Dive into the Literary Domain of Paul Pence
Places and moments where the passage of time, inner turmoil, and the search for meaning ignite—drawing you into lives that struggle, persevere, or quietly prevail.
Half a Block From Havasham Stop – When a dying Bronx Diner goes viral as protest art, its stubborn crew fights gentrification corruption, and each other in a raw, darkly funny struggle for dignity and survival.
Complete and ready for representation, 71,000 words.
Ghosts and Lies – In 1972, a decorated Vietnam veteran rides buses and highways across America to deliver personal condolences to the families of fallen comrades, haunted by wartime memories and a ghost he knows isn’t real, in a literary journey through a country—and a self—forever changed.
In draft, target 120,000 words.
Draft Lottery Day – On the day that will decide who goes to Vietnam, three eighteen-year-olds in a dusty Texas town grapple with fear, loyalty, and the fragile edge of manhood, as from the first knock at a neighbor’s door to the last beer can flung into dying embers, families brace for fate’s verdict in a country—and lives—poised to be forever changed.
Outlined, target 80,000 words
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.