Rob Parnell's Writing Academy Blog

There’s a line that has lingered in popular culture for decades, delivered with quiet authority by Forrest Gump: “Stupid is as stupid does.” It sounds almost throwaway at first glance, like something simple enough to shrug off, yet it carries a depth of meaning that becomes more unsettling the longer you sit with it. Because what it really suggests is that stupidity is not a fixed state. It is not something you are born with or condemned to forever. It is something you enact. It is something you choose, repeatedly, often without realizing it. And that’s where things begin to get uncomfortable. We live in a time where information is more accessible than at any point in human history. Knowledge sits in our pockets, waiting to be accessed, explored, challenged, and understood. Yet, paradoxically, we also live in an era where deliberate ignorance has become fashionable. Not accidental ignorance, not a lack of opportunity, but a conscious turning away from learning. A refusal to engage. A ...

Every now and then you notice a shift in the air. Not the kind of shift that makes headlines, but the kind that quietly changes how people behave. Writers feel it early because writers pay attention to people. We notice what they’re talking about, what they’re worrying about, and perhaps most importantly, what they’ve stopped being curious about. And lately something has changed. Across the world, the appetite for learning seems to be shrinking. Courses that once attracted enthusiastic students now struggle for attention. People who used to buy books about creativity, philosophy, science, or personal development suddenly hesitate. Not because they’ve lost their intelligence or their curiosity, but because their priorities have shifted in a much more primal direction. Food is getting scarcer. Fuel is getting expensive. The future feels uncertain. When people begin to fear for their security, education quietly slips down the list of priorities. And it’s not hard to understand wh...

  That phrase lands with a thud, doesn’t it? “The first casualty of war is hope.” It feels older than language, like something carved into stone by a survivor who has seen too much. Whether or not anyone famous said it first is almost irrelevant. The idea resonates because war does not begin with bullets or bombs. It begins with the slow erosion of belief – belief in reason, in compromise, in shared humanity, in tomorrow being better than today. Once hope goes, the rest follows with grim inevitability. War is often described as a clash of armies, strategies, and political interests, but emotionally and psychologically it is something far more intimate and destructive. It dismantles the quiet assumptions that allow ordinary life to function. People wake each morning believing their homes will still stand by nightfall, that their loved ones will return safely, that institutions exist to protect rather than harm. These are forms of hope so basic we barely recognize them. War strips t...

  Every few years humanity selects a new object of dread. We have worried about plagues, meteors, communism, capitalism, nuclear annihilation, sugar, gluten and now artificial intelligence.  The robots are coming, we’re told. The machines are learning. The algorithms are watching. Somewhere, apparently, a polite stainless-steel overlord is clearing its digital throat and preparing to reorganize civilization. But here is the uncomfortable possibility. The robots are not rising. They are simply observing. And the reason they can observe us so efficiently is because we have made ourselves spectacularly easy to predict. Listen carefully to your house for a moment. It beeps. It pings. It hums. The washing machine emits a chirp and you respond like a trained retriever. The microwave declares completion and you leap to attention. The car chimes because you drifted over a white line and you murmur an apology to the dashboard as though it has feelings. We like to imagine we are mast...

  Nearly thirty years ago I wrote a short article about outlining for screenwriters. I can still remember the mood I was in when I sent it off - mildly hopeful, mildly resigned, not entirely convinced anyone would care. It was a practical piece, nothing fancy, recommending a simple ten point outline as the quickest way to get a story moving. No labyrinthine beat sheets. No color coded index cards covering the walls. Just ten clear turning points that mapped the spine of a narrative from beginning to end. The article was accepted immediately and published by the London Screenwriters Workshop. It stayed on their site for over a decade, quietly doing its job, being read by writers who needed permission to keep things simple. I moved on to other projects, wrote books, built courses, taught thousands of students, but that little ten point outline kept humming away in the background of my creative life. And I still believe in it. In fact, I have just proved to myself - again - that it...

  Memory is a slippery accomplice. It feels solid while we are standing inside it, but the moment we try to pin it down on paper it dissolves like mist under sunlight. We tell ourselves that we remember clearly. We are certain we know what was said, how the room looked, what color the sky was. Yet the more we revisit a memory, the more it shifts under our feet. Details rearrange themselves. Motives become tidier. Conversations sharpen into neat dialogue that probably never existed in such elegant form. This is where memoir becomes both thrilling and dangerous. We grow up believing that memory is a recording device. We imagine it as a kind of internal camera, faithfully capturing events and storing them in pristine condition. When we reach back into the archive of our past, we expect to retrieve a file and play it back exactly as it happened. Neuroscience has made it clear that this simply is not how memory works. Memory is not a recording. It is a reconstruction. Each time we rec...