The New Zealand Young Writer’s Festival (NZYWF) is an annual event held in Ōtepoti Dunedin, produced by the Dunedin Fringe Trust. It is made “by young writers, for young writers,” and aims to create space for emerging voices; promote cross-disciplinary connections and content; expand definitions of writing; and create opportunities and pathways for young practitioners.
Though the festival has been running for over a decade, the annual wānaka* at Puketeraki Marae in Karitāne is a new component, described as a space for “creativity, reflection and whakawhanaukataka (building relationships).” This year, I was one of 26 young writers selected for the initiative’s second-ever cohort. We were between 18–35 years old, and had come from all over the country with diverse experience, interests, and backgrounds.
As the plane descended over the yellow gorse and green fields in late September, it struck me that the last time I was here was almost exactly a year ago to visit my long-time friend, Zoe. She had been the one who’d encouraged me to take a leap of faith and leave my job to write full-time. Fast-forward to now – I've been making steady progress, but I was beginning to wonder if I had made a mistake. Arts-funding is dwindling, development spaces were being affected by massive cuts, and pathways for creatives seemed to be closing everywhere I turned. Almost everyone I knew had moved to Australia or worse – become an accountant. But who can blame them when the median wage for creatives in New Zealand is $37,000? Outside the terminal, Zoe was waiting with a hand-drawn welcome sign. I gave her a huge hug, holding onto her like a life raft.
For artists, connections aren’t just nice – they’re vital to our work, our creative identities, and our careers. In a sector where “sustainable career” sounds like a punchline, community is sustenance. Decades of research have shown lower socioeconomic status is associated with psychological distress and also that strong social connections improve wellbeing. Perhaps that explains why over 80 percent of creatives are committed to their work despite being some of the most poorly paid workers in the country, and more than half of us reporting burnout in 2023.
Arguably, the fact that anyone keeps making art at all is largely thanks to the tireless work of community arts administrators, advocates and organisations like Dunedin Fringe. By producing spaces like the wānaka and the wider festival, they create opportunities to form the connections that allow artists to continue creating, especially in challenging environments. Strength in numbers is a survival strategy as old as life itself. Like trees sharing nutrients through their roots, creative communities share resources like knowledge, space and time.
On the first night at the marae, renowned playwright and theatre-maker Cindy Diver (Kai Tāhu) spoke of becoming a “Jack-of-all-trades” to facilitate her creative career, and the community connection that drives her storytelling. Afterward, māra kai coordinator Sue Smith (Kai Tāhu), explained that kai is more than food. Through storytelling and its power to bring people together kai is nourishment. On the last day, Nick Tipa (Kāi Tahu) and Antony Deaker (Kāi Tahu) led a session on finances for creatives, covering everything from tax returns and funding applications. Through this tuakana-teina model, NZYWF nourishes emerging artists by showing us the many ways in which to hold an arts career and have a creative practice. As Stella Weston, a returning participant puts it, the festival “reinforced the idea that this is a viable career… this genuinely offers so much hope to me as a creative.”
Another participant, Yueke Li (Kezai) said “many of the challenges young writers face are not only about writing itself… sometimes it is less about becoming a ‘better writer’ and more about having a community that allows us to feel held and understood.”
Besides receiving support and mentorship, the communities formed in these spaces can also be a resource in-and-of themselves, where we can find or create pathways and opportunities – some of which are paid. Some of these are through the festival itself. Many of us (including myself) were repeat participants. Attendees return in different capacities and through various stages of their careers. Last year, Ōtautahi writer Josiah Morgan (Kāi Tahu, Ngāti Maniapoto) was a tuakana, and this year he was the Robert Lord Cottage Young Writer in Residence. In turn, Morgan has helped build analogous arts networks in Ōtautahi like Te Wā, contributing to the city’s rich arts scene.
For emerging practitioners, these early development opportunities, and the pastoral care that comes from these communities can be particularly significant. For Krysana Hanley, another returning participant from Tāmaki Makaurau, NZYWF has meant “being able to read my work to a supportive crowd, meet my peers from around the country and get published.
“It’s changed how I think of myself as a writer and pushed me to pursue my goals.”
But though these are excellent, quantifiable outcomes of spaces like NZYWF, perhaps its true value is a little more ephemeral. Being in community with other storytellers reminded me of why I write – he tangata, he tangata, he tangata. Like the other writers I met, I wrote stories because I believed they were a powerful public good. Plus, by being exposed to new stories, new or different experiences and ways of thinking, both myself and my art were enriched.
On the first day of the wānaka, our tuakana Eric Soakai led a Talitali kava ceremony to open the space. It was a tradition they inherited through their Samoan (Poutasi/Falealili) and Tongan (Pangai/Ha’apai) lineage, they explained. We sat in a circle clutching our knees, cross-legged on the schoolhouse carpet. Listen carefully, Soakai counseled us before we began, for listening is the first step to writing.
“Tetau fū mo faikava!”
We clap to partake in kava!
When we were called, each of us would claim our ancestral name with cupped palms and receive a hollowed coconut shell. We would invoke a departed elder, then share an intention for the coming days before drinking the milky, bitter liquid in one gulp, briefly embodying the consciousness of those who had gone before.
“Kava kuo heka!”
The kava is ready!
When Eric called on me, I named my paternal Grandmother, who had passed while Mum was pregnant with me. She had chosen my Chinese name, which contains the character 诗 (shí), meaning “poetry” or “story”. I wanted to live up to her name. I considered my intentions.
“My intention for the festival is to be fully open. 干杯 (gān bēi).”
*NB: The Kai Tāhu dialect of Te Reo Māori uses ‘k’ instead of ‘ng’.
