Mastering the Craft: Insights from Three Māori Storytelling Icons

A Heartfelt Conversation with Patricia Grace, Becky Manawatu, and Briar Grace-Smith

In a unique gathering over Thai cuisine under the gaze of Matariki, three of Aotearoa’s most renowned wāhine Māori writers—Patricia Grace, Becky Manawatu, and Briar Grace-Smith—shared their experiences, challenges, and victories as storytellers. Their dialogue intertwined themes of identity, responsibility, and the inseparable bond between creativity and culture.

Introducing the Storytellers

Patricia Grace (Ngāti Toa, Ngāti Raukawa, Te Āti Awa)

A literary trailblazer often (reluctantly) celebrated as the first published Māori woman author, Patricia is a mother of seven, a dedicated advocate for her community, and the author of seminal works like Potiki. Her influence spans generations—including her former daughter-in-law, Briar Grace-Smith.
Becky Manawatu (Ngāi Tahu, Ngāti Māmōe, Waitaha)

The award-winning author of Auē, New Zealand’s best-selling book of 2020, Becky balances motherhood, writing, and her current role as the Robert Burns Fellow. Her debut novel explores raw, unflinching truths about Māori life with profound empathy.
Briar Grace-Smith (Ngāpuhi, Ngātiwai)

An acclaimed playwright, screenwriter, and director, Briar adapted Patricia’s Cousins into a groundbreaking film, co-directed with Ainsley Gardiner. A mother of four, she blends storytelling with activism, challenging colonial narratives in cinema.

The Art of Storytelling: Instinct Over Structure

For these writers, storytelling isn’t a rigid craft—it’s an organic, often unpredictable process rooted in whakapapa and tikanga.

Patricia: “We never talk about writing. We talk about family, about everything else. That’s why I don’t think writing classes would have suited me. It just doesn’t interest me to dissect it.”

Patricia’s journey began almost by accident. After publishing short stories in magazines and winning competitions through a penwomen’s society, a publisher took notice. “I had an easy ride into publishing,” she admits. “I never had the struggle I hear others describe.”

Briar’s path was shaped by her mother, a children’s storyteller and educator. “She took me to plays and explained how the words on stage were written by someone—someone with power. I loved that idea,” Briar recalls. “Even now, writing still feels like playtime.”

Becky, whose debut novel Auē catapulted her to fame, grapples with the pressure of expectations. “If writing feels like mahi, it’s probably not going to be good,” she says. “I’ve only written one book, but it’s mine. No one can take that away.”

Māori Storytelling: Circular, Not Linear

The trio rejects Western storytelling conventions, favoring a more fluid, whaikōrero-inspired approach.

Briar: “In film, we’ve been told for 130 years that stories need a three-act structure. But that’s just one way. Our stories spin like a pōwhiri—they circle, they weave, they hold the essence while dancing around it.”

Patricia: “Humour, heart, and truth—that’s what makes a story resonate. If it’s not there, no one will listen.”

Briar highlights the slow but steady shift in Aotearoa’s film industry: “We didn’t have a Māori woman direct a film for 30 years. Now, we’re breaking through. The more stories we tell our way, the more space we create.”

Responsibility and Representation: Who Gets to Tell Our Stories?

The conversation turns solemn when discussing the ethics of storytelling, particularly around Māori narratives often reduced to gangs and violence.

Patricia: “Early on, funders would ask, ‘Where’s the conflict?’ They wanted Once Were Warriors-style drama. But Cousins wasn’t about violence—it was about love, resilience, and quiet strength.”

Briar: “We have a responsibility to our people. If a story doesn’t serve us, walk away. I’m tired of seeing Māori men portrayed as thugs. The men I know are gentle, supportive—like the uncles in Cousins who never took centre stage but held everything together.”

Becky reflects on her own work: “Auē has gang elements, but it’s not a gang story. It’s about whānau, trauma, and healing. Still, I question my right to tell it. Pākehā writers don’t have to think twice.”

Patricia adds, “There are lines I won’t cross. I won’t write what could hurt people. My sons feel the weight of every negative stereotype—they carry it. Why add to that?”

Balancing Creativity, Motherhood, and Mahi

For these women, writing isn’t a solitary act—it’s woven into the fabric of their lives.

Briar: “There are no boundaries. Writing, parenting, directing—it all bleeds together. But if I go too long without creating, I get restless.”

Patricia: “I write better when I’m writing. I sleep better, eat better. My husband supported me financially, and I’m grateful for that freedom.”

Becky: “Support is everything—whether it’s a partner, a community, or just sheer love for the craft. You make it work because you have to.”

Advice for Aspiring Writers

Find your community. Briar emphasizes the importance of connection: “Writing is lonely. Find your people.”
Stop waiting for “one day.” Patricia’s mantra: “Just do it. I wrote at the kitchen table with no typewriter, seven kids, and a million distractions. There’s no perfect time.”
Fall in love with your characters. Becky’s tip: “If you adore even one character, the story will pull you back. That love spreads.”

Celebrating Matariki: Reflection and Renewal

The trio shares how they honor the Māori New Year:

Patricia: “We never celebrated it growing up, but now we gather at the marae, visit the observatory. It’s a time for children, for light in the darkest season.”

Briar: “Dick [Patricia’s late husband] once said, ‘We’ve lost our ability to see the stars.’ It stuck with me—how much knowledge we’ve had to reclaim.”

Becky: “I set intentions, not goals. We share a meal, reflect, and step into the new year with purpose.”

Final Thoughts: The Power of Māori Narratives

As the evening winds down, one truth resonates: Māori stories are not just tales—they’re acts of resistance, healing, and reclamation. Whether through Patricia’s quiet revelations, Briar’s cinematic defiance, or Becky’s raw prose, these wāhine are reshaping Aotearoa’s literary landscape—one word at a time.