Over the past year, almost every conversation I have with writers eventually turns to the same topic: AI.

Some are curious. Some are cautious. A few are quietly experimenting with tools like ChatGPT to help them outline books, brainstorm ideas, or edit drafts.And many authors are asking the same practical questions:

Is it legal? Is it ethical? Can you actually publish something created with AI?

The reality is that use of AI is already happening across fiction, nonfiction, and content writing. The key is understanding how to use it wisely and responsibly.

Here are ten of the most common questions authors ask about AI.

Can I legally write a book with AI?

Yes. In most countries it is legal to use AI tools while writing a book.

AI can assist with outlining, research summaries, brainstorming plot ideas, or helping you structure chapters. Many writers use tools like ChatGPT as a thinking partner, rather than a replacement for their own writing. Where things become more complex is copyright. Current copyright rules generally protect human creativity, which means the author must contribute meaningful original work.

The safest approach is simple:
Use AI as a tool to assist your writing, not as a machine that produces the entire book.

Is it okay for authors to use AI?

For many writers, this question is less about legality and more about ethics.

Some authors worry that using AI somehow makes the work less authentic. Others see AI the same way we once saw spell-check, grammar tools, or research databases.

The truth is that AI is simply another writing tool. What matters is how it is used.

If an author uses AI to brainstorm ideas, explore plot twists, or help structure a nonfiction book, the creative decisions still belong to the writer. The voice, experience, and insight still come from the human author, you.

For example, in this book on the Camino Ingles, I’m not just sharing routes, readers can “walk along with me”. Through my words.

Readers are not buying a machine’s words. They are buying your thinking. 

Can I sell a book I wrote with ChatGPT?

Yes, you can sell a book that was written with the help of ChatGPT or other AI tools.Many self-published authors already use AI to assist with drafting, editing, and idea development before publishing their books through platforms like Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing.

The key point is that the author remains responsible for the final content.

You should review, edit, and shape the manuscript so it reflects your own thinking and style. AI can help speed up the process, but the finished book should still feel like something you wrote.

For example, readers can tell that I have actually walked the Caminos and hikes that I write about. Mainly because I grumble a bit, about my feet hurting, about bad coffee and am also ecstatic when I reach Santiago, or Sandakphu. They connect with that more than dry routes and maps.

Can an author get in trouble for using AI?

Using AI itself is not something that will usually cause trouble. Problems come up when authors misuse the technology. For example:

• Publishing content copied directly from copyrighted material
• Uploading sensitive information into AI tools
• Presenting fully automated content as original human writing without oversight

In other words, the same rule that has always applied to writing still applies here:

Authors are responsible for what they publish. Treat AI as a tool and maintain editorial control and you are unlikely to run into problems.

Is it ethical for authors to use AI?

Ethics around AI in writing are still evolving. Some writers feel strongly that books should be written entirely by humans. Others believe AI is simply the next step in the long history of writing tools.

A balanced view is emerging among many authors:

AI can help with ideas, outlines, and drafting. You, the author must provide judgment, experience, and voice. Readers deeply value authenticity. When AI supports a writer’s thinking rather than replacing it, the ethical concerns tend to fade.

I’m a writer, of a fairly niche area, I have a very small budget for publishing, so if I can use AI to create lovely graphics, I will. For example, this map – its a fantasy style map, that may not be very useful to you when walking, but it captures the magical quality of the journey!

Can you legally use AI to write a book?

Yes. Using AI during the writing process is generally legal. AI tools are already used by many professionals for tasks such as:

• brainstorming ideas
•  generating outlines
•  summarizing research
•  editing drafts

What matters legally is how much human creativity is involved in the final work.

A book that reflects the author’s ideas, experiences, and judgment will usually qualify as original work.

Can you publish a book written by AI as your own?

This question sits right at the center of the current debate.

If a book were generated entirely by AI with no meaningful human input, it may not qualify for copyright protection in some jurisdictions. However, if an author uses AI during the writing process but shapes the work themselves, the book is still fundamentally their creation.

Most authors today use AI in a collaborative way: generating ideas, refining passages, and then rewriting extensively.

In that case, the author is still clearly the creator.

Do I own the copyright if I use AI to write a book?

Copyright law around AI is evolving, but the current direction is clear. Copyright protects human authorship.

If AI generates text completely on its own, that text may not be eligible for copyright protection. However, if an author uses AI as a tool and then edits, expands, and shapes the content, the final work can still be protected.

The safest practice is to ensure the book reflects substantial human creativity.

Can you tell if a book is written by AI?

Sometimes people claim that AI-written text can always be detected.

In practice, this is far less reliable than many people think. AI detection tools frequently produce false positives, especially when applied to well-edited writing. Many universities and publishers now acknowledge that detection technology is not dependable.

What readers actually notice is something simpler:

• Books that feel generic or formulaic.
• Strong writing still depends on human insight, storytelling, and experience.

For example in many reviews of my books, readers specifically say that they feel they are walking the trail with me. I love that!

In the Valley of the Flowers

Is it illegal to use ChatGPT to write a book and publish it?

No, it is not illegal to use ChatGPT while writing a book.

Many writers already use AI tools to assist with:

• idea generation
•  outlining
•  drafting
•  editing

As with any tool, the responsibility remains with the author. The content should be reviewed carefully, rewritten where needed, and shaped into a coherent manuscript.

The goal is not to have AI write the book for you, but to help you write it better and faster.

FAQs

Can AI write an entire novel?

Yes, AI tools can generate long pieces of text, including entire novels. However, AI-generated stories often lack the depth, structure, and emotional coherence that come from human storytelling.

Most authors find AI works best as a brainstorming or drafting assistant rather than as the sole creator of a book.

For me I am using AI for brainstorming, as I am still learning about fiction.

Will publishers accept books written with AI?

Policies vary.

Many traditional publishers allow authors to use AI during the writing process, particularly for research or drafting.

However, publishers typically expect the author to remain the primary creator of the manuscript and may require disclosure if AI tools were used extensively.

Amazon KDP has a section where you are asked if you have used AI for your book. It seems that for now, it is only for information.

Do I need to disclose if I used AI to write my book?

Some publishing platforms and traditional publishers are beginning to introduce disclosure policies regarding AI-assisted writing. While requirements differ, transparency is increasingly encouraged. Authors should check the guidelines of their chosen publishing platform or publisher before submitting their manuscript.

In the end, the real question is not whether authors will use AI. That is already happening.

I am happy to say that I use it for editing and graphics. I’ve even a written a short book for authors to use!

The real question is how writers will use these tools while still doing what authors do best – create characters, narratives and stories that speak to the human heart.

Be the first to read my new book on the Portuguese Camino!

Join the launch team of the upcoming book. I would love to share the early drafts, bonuses and general experience of writing the book about our camino. For an author the journey is not over until the book is written.

Be the first to read my new book on the Portuguese Camino!

Join the launch team of the upcoming book. I would love to share the early drafts, bonuses and general experience of writing the book about our camino. For an author the journey is not over until the book is written.

If you want to see what a writing deadline looks like in the wild, go hike Makalidurga trek Bangalore with friends.

Not the “reel version” where everyone looks effortlessly heroic and nobody sweats or wheezes or stares into the distance calculating the nearest loo like it’s a life-or-death expedition.

The real version.

The version where you start, of course, with food.

The Breakfast Ritual (and the Eternal Question of Toilets)

We slipped through the early morning dark, collecting our little group of four like precious pages you don’t want to lose. The road still belonged to the night. Street dogs yawned. The city was quiet in that rare and precious moment that takes you back to simpler times.

Then we stop for breakfast—because no one I know climbs anything on an empty stomach, especially not a hill in a National Forest with rocky opinions.

We pull up at the only restaurant open in the early morning, an Udupi restaurant in Yelahanka: idli, vada, and cautious coffee (cautious because coffee is always followed by that very practical thought: Where is the bathroom and how far is it and will it be open and will it be… civilised?)

Even in a familiar place, I found something new: the glorious Mangalore bun — sweet, soft, slightly mischievous. Like the kind of sentence you write when you stop trying to impress people and start trying to tell the truth. 

Note: Yelahanka is a very familiar place – this is where two of my children were born. I reckon I gave them a gift – not just born in Bangalore, but specifically, Yelahanka.

Writing lesson #1: Newness isn’t always a new destination. Sometimes it’s a new bite in an old restaurant. Sometimes it’s a new line in a story you’ve told yourself a hundred times.

The Group That Keeps You Honest

We met the rest of the crew—assembled by White Magic trekking group (I’ve trekked with them before, which matters, because trust is a kind of oxygen). It wasn’t just the four of us, but nearly thirty of a larger group – and we all had to say hello to each other. All happy and cheerful – for now. What a lovely surprise to meet up with another hiking friend, Anjana had walked the Camino Invierno with me a couple of years ago.

Here’s what friends do on a hike: they keep you laser-focused.

Not by yelling motivational slogans. Not by posting quotes about “conquering mountains.” Because no one conquers anything but oneself.

They do it simply by being there—one more pair of footsteps, one more shared bottle of water, one more “you okay?” that you can’t shrug off casually.

Writing lesson #2: Accountability doesn’t have to be harsh. Sometimes it’s just friendship with hiking shoes on.

The Railway Line, and the Small Joy That Cracks You Open

Before the trek properly began, there was the railway line. A train slid past—calm, steady, unbothered by our human drama.

And honestly? The delight of it. That clean clack-clack rhythm. That sense of movement going somewhere with purpose. It made the morning feel cinematic in the simplest way. The wild waving to bemused passengers rubbing their sleepy eyes in the hot anticipation of reaching their destination.

Writing lesson #3: Progress doesn’t need to be loud. A train doesn’t announce itself with speeches. It just moves. Just write that story, that page, that sentence today.

The Climb: Rocky, Hard, and Unimpressed by Your Plans

Then the hike. It was hard. Rocky. Hard again. The kind of trail that doesn’t flatter you.

And somewhere along the way I had that moment that every writer recognises—when the body says, “No,” and the mind says, “But you should.”

My asthma and cough caught up with me. Breathless. A bit giddy. Vertigo? Possibly. It wasn’t the Himalayan trek altitude kind of challenge, but my lungs didn’t care about technicalities.

After a while I told Anju, “Leave me.”

Not dramatically. Not as a tragedy. Just practical. I needed to stop without dragging the whole group into my slow-motion struggle. So I sat in the thin, scrappy shade of a thorny bush—the kind of shade that’s more philosophical than effective—and watched the world move past.

Writing lesson #4: Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is pause. Not quit. Pause. Start again. The difference is everything.

The Green Spots: Perfume, Valleys, and Permission to Take Your Time

I climbed again—higher, then higher still—stopping whenever I found green. A patch of mercy. A small pocket of cool.

And then: the perfume of the flowering jalagiri (Weeping jasmine -that scent that makes you believe the world is kinder than your breathing suggests). With its rich drooping bunches of white flowers, it filled the air with a fragrance that speaks of India – Deccan India. In February every pocket of soil and water had one of these trees. the leaves green and rtender, and the flowers dipping in luscious locks all over the tree.

Below me—green valleys, rich with banana and grape vines, glinting lakes like someone scattered mirrors into the landscape.

It pays to stop and take your time.

It’s a hike, not a competition.

Say it again for the part of your brain that treats everything like a scoreboard.

Writing lesson #5: You don’t earn your story by suffering fast. You earn it by noticing.

The Stories on the Trail (and Why Talking Helps You Finish)

I talked to everyone passing me.

That’s my favourite way to climb anything—feet moving, curiosity awake. People shared scraps of their lives: first trek, tenth trek, heartbreak trek, “I’m here because work is eating me alive” trek.

In writing, we call these “character details.”

In life, we call them “human.”

Writing lesson #6: When you’re stuck, talk to people. Stories are everywhere. You don’t have to invent the whole world alone.

☀️ The Heat, the Scramble, and the Gentle Decision to Stop

All the while, the heat climbed like it had its own ambitions.

The path turned into bare rock scramble—hands-and-feet work, the kind that demands attention. And I realised: I could push through, but why?

So I decided to stop.

It was okay. Really.

Not a collapse. Not a defeat. A decision.

I shifted my goal from “reach the top” to “be fully here.” I admired trees and flowers, and watched for birds. And yes—did I tell you I had binoculars?

Apparently, binoculars are a social event. Passersby stopped to borrow them and gasp at tiny winged miracles.

Writing lesson #7: Finishing isn’t always reaching the peak. Sometimes it’s completing the experience you actually came for.

Down Again: Another Train and the Sweet Relief of Descent

Then down.

Another train.

Because the world likes to give you symmetry when you least expect it.

Coconut water appeared like a blessing—cold, sweet, immediate.

And then—a lovely surprise: meeting my old friend Anjana.

She said, “This was not an easy trek.”

I agreed, with the tender satisfaction of someone whose lungs have filed a formal complaint.

Writing lesson #8: Naming difficulty is not negativity. It’s honesty. And honesty is what makes writing land.

The Real Photo, the Real Day, and the Real Point About AI

Now let’s talk about the part that matters to me as a writer, and maybe to you too—especially if you’re trying to finish something and you’re flirting with the idea of letting technology do the heavy lifting.

I’m not anti-tech. I’m fascinated by it. I use AI writing tools and I enjoy the cleverness of it. But here’s what Makalidurga reminded me:

Do the hard yards first.

Walk the mountain.

Build the friendships.

Take the real picture.

Then—then—use technology to shape, organise, polish, and share what you earned.

Because AI can help you write a post.
But it cannot give you the thorny-bush shade.
It cannot give you the breathlessness that makes you humble.
It cannot give you the scent of that flowering jalagiri.
It cannot give you the stranger who borrows your binoculars and lights up like a child.
It cannot give you the train slipping past in the morning dark and making you feel, briefly, like life is a poem.

Writing lesson #9: Tools can refine your work. Only living can supply it.

Finishing vs Failing (and the Secret Third Option)

So what did this hike teach me about writing, finishing, and failing?

• Finishing sometimes means reaching the summit.

• Failing sometimes means stopping before the end.

• But there’s a third option most of us forget:

Choosing.

Choosing to stop without shame.
Choosing to savour without rushing.
Choosing to measure success by presence, not performance.

And oddly enough, that choice makes it more likely you’ll finish the next thing—because you didn’t turn this attempt into a story of personal inadequacy.

You turned it into a story of awareness.

Which is what good writing is, anyway.

Be the first to read my new book on the Portuguese Camino!

Join the launch team of the upcoming book. I would love to share the early drafts, bonuses and general experience of writing the book about our camino. For an author the journey is not over until the book is written.

This morning, the priest pressed ash onto my forehead.

His thumb was firm. Certain. “For you are dust,” he said.

I stepped outside into the ordinary weekday morning. Traffic already impatient. Sun already strong. A woman ran her dog on a leash. Children crept unwillingly to school.

No one stopped me. And yet, I felt marked. This was a different kind of makeup.

But unmistakably to myself. I have carried this mark before. It’s now visible, the mark of a writer. 

Not just on Ash Wednesday. But on mountain paths in the Himalayas, where the air thins and your thoughts become clearer than they ever are at sea level.

On long Camino mornings in Spain and Portugal, where your boots strike the earth with a rhythm older than language.

And in quiet retreat rooms, where someone sits across from me and says, often in a whisper, “I think I have a book in me.”

Ash Wednesday reminds me of three truths every writer must recognise.

1. The Ash Reminds Me That I Am Already Written

I did not become a writer when my first book became a bestseller.

I became a writer much earlier.

On the Camino, I remember one particular morning. The light was still soft, and the world had not fully decided to wake. I was walking alone, as I often did. Ahead of me, a single pilgrim walked in silence. We never spoke. We never even saw each other’s faces.

But we walked together for nearly an hour.

And in that quiet companionship, I understood something I had not understood before.

This was the story.

Not the dramatic moments. Not the milestones.

This.

The quiet. The ordinary. The unnoticed.

I did not yet know I would write books about the Camino. I did not know that these walks would shape my life and allow me to help others shape theirs.

But something in me already knew to pay attention.

The ash reminds me of that.

Before we write anything, we are written.

Before we claim the identity of “author”, we are claimed.

The ash does not make you belong.

It reveals that you already do.

2. The Holy Spirit Speaks the Way Stories Begin: Quietly

Years later, in the Himalayas, I watched a woman sit in front of a blank page.

She had carried her story for decades. A successful life. Responsibilities fulfilled. Expectations met. But the story remained unwritten. On the first day of the retreat, she was restless. Distracted. Unsure. On the second day, she was quieter.

On the third day, she began to write.

Not slowly. Not painfully.

But as if she were not inventing something new, but remembering something she had always known.

She looked up at me at one point and said, “It’s know my Why. And it marks out the path fo me!”

That is the only way to describe it. Not forced. Received.

This is how the Holy Spirit works. Not with noise.

With promptings.

You feel it on pilgrimage.

You feel it in a retreat

You feel it sometimes in the middle of an ordinary afternoon, when a sentence arrives that you know you did not manufacture alone.

Lent creates the conditions for this listening.

It removes enough noise that you can finally hear what has been there all along.

​

3. Lent Is Not a Season of Less. It Is a Season of More.

When I walked in the Himalayas while writing “Chasing Himalayan Dreams”, I carried very little. Everything I needed for those challenging days fit into a small pack.

There were moments of discomfort. Cold mornings. Aching muscles. Uncertain paths. The fear of altitude sickness.

But there was also a clarity I had never experienced in ordinary life.

When you carry less, you become more aware.

More present.

More alive.

The same thing happens in Lent. 

It removes the excess.

Not to leave you empty. But to leave you clear.

I see this every time I host a writing retreat.

People arrive carrying noise.

Expectations. Doubt. Fear.

But when those fall away, something extraordinary emerges.

Not a new person.

The true person.

Not a new writer.

The writer who was already there.

Waiting.

The Mark We Carry

Ash Wednesday does not give me something new.

It reminds me of something ancient.

That I am dust.

Yes.

But dust shaped by the hand of God.

Dust capable of creating stories.

Dust capable of noticing beauty.

Dust capable of helping others find their voice.

Every pilgrim carries a visible shell.

Every writer carries an invisible mark.

This Lent, I will do what pilgrims and writers have always done.

I will walk.

I will listen.

I will pay attention.

And I will trust that the One who marked me will also guide what I am meant to write next.

​

Be the first to read my new book on the Portuguese Camino!

Join the launch team of the upcoming book. I would love to share the early drafts, bonuses and general experience of writing the book about our camino. For an author the journey is not over until the book is written.

1) What is the Portuguese Camino?

The Portuguese Camino is a set of signed pilgrimage routes running from Portugal into Spain to finish at Santiago de Compostela. Most people start in Porto (because: flights, cafés, and a very sensible amount of optimism), then walk north via the Central Route, the Coastal/Littoral Route, or mix both.

2) Why walk the Portuguese Camino?

Because it’s the sweet spot: coastal air, river towns, tiled churches, and enough infrastructure that you’re not reinventing survival every afternoon. It’s also kinder on the body than some hillier routes, while still feeling like a real pilgrimage—mud, meaning, and the occasional “who put this cobblestone here and why does it hate me?”

3) How long does it take to walk the Portuguese Camino?

Depends where you start and how many café stops you count as “cultural research.” Typical ranges:

• Porto → Santiago (Central): ~11–14 days for most walkers

• Porto → Santiago (Coastal/Littoral): ~12–15 days

• Lisbon → Santiago: ~25–30+ days

4) How difficult is the Portuguese Camino?

Overall: moderate. Many stages are flatter than people expect, but don’t be fooled—flat isn’t the same as easy when you do it day after day. The real “difficulty bosses” are:

• Portuguese cobblestones (your feet will have opinions)

• rolling hills into Galicia

• heat if you choose midsummer

• and that classic Camino challenge: pacing your enthusiasm on Day 1.

5) What is the best month (or time of year) to walk in 2026?

For most people: April–May and September–October. You get pleasant temperatures, longer daylight, and fewer “fully booked” surprises.

• Summer (June–Aug): hotter, busier, pricier

• Winter: quieter, wetter, some closures

• Check out this seasonal guide I wrote some time ago.
• Holy Week tends to be a time when school and parish groups walk the camino. So albergues may be full – Holy Week is from the 3rd April Good Friday to 5th April Easter Sunday. Check spring holidays around these dates as well.

Roman bridge crossing the Rio Lima in Ponte de Lima; Camino de Santiago; Portugal

6) Is the Portuguese Camino well marked?

Yes—generally very well marked with yellow arrows and Camino symbols. The only places you may second-guess your life choices are: city exits, busy roundabouts, and moments when two arrows disagree like siblings.

Practical tip: download an offline map app and treat it as your quiet, dependable friend.

Metal symbol on a street, indicating the Camino de Santiago, on its Portuguese route.

7) Where do you sleep on the Portuguese Camino?

You’ve got options, and you can mix them:

• municipal albergues (basic, social, budget-friendly)

• private albergues / hostels (often easier to book)

• pensions / guesthouses / small hotels (more privacy, more sleep, more money)

In 2026, if you want a specific place on a specific night—book ahead, especially on popular stages.

Just snoozing

8) How much does it cost to walk the Camino Portuguese?

Ballpark per day (excluding flights):

• Budget pilgrim: ~€35–€60/day (albergue + simple meals)

• Comfort pilgrim: ~€80–€150/day (private room more often, nicer dinners)

Your biggest “mystery costs” are usually coffees, snacks, and the innocent phrase: “Shall we just stop for a quick pastel de nata?”

9) Where do people go to the bathroom on the Portuguese Camino?

In the glamorous locations you’d expect: cafés, bars, restaurants, municipal toilets, petrol stations… and occasionally nature (handled thoughtfully and discreetly). The practical rhythm is simple: go when you see a chance, not when you hit crisis levels. Carry tissues, a little hand sanitiser, and a small zip bag for rubbish—because “leave no trace” is not just a slogan, it’s basic pilgrim manners.

A small reality check: some public toilets are immaculate, some are… philosophical exercises. And yes, sometimes you’ll need a key/token, often attached to something the size of a canoe paddle. This is not a mistake. This is Iberian toilet security.

10) Why is 2027 a holy year—and does it matter if I’m walking in 2026?

Santiago has Holy Years when 25 July (St James’ Day) falls on a Sunday—2027 is one of them. Expect more pilgrims, more buzz, and more pressure on beds.

So if you’re eyeing 2026, congratulations: you may be walking in the sweet calm before the Jubilee-style surge. You’ll still want to plan sensibly, but you won’t be competing with quite as many “once-in-a-lifetime” crowds.

Be the first to read my new book on the Portuguese Camino!

Join the launch team of the upcoming book. I would love to share the early drafts, bonuses and general experience of writing the book about our camino. For an author the journey is not over until the book is written.

As 2025 rushes to a close, I find myself looking back with a mixture of gratitude, disbelief, and a very specific kind of happy exasperation that only comes from a year that refused to follow the plan.

Storms – Within and Without

This was meant to be a year of walking and writing. In many ways, it was. There were pilgrimages, long drives, ancient places, and books that finally found their way into the world. And then there were storms. Real ones. The kind that write off cars. More than one. In the same family. And a roof — my roof — that now needs replacing at a cost that makes you go very quiet and start doing maths you’d rather avoid.

So no, I didn’t finish my Camino book this year. The one on the magical Portuguese Camino – all along the sea and then into the cascades of the mountains. And yes, I had to cancel my 2026 trip to Spain. Not because the road stopped calling, but because sometimes life steps in front of the path and says, “Not just yet.”

Still, a surprising amount happened. Looking back it’s more than I thought. Deceptive Memory and imposter syndrome lurk about all the time – they need a good thwack on the head!

Writing

The year opened in familiar territory, with Camino-themed work that culminated in the release of the Camino wordsearch puzzles in March. Spring brought a major turning point: TCAAA was finally available in all formats — ebook, paperback, and audiobook. By June, it had become a Top 1 New Release, which felt equal parts gratifying and surreal. The accompanying course followed soon after.

In August, Athanasius made its way into the world, and in December, Practice of the Presence closed the publishing year — a quieter book for a quieter moment. 

Community and Friends

Alongside the books, there was community. In October, I led an author masterclass and hosted the Himalayan Writing Retreat — five days from late September into early October, spent on a ridge in the Himalayas with writers who showed up with courage, curiosity, and open notebooks. The work there wasn’t about productivity for its own sake. It was about steadiness. About protecting the creative mind in a world that asks far too much of it.

This was also a year of connection — and reconnection. I found myself picking up conversations that had been paused by time and distance, slipping back into friendships as if no time had passed at all. There were long, unhurried talks, shared meals, and moments of real laughter that reminded me how sustaining good company can be. I also made new friends — the unexpected kind, met on roads, at retreats, and in quiet corners of conversation. The sort who arrive without fuss and somehow make the year richer simply by being in it.

Rebirth of an Empire

Well at least in fiction. Later in the year, a long-paused historical fiction project resurfaced — one that has waited patiently for me to return to it. The story is rooted in the Vijayanagara Empire, one of South India’s great powers, centred around Hampi. It feels like coming home to a story that has always been mine to tell, even if I wasn’t ready before now.

Travel threaded its way through the year in fragments and intensities. January was devoted to the Kumbh Mela. February involved a long drive from Goa to Bangalore. April brought a climb up Kosciuszko. Where I conquered my fear of heights – for now.

July marked the Feast of St James. September unfolded across India — Chitradurga, Shivanasamudra, Rishikesh, Dehra Dun.

December not gently, but with a new beginning – a new thing for me – cruising! I was always afraid of seasickness, of covid, or all kinds of things – but again. I went. I enjoyed. I wrote!

It wasn’t the year I planned. But it was a year that asked for adaptability, honesty, and a willingness to pause without giving up.

Some journeys happened on foot, sone by road, some by seaOthers happened sitting very still, figuring out how to move forward when the map changes.

The work continues. The road is still there. And when the time is right, I’ll walk it again. And now back to writing! Hold me accountable!

I’ve always loved historical fiction – but most of it was set in Europe or England. The I did read a couple of take set in Mughal era – but what about my own heritage? Where were the historical fiction set in the heart of India?
As a storyteller, I have always been fascinated by ruins – the silence of collapsed roofs, the stories etched in stone. My long‑stalled historical fiction novel set in Vijayanagara has haunted me for years. Visiting Hampi and immersing myself in research has rekindled the passion to complete it. In this reflective blog, I share the reasons behind my project and how the feel of this “lost city” empowers my fiction journey.

Why Vijayanagara captured me

Reading about Hampi’s grandeur – its 1,600 monuments sprawled over 4,100 hectares, its Dravidian architecture and its mythic association with goddess Pampa – sparked my imagination years ago. The idea that a city once rivalled Rome and Constantinople yet was completely abandoned after 1565 presents rich dramatic tension. I wanted to explore not just palaces and battles but the lives of ordinary people caught between devotion and destruction.

Research as foundation and inspiration

Returning to the novel meant that I has to ground fiction on fact. That’s just me, as a technical author, I need to have the facts right before I can write. I pored over reports describing the urban layout and studied various verions of histories of the empire’s fall. Visiting Hampi, I watched sunlight glaze the stone chariot at Vittala Temple and heard the cries of eagles mounting up from the granite boulders. I rode and twirled in the coracle ride across the Tungabhadra River, imagining a character fleeing as invaders approached. The fear of the whirlpool was real – you can see my face grimacing in fear! Running my hands over the stone tablets etched with details in ancient Kannada and Telugu I could almost feel the stories entering my being,

Facing the “vanished empire”

One of the challenges in writing about Vijayanagara is conveying both its splendour and its transience. The Battle of Talikota may end my timeline, but the empire’s decline continued as regional powers asserted independence. In the novel, protagonists witness the city’s transformation from bustling capital to ghostly ruin. Understanding the complex causes – misrule, betrayal and economic shifts – allows me to craft believable motivations for characters and to avoid simplistic good‑versus‑evil tropes.

Personal motivations and creative hurdles

Life and work slowed my progress on the manuscript, but the pandemic and the rise of generative AI made me question the role of human creativity. Returning to Hampi reminded me why I began: there is an intimacy in reconstructing a forgotten world. Fiction allows me to explore what historians cannot – the inner lives, emotions and struggles of those who might have lived and moved and vanished in the fabulous city. This is not the imagination of cities of LOTR. These are real.

Renewed commitment

Armed with new research and sensory memories, I am ready to breathe life back into my story. I plan to balance factual detail with narrative flow, using the two‑day Hampi itinerary as a structural device in one chapter and weaving in cultural elements like Hampi Utsav. Driving the dusty road to Hampi reminded me of the isolation that must have protected and isolated the city in equal measure. My blog series will act as both research notebook and creative manifesto.

Conclusion

Writing historical fiction is both challenging and rewarding. It requires respecting facts while letting imagination fill gaps. Hampi’s ruins, myths and documented history offer a rich canvas. By sharing my journey and research, I hope to inspire fellow writers and to remind myself that stories, like empires, can be revived with dedication and curiosity.

As I guide writers in my retreats, I often remind them that every book has its lost city — a place waiting to be rediscovered. Returning to Hampi reminded me of my own.

The Vijayanagara Empire (1336–1646) was one of South India’s most powerful states, known for its military prowess, wealth from trade and monumental architecture centred at Hampi. Much of what we know about the empire is via written accounts by Portuguese and Spanish horse traders. As well as later accounts by Islamic triumpalist writers.

Yet by the early 17th century its splendour had faded, and its capital lay in ruins. This post explores the complex factors – both internal and external – that led to the empire’s decline and eventual disappearance. There are civilisational lessons here for all of us.

Golden age and early cracks

Under rulers like Krishnadeva Raya (r. 1509–1529) the empire reached its apogee, extending from the Arabian Sea to the Bay of Bengal and enjoying prosperity from cotton, spices and horse trade. Krishnadeva Raya maintained effective administration and military discipline, but his death exposed weaknesses. His successors were less capable, and the empire became increasingly reliant on the regent Aliya Rama Raya.

Misrule of Aliya Rama Raya

Rama Raya consolidated power by sidelining the legitimate heir Sadasiva Raya and replacing established nobles with relatives and incompetent favourites. He hired Muslim mercenaries and attempted to model Vijayanagara’s administration on neighbouring sultanates. Contemporary critics accused him of playing the Deccan sultanates against one another while engaging in heavy taxation and cruelty towards conquered people. His arrogance and manipulation alienated both his own nobles and his Muslim rivals.

Battle of Talikota (1565)

Fearing Vijayanagara’s growing power, four of the five Deccan sultanates (Ahmadnagar, Bijapur, Golconda and Bidar) formed a coalition. On 26 January 1565 the armies met at the Battle of Talikota. According to historians, the Sultanate forces, though smaller, had superior artillery and cavalry; their Turkish gunmen and long Persian lances outmatched Vijayanagara’s slower elephants and outdated artillery.

Two Muslim generals in Rama Raya’s army defected mid‑battle, sowing chaos. Rama Raya was captured and beheaded, and the victorious alliance sacked Hampi, burning markets. homes, temples and palaces. This single defeat crippled the empire’s military and economic base. The ruling class also fled south, abandoning the city and the citizenry.

Fragmentation and decentralisation

After the sack, Rama Raya’s brother Tirumala fled south with the royal family and treasury. He abandoned the city of Hampi to lawless elements and the invading forces. The sack, slaughter and burning continued for 6 months. In Hindu medieval rule, the civilians and peasants were mostly left alone, so they did not flee – after all one tyrant was like another. But not in this case. The invading force desecrated, looted, raped and destroyed en masse and with no consideration for humanity. 

He moved the capital to Penukonda and later to Chandragiri, establishing the Aravidu dynasty. Much of the south and east broke away as regional governors (Nayakas) asserted independence.

The empire’s remaining territories were divided among Tirumala’s sons, further weakening central authority.

Continuous wars and external pressure

Successive rulers like Shriranga I (r. 1572–1585) and Venkata II (r. 1585–1614) struggled to reclaim lost territory but faced constant invasions from Bijapur, Golconda and other sultanates. They also had to suppress rebellions by Nayakas in Madurai, Tanjore and other regions. The relentless warfare drained resources and undermined internal cohesion. By 1646, continued conflict with Bijapur and the rise of Maratha and Nayaka states ended the Aravidu dynasty.

Economic and technological factors

While military defeat was decisive, long‑term economic and technological trends contributed to decline. Vijayanagara’s prosperity depended on control of horse trade and access to coastal commerce. The Portuguese monopoly on Arabian horses and maritime trade diverted revenue and reduced the empire’s military competitiveness. Historians like Richard Eaton argue that Krishnadevaraya’s earlier victories led Vijayanagara to underestimate new military technology; the empire failed to invest in modern artillery and cavalry, leaving it vulnerable to the sultanates’ firearms and tactics.

Conclusion

The fall of the Vijayanagara Empire was not a sudden collapse but a confluence of misrule, internal dissent, shifting alliances and external aggression. The Battle of Talikota crippled its core, but decentralisation, continuous wars and economic challenges prevented recovery. By the 17th century, successor states like the Nayakas of Madurai and Tanjore and the Mysore Kingdom filled the vacuum. Understanding these factors is essential for appreciating the tragedy and legacy of Hampi’s vanished empire.