Rob Parnell's Writing Academy Blog

How Treasure Island and Jekyll and Hyde Reveal a Subtle yet Brilliant Anti-Establishment Mind There’s a certain delight in realizing that Robert Louis Stevenson, that supposed spinner of boyish yarns and penny-dreadful shocks, was in fact one of the most subversive moral thinkers of the Victorian age. His stories masquerade as adventure and horror, all the while operating as sly critiques of the very establishment that adored him. If you scratch the bright varnish on Treasure Island , or peer closely at the psycho-moral shadows of Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde , you begin to see that Stevenson wasn’t simply entertaining the Empire. He was examining it. Questioning it. Needling it. Quietly rebelling against it. To understand the depth of that rebellion, we must start with the world Stevenson inhabited. He came of age in the latter half of the 19th century, during the height of British imperialism. Nelson’s legacy still perfumed the national imagination – the brave admiral wh...

There is a curious anxiety floating through the writing world these days – the idea that AI might one day “eat itself,” endlessly recycling its own output until everything becomes a blur of warmed-over ideas. It’s an interesting image, a sort of digital Ouroboros. But it’s also based on a misunderstanding of how AI learns, improves, and interacts with the creative universe. The truth is simpler, more reassuring, and far more empowering for writers everywhere: AI is only as good as the human creativity it consumes. It depends on us. It thrives because we thrive. And in that curious, symbiotic relationship, writers have more opportunities than ever before to sharpen their craft, deepen their understanding, and accelerate their creative breakthroughs. When used thoughtfully, AI does not replace the writer – it becomes an extension of the writing mind, a tool for thinking, imagining, experimenting, organizing, and refining. Far from “eating itself,” modern AI is constantly being fed by t...

  Every story worth remembering has something under the skin – a pulse, a whisper, a quiet ache that stays long after the last page is turned. It’s not the plot twists, clever dialogue, or the shock ending that make a story endure. Those are ornaments. What lasts is meaning – the emotional truth that lingers in a reader’s heart long after the book is closed. The Deeper Current Beneath the Plot When you sit down to write, it’s easy to focus on mechanics: who does what, where the conflict lies, how to keep readers turning pages. That’s the scaffolding of storytelling. But beneath every scene, something else should be happening – something that connects the events on the page to the emotional lives of your characters, and by extension, your reader. This is the deeper current, the “why” that runs beneath the “what.” It’s the emotional resonance that makes an ordinary story feel important. Think of it as the heartbeat that turns ink into life. A mystery novel might explore truth and...

  Scott Adams, the creator of Dilbert , is one of those curious figures who seem to stride confidently into history and then promptly trip over their own shadow. For years, he was celebrated as a kind of modern-day court jester — the corporate world’s favourite satirist, a man who managed to capture the absurdities of office life with such precision that employees all over the world pinned his cartoons to their cubicle walls. He made us laugh at bureaucracy, at jargon, at the pomposity of managers who confused volume with leadership. But behind that laughter was a keen and restless intelligence — a mind fascinated by persuasion, systems, and what he liked to call “pattern recognition.” I remember reading one of his books years ago — I think it was The Dilbert Future — where he wrote something that stuck in my mind: “Genius is the ability to disguise your influences.” It’s a deceptively sharp statement, almost tossed off as an aside. Yet the more you think about it, the more it ...

  Using Writing to Create a Better, More Peaceful World Writing has always been more than an act of self-expression—it is a force of transformation. Whether through poetry, storytelling, essays, or quiet journal entries, the written word has the power to shift the way we see ourselves, others, and the world around us. In an age where conflict, noise, and disconnection often dominate our daily experience, writing offers something radical: a pause, a reflection, and a bridge toward peace. The Power of Reflection Writing slows things down. When we sit before a blank page, we are given space to breathe and think. Instead of reacting to the chaos of life, we observe it. We name our feelings, our fears, and our hopes. This simple act of translating emotion into language begins to quiet the mind. Journalling, in particular, allows us to process what troubles us, turning confusion into clarity. By writing about our pain, we do not amplify it—we release it. Anger and frustration, once p...

Over the years, I’ve been asked the same question again and again. Often in emails from students, sometimes over coffee with friends, and occasionally by strangers at writing events who lean in like they’re about to hear a deep, dark secret. “Rob,” they ask. “What’s the golden rule of good writing?” And my answer is always the same. There are only two. Just two rules you ever need to remember. I know, I know—there’s a whole industry built around rules. Adverbs are bad. Show don’t tell. Use active voice. Kill your darlings. Avoid the passive. Don’t start with weather. Never open with a dream. And for heaven’s sake, don’t end with a twist. But I’m here to tell you: most of those rules are guidelines, not gospel. When it comes to writing that really works—writing that readers devour and publishers pay for—there are only two things you need to get right. Let’s break them down. Rule One: Be Clear This is the big one. This is the hill I will die on. If your writing isn’t clear, no...

  There’s something intoxicating about the unsolved. The unanswered. The ancient . Whether it’s a weatherworn monument, a forgotten artifact, or a half-scorched scroll that no one can decipher, there’s a whisper of eternity behind every mystery the past has left us. And if you’re a writer—especially one prone to the delicious intoxication of story—those whispers are gold . You see, most stories are built around questions. What if? Who did it? How could this be? What happens next? But sometimes, the best stories begin with a question no one has answered in real life. That’s where ancient mysteries come in. They’re like little narrative time bombs, ticking in the background of history, waiting for the right writer to come along and say, “I’ve got it. I know what really happened.” Take the Baghdad Battery , for instance. Discovered in modern-day Iraq, this humble clay jar—housing a copper tube and an iron rod—dates back over two thousand years. Add vinegar or lemon juice, and presto...

  There are names that should be carved into the collective memory of humanity—and Hypatia of Alexandria is one of them. She wasn’t a conqueror. She didn’t lead armies or rule nations. What she did was far more dangerous: she taught people to think. In a time when empires rose and fell by the sword, Hypatia wielded something more powerful: intellect. Logic. Reason. She was a mathematician, a philosopher, an astronomer, and a teacher of great renown. And for that, in 415 AD, she was brutally murdered by a mob of men—driven by fear, fanaticism, and power politics. Let’s talk about her story. And why, if you’re a writer—especially one who dares to write smart, female, or defiant characters—you need to know her name. A Woman of Reason in a World of Rage Alexandria, in the 4th and 5th centuries, was a city of brilliance and turmoil. Once the intellectual heart of the ancient world, it was now caught in the slow, grinding collision between pagan philosophy and rising Christian aut...

  There’s a deep and essential difference between a preacher and a commentator. Between a politician and a journalist. Between a spin doctor and a critic. And that difference can be summed up in just one word: agenda . It’s not that we mistrust preachers, politicians, or PR flacks simply because they lie—although let’s be honest, some of them certainly do. It’s because we instinctively know they’re giving us a version of the truth that serves their interests. A curated, filtered, often weaponized truth. Not the truth— their truth. A preacher will claim divine authority—he alone has the answers. And if you disagree? You're not just mistaken, you’re damned. A politician will feed you selective data—talking up the positives, burying the negatives, re-framing failure as success. All while ridiculing dissent and dismissing alternate perspectives as irrelevant, ignorant, or dangerous. A modern spin doctor is trained in deflection. When something awful happens, they’ll pivot to som...