Village Writer

The writing books I share with students are gems—earned, honest, and useful. But the books that promise overnight success? Most working writers pause at the sight of those. In my early, unpublished days, I picked up one such book with anticipation. It promised chart-busting success, after all. I imagined the author, post-contract, sitting in the glow of her screen, head in hands, whispering, “Someone’s going to out me for this.” Within a chapter, I realized she had simply pasted her entire novel—from draft to completion—into a how-to format, loosely framed with vague advice. She could have summed it up in one sentence—and saved a tree. The real success? She created a nest egg for herself. The book delivered less craft and more cash flow. Here’s the harder truth: Revision is essential if we want to write our best stories. And yet, many beautifully written, deeply revised books are still overlooked by the public. What attracts readers—and leads to legendary book sales—is often un...

Imagine a scene at a grand ball. The President is the guest of honor. Maybe the Princess of England is there too. It’s that kind of night. Our protagonist is a young man—the son of a high-ranking politician—at ease in this highbrow setting. He’s dressed in a black merino tuxedo cut from the finest European bolt. He notices a beautiful blonde guest in a pink ball gown. Their eyes meet. He invites her onto the balcony. It’s a love story, right? Easy. Familiar. I’ve handed you the hook. But let’s go back—to the second before his eyes land on the woman in pink. Another young woman has slipped past security and entered the ballroom unnoticed. Her hair is pinned hastily. Her dress is off-the-rack. She’s anxious, out of place, and clearly not invited. She steps in front of the politician’s son. Before he can approach the blonde, this uninvited girl whispers something in his ear. He averts his eyes, takes her hands, and leads her—gently, silently—off the dance floor and onto the b...

A Hollywood screenwriter once paid a visit to my father when I was a girl. He was researching the Jesse James gang for his upcoming movie. I sat stunned as the history of the James gang poured out of my dad —like pages from a hidden chapter. One of my father’s relatives, it turned out, had run with Jesse James. Suddenly, I felt like my ordinary life had cracked open. My family history had intersected with something larger, something thrilling. I asked my dad why he’d never told us before. He replied without hesitation: “Never tell anyone we were affiliated with outlaws.” Of course, I told everyone. What eight-year-old wouldn’t? At the time, I thought I’d stumbled onto a buried treasure. But as I got older, I realized something even more surprising—maybe we all have scraps of legend tucked into our stories. We tend to think the lives we’re living right now are too small to matter, too quiet for story value—or, as in my dad’s case, too scandalous to repeat. But what if that’s not tr...