Rob Parnell's Writing Academy Blog

  There is a reason the phrase crying wolf has survived for centuries. It endures because it describes a deeply human flaw – the temptation to exaggerate, inflate, or invent urgency in order to be noticed, validated, or taken seriously. And it also endures because the consequences are always the same. Eventually, nobody listens. In real life, crying wolf looks like constant emotional alarms. Everything is a crisis. Every inconvenience is a catastrophe. Every disagreement is framed as betrayal. There is always smoke, but never fire – or rather, so much smoke that when the fire finally comes, no one sees it. In fiction, crying wolf takes a similar form. Endless twists with no weight. Perpetual danger without consequence. Characters screaming at full emotional volume from page one. High stakes declared, but never earned. The writer wants intensity, but substitutes escalation for meaning. And readers feel it instantly. The problem is not drama itself. Drama is essential. Conflict...

  We live in a strange moment in history where outrage feels like the background radiation of daily life. It hums constantly. It leaks through headlines, timelines, comment sections, and conversations that once might have been about weather, work, or books. Hate has become normalized not because most people are hateful, but because anger is louder than thought, faster than reflection, and easier to monetize than calm. What’s exhausting is not just the noise itself, but the growing sense that none of it changes anything. We watch leaders posture, blunder, threaten, and occasionally burn things down, and we’re told this is “politics,” as though recklessness were a natural law rather than a choice. For most people, the dominant feeling is impotence. We vote, we argue, we march, we shout into the void, and still the same personalities cycle through power, seemingly immune to consequence. That sense of powerlessness seeps into everyday life. It teaches people to disengage, to numb out,...

  The value of studying other authors is often misunderstood, especially by writers who fear that influence somehow dilutes originality.  There’s a persistent myth that real writers should emerge fully formed, untouched by other voices, working in a vacuum of pure inspiration. It’s romantic nonsense. Writing has always been a conversation across time. Every author you admire learned how to write by reading other writers closely, consciously or not. The difference is that the best of them did it deliberately. When you study another author, you are not trying to become them. You are learning how the job is done. At its most basic level, reading other writers teaches you what is possible. Before you encounter a certain kind of book, you don’t even know that particular emotional or structural experience can exist. The first time you read a writer who makes something difficult look effortless, a door opens. You realize the form can stretch further than you thought. That realizati...

There was a time when the internet felt like a promise.  Not a product, not a funnel, not a marketplace disguised as a conversation, but a genuine phenomenon. A place where information wanted to be free, where curiosity was rewarded, where you could follow a trail of links for hours without being shaken down for your email address, your credit card, or your soul. People really did believe two things back in the early 2000s. First, that the internet would remain free, or at least mostly free. Second, that it might actually save us from ourselves. That sunlight would disinfect power. That knowledge would flatten hierarchies. That access would equal fairness. Fast-forward twenty or thirty years and it’s hard not to laugh, if only to stop yourself from swearing. The modern internet is not free. It’s toll-based. You can barely read a paragraph of news without slamming into a paywall. Articles are truncated just enough to annoy you into subscribing. Ads stalk you across platforms like...

  One of the great, paralyzing anxieties of memoir writing is this quiet, persistent thought: What if I offend someone?   It creeps in early and settles deep. What will my sister think. What about my ex. My parents. My children. That teacher. That friend. That person who remembers events very differently. The imagined courtroom fills quickly, and before you know it, the book hasn’t even begun because you’re already writing footnotes in your head explaining yourself. This fear stops more memoirs than lack of craft ever will. Writers worry about offending people they know or knew because memoir feels personal in a way fiction doesn’t. You’re not hiding behind invented names or imaginary towns. You’re writing from lived experience, and that carries weight. It also carries responsibility. But here’s where many writers make a critical mistake. They confuse honesty with cruelty, and restraint with cowardice. They start sanding the edges off their truth until there’s nothing left s...

  Most writers think good ideas are rare visitors.  We're told by the movies to picture inspiration arriving fully formed, like lightning, or as a sudden burst of brilliance that interrupts ordinary life. When it doesn’t arrive to us like that, we assume something is wrong. We tell ourselves we’re blocked, untalented, or uninspired. In truth, the problem is almost always the opposite. We are in fact surrounded by material and just not seeing it. Ideas are not scarce. Attention is. Every environment you move through is already telling stories. Rooms, streets, woods, hills, conversations, silences, routines, habits, irritations, small pleasures. The raw material of writing is not imagination in the abstract, but perception sharpened by curiosity. Writing does not begin at the desk. It begins with how you move through the world when you are not writing . The first shift is understanding that you are not hunting ideas. You are collecting signals. Your surroundings ar...

  I remember the moment clearly, even now. I was about six years old, standing at a family gathering, watching adults talk over one another, laugh at things that didn’t seem funny, repeat the same stories with tiny variations. Nothing dramatic was happening. No crisis. No revelation delivered by thunder. Just a sudden, quiet realization. This is strange. Not “bad” strange. Not frightening. Just deeply odd. Human beings performing rituals they don’t seem aware of. Roles they’ve inherited without question. Lives moving along grooves already cut for them. And I remember thinking, with the clarity only a child can have, I need to remember this feeling . Not just the event, but the sensation of standing slightly outside it. The awareness. The distance. That was the moment I decided I wanted to be a writer. Not because I wanted fame. Or money. Or applause. But because writing felt like the only way to make sense of the world without flattening it. A way to record what it felt like...