Ruby Gupta's Blog
December 9, 2025
Where Stories Begin: In the Gaps Between What Is Said and What Is Silenced
Every book I have written, whether a crime mystery, an espionage thriller, or a work of nonfiction — has begun in the same place: a small, unsettling gap between what is known and what is hidden.
Sometimes it is a line in a newspaper that contradicts another report.
Sometimes it is a scientific detail that shouldn’t logically fit.
And sometimes it is simply a silence, a detail missing when it should have been obvious.
Those small cracks in the narrative pull me in the way a loose thread pulls a detective. You tug at it gently at first, and then with increasing urgency, until the entire fabric rearranges itself and reveals another pattern beneath.
People often ask me, “Where do your stories come from?”
The truth is: they come from questions.
Questions that refuse to leave me alone.
Why was this person erased from the story?
Who benefitted from this silence?
Who is afraid of this truth being known?
My most recent book, The Secret of Leifeng Pagoda grew exactly like this, from a cluster of mysterious deaths of Indian Nuclear Scientists and Defence Personnel, that stayed unresolved, unexplained, and disturbingly under-discussed. As a writer, I don’t look for sensationalism; I look for meaning. I look for the human cost behind headlines and the fragile truth behind official statements.
And somewhere along this journey, from research to reflection, a story takes shape.
Not as a plot at first, but as a pulse.
A quiet heartbeat beneath layers of secrecy.
Being a writer is not about inventing worlds.
It is about listening closely to the world we already inhabit.
Every unanswered question is a doorway.
Every silence is an invitation.
And every story is a way of understanding what it means to seek truth in a world that often hides it.
If you’ve ever read something in one of my books that made you pause, think, wonder, or doubt for just a moment, then we have already shared the same journey.
Thank you for reading, for questioning, and for walking with me into the shadows where stories are born.
Sometimes it is a line in a newspaper that contradicts another report.
Sometimes it is a scientific detail that shouldn’t logically fit.
And sometimes it is simply a silence, a detail missing when it should have been obvious.
Those small cracks in the narrative pull me in the way a loose thread pulls a detective. You tug at it gently at first, and then with increasing urgency, until the entire fabric rearranges itself and reveals another pattern beneath.
People often ask me, “Where do your stories come from?”
The truth is: they come from questions.
Questions that refuse to leave me alone.
Why was this person erased from the story?
Who benefitted from this silence?
Who is afraid of this truth being known?
My most recent book, The Secret of Leifeng Pagoda grew exactly like this, from a cluster of mysterious deaths of Indian Nuclear Scientists and Defence Personnel, that stayed unresolved, unexplained, and disturbingly under-discussed. As a writer, I don’t look for sensationalism; I look for meaning. I look for the human cost behind headlines and the fragile truth behind official statements.
And somewhere along this journey, from research to reflection, a story takes shape.
Not as a plot at first, but as a pulse.
A quiet heartbeat beneath layers of secrecy.
Being a writer is not about inventing worlds.
It is about listening closely to the world we already inhabit.
Every unanswered question is a doorway.
Every silence is an invitation.
And every story is a way of understanding what it means to seek truth in a world that often hides it.
If you’ve ever read something in one of my books that made you pause, think, wonder, or doubt for just a moment, then we have already shared the same journey.
Thank you for reading, for questioning, and for walking with me into the shadows where stories are born.
