AC: I want to begin with your day job, because it’s a fascinating one. You work in international cyber policy, dealing with emerging technologies, regulation and international cooperation. It sounds incredibly demanding and intellectually intense. How did you first enter that field, and what does your work involve?

SP: Yes, the field can be intense, but also very rewarding. I began working in technology policy shortly after university. I’d always been interested in how technology shapes societies — not just the technical side but the political and ethical implications. My role now involves coordinating international discussions on cyber norms, digital security frameworks and governance of emerging technologies.

A lot of it is negotiation and diplomacy, actually — understanding different countries’ priorities and helping find common ground. It’s fast-moving, and because technology changes so quickly, the policy environment has to evolve with it. There’s a great deal of reading, analysis and writing involved, which I suppose overlaps with my writing life in unexpected ways.

AC: When you’re balancing such a demanding job with creative work, how do you make time for writing? Do you have routines, or do you fit it in where you can?

It’s a mix. I don’t have a rigid daily routine, my work schedule is too unpredictable for that. Instead, I try to write in focused bursts: evenings, weekends, early mornings when I can. I set realistic goals, a paragraph, a page, a poem draft. Little accumulations. I’ve learnt not to be harsh on myself when life gets busy. I also protect writing time when I need to. If a story demands attention, I carve out space for it. It’s not always easy, but the work moves forward. Slow progress is still progress.

AC: Yes, that’s what I find especially interesting — I imagine it’s not always an obvious combination to people: cyber policy by day, fiction and poetry by night. Do you ever feel tensions between the two worlds, or do they complement each other somehow?

SP: I think the tension people expect isn’t really there. For me, they complement each other. The policy work is rigorous, analytical and collaborative, which keeps my mind sharp. Writing, on the other hand, is where I can explore ambiguity and emotion — it feels like a release. But they share some skills: clarity of thought, attention to language, and the ability to communicate across cultures. Sometimes writing helps me process things from work — not literally, of course, but thematically: ideas about systems, power, vulnerability. But also, writing reminds me that the world is bigger than policy documents. It keeps me human.

AC: I’d love to hear about your journey: when did you first realise you were a writer, or wanted to be one? Was there a moment, or did it emerge gradually?

SP: It was gradual. I grew up reading a lot, my parents encouraged it. We didn’t have many books at home, but we had a library nearby, and I was there constantly. I started writing poems as a child, not very good ones, but enough to make me feel that language could be a space I belonged to.

Later, in university, I wrote more seriously — short stories, then longer pieces. I never took writing classes formally until much later, but I did share work with friends. It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that I thought, ‘Perhaps I can commit to this and see where it goes.’

AC: You write in both Tamil and English, which in itself is a rich kind of duality. How does that work creatively for you?

SP: It depends on the project. English is the language I work in daily, so it feels natural for most prose. Tamil is more intimate as it’s the language of home, family, and emotional memory. When I write poetry, I often find Tamil comes first. Sometimes I draft in one language and then rewrite in the other, which isn’t exactly translation, it’s more like re-imagining.

Writing in two languages also helps me see things from different angles. Some ideas feel sharper in English; others feel more deeply rooted in Tamil. I don’t force a choice, I let the piece decide its language. And the audiences are different too, which influences tone and rhythm.

AC: You also write for both young adults and adults, which is another fascinating duality. Many writers specialise, but you move fluidly between those worlds. How does your approach shift when you’re writing for younger readers?

SP: I think the main difference is the level of directness. With young adults, you can still explore complex themes, but you need to be more intentional about clarity. They have incredible emotional intelligence, and you can’t talk down to them, they see right through that. For adult fiction, I allow myself more digressions, more ambiguity, more silence.

But the core is the same: you’re trying to tell a story honestly. And sometimes young adult writing can be even more demanding because you have to be precise, every sentence matters.

AC: You also write across genres: fiction and poetry. Some writers feel they belong firmly to one form; others move between them depending on the project. How do you navigate those shifts?

SP: For me, poetry is where I go when language itself is the subject — when the sound, the rhythm, the emotional density matters more than narrative. Fiction is where I explore character and structure. Sometimes a piece begins as poetry and becomes fiction, or the other way around. I don’t police it too much.

Poetry keeps my prose honest. Writing poems forces you to pay attention to every word. It’s a good discipline. It stops you from becoming lazy.

AC: Let’s talk about community. You mentioned earlier that you shared work with friends during university. Do you have a writing community now, people you show work to, or discuss ideas with?

SP: Yes, definitely. I have a small group of close friends who are also writers, some poets, some fiction writers. We share work informally. I also have mentors I check in with occasionally. Writing can be solitary, but the conversations around it are essential. They remind you that literature is a collective endeavour, even when you’re working alone.

In Singapore, the writing community is quite close-knit. People are generous with their time. It’s supportive rather than competitive, which I really value.

AC: Let’s turn to your residency. You’re here in Norwich for a month at NCW. Residencies can be transformative, they give writers time, space and a shift in environment. What were you hoping to work on during your time here?

SP: I came with two main projects. One is a collection of short stories I’ve been developing over the last couple of years. The other is a long-form project, I’m not calling it a novel yet, but it’s becoming something that looks like one. I wanted the residency to be a space where I could focus without the usual distractions of work and daily life.

Being here has been wonderful. Norwich has a particular calmness to it, a quiet that’s very conducive to thinking. I’ve been walking a lot, and those walks have helped me find solutions to structural issues in the stories. Sometimes distance from home gives you a clearer view of the work.

AC: Is there anything about the city or the residency experience that has surprised you creatively?

SP: Yes, the history embedded in the streets. Singapore is young in comparison, so being in a place where the layers of time are so visible feels inspiring. It makes you think differently about continuity and inheritance. And NCW itself has been incredibly supportive. The conversations with other writers here have sparked new ideas.

AC: Your stories explore themes like migration and memory. These are huge subjects with deep emotional resonance. What draws you to them?

SP: Part of it comes from my own background. My family’s history, like many in Singapore, is shaped by movement, across countries, across languages. Migration creates both possibility and loss, and I think that tension is rich territory for fiction. Memory, too, is a kind of migration, moving between past and present, between what we remember and what we reconstruct.

AC: Do you ever reach a point where you feel stuck? And if so, what helps you get unstuck?

SP: Yes, often. I think every writer does. When I’m stuck, I usually step away from the desk. A walk helps. Or reading something completely different — poetry tends to reset my brain. Sometimes I talk it through with a friend, and explaining the problem aloud reveals the solution. And sometimes the answer is simply patience. letting the idea sit until it’s ready.

AC: Finally, I want to ask about what comes next. Do you have a sense of where your writing is heading after the residency, or are you waiting to see what unfolds?

SP: A bit of both. I’ll return to Singapore and continue working on the stories and the longer project. I feel clearer now about the direction of each. But I also want to leave room for the unexpected. Residencies often plant seeds that take months or years to grow. I don’t want to rush whatever this experience will become on the page. I do know I want to write more boldly. Being here has reminded me that literature can hold risk, that it’s worth pursuing ideas that feel slightly beyond your reach.