Someone asked me the other day about the ghosts in my latest book - Ghostly Whispers: thirteen ghost stories set in Macao. She wanted to know if the ghosts were Macao ghosts, handed down through local folklore.

"No, they're not." I went on to elaborate, explaining that I had done substantial research into Macao's colonial history, much of which proved to be quite fascinating. When sharing tidbits of history with my husband who grew up in the Macao schooling system, I realised that much of Macao's history wasn't shared at school. So generation after generation knows a bit less about Macao's past, except for the odd anecdote a grandparent might suddenly pass on when a memory is triggered.

Otherwise the general populace has vague ideas about the Portuguese settlement at the southernmost tip of China, and unless they visit a museum, don't know that the British and Dutch navies sat in the harbour while war waged.

They don't know about duels that were fought or pirates who kidnapped children even up to 1910, about the ears of captives being lobbed off or thieves in the night. All the juicy stuff is kept within the pages of seldom read books.

And ex-pats are not much better off than their local neighbours. They come here to work, for the most part, and aren't particularly curious to find out about the former Portuguese enclave. I don't blame them; it took me 12 years before I suddenly interested myself in Macao's history.

So the ghost stories weave history into their pages. Not about duels and pirates - I might save those for other stories or my GREAT NOVEL, but I do tell about the Ruins of St. Paul - Macau's most famous landmark and the Japanese Christians who fled persecution in their home country and came to build a church in Macao, about Guia Hill and the chapel that crests it, about a WWI monument paying homage to the infantry from Macao who went to fight, about the infamous coolie trade that trafficked approximately 220,000 mainlanders through Macao's ports and on to Cuba's or Peru's guano pits, this last a sad testament to man's greed.

I wrote about places that inspired me, that I felt had contributed significantly to the shaping of Macao. The ghosts are my own, as far as I'm concerned, but then again who knows? I say this not to sound mysterious or vague, and if you have ever written or are an artist in another field, you may also acknowledge that you are not fully cognisant of where inspiration comes from, whether from the surrounding ether, from spirits long gone or what-have-you. Who knows if a ghost from 80 years ago or 300 years ago somehow willed me to write their story?

Years ago I thought I would pen some stories about witches and make it a trilogy. I started off very excitedly, outlined the three books, and started off on the first one. I wrote feverishly in longhand, then patiently typed up my draft and shared the first few chapters on a website where other aspiring authors upload their works for comment.

Some of the comments astounded me. I had people telling me the story held strong resemblances to witch trials in England, to witches in New England and missing children. As far as I was concerned, I had made the whole thing up. I thought I was being creative, but others were under the impression that I was copying. Here's the funny thing - I never read about the witch trials in New England. I don't know anything about children that went missing. Apparently I had eight children go missing, just like in actuality! And as to the English witch trials, I know next to nothing. After drafting my story by pen, and not before, I looked up popular English names from 400 years ago to be sure my characters were set in the proper time frame.

So really, who knows where inspiration comes from? When I sit down to write or type, I don't know what will flow from my fingers. If inspiration is derived from a collective universal mind shared by all, then maybe it is logical that the same information re-surfaces.

And who knows if my ghosts are real or not - the man with blue hands and his loyal ghost dog, my forest full of unborn ghost babies, my ghostly peasant from 400 years ago who wanted a peaceful burial.

I don't know, that's for sure.