural identities, and global experiences.