About Paul Pence
We tell stories to find meaning in lives that are too short, too chaotic, and far too intense to face head-on. For me, the act of writing is a reckoning. It’s a way to look into those quiet spaces—grief, shame, hope—and make them speak.
I’ve often been asked where my stories come from, and it’s not a simple answer. The truth is—every story begins with weight, a weight created by a need. It might be a setting that hums with emotional resonance. A character carrying something private, often unspeakable. Sometimes it’s just one line, overheard or remembered, that sparks everything.
I approach even my longer works as a short story writer: every word must carry its own weight, sometimes double or triple. There’s no space for indulgence. If a line doesn’t earn its place, I cut it.
To stay lean, the crafting begins with a map—a careful plan laid out across timelines and arcs. But then a single word can become revelation that shifts everything. A character veering off-course. Suddenly I’m no longer guiding the story—I’m catching up to it. And when that happens, I let go. I revise. And revise again to hear the poetry and music of the words and the true souls of my characters.
Every character I’ve written is, in some way, a piece of me—a fragment that needed to find daylight. Sometimes they arrive quietly, other times they’re demanding. But they all see themselves as protagonists in their own lives. I try to honor that.
Yes, of course my characters make me cry. If I don’t cry, how could anyone else? Their weight is mine too. I write for the reader who wants to feel unsettled and understood in equal measure. Someone who lingers in ambiguity and finds truth in echoes.
If the story doesn’t ache a little, it probably isn’t ready.