The Write Stuff (And How to Actually Get People to Read It)

Here's my dirty little secret: I think most writing advice is like teaching someone to bake the world's most perfect cake and then leaving them in their kitchen with no idea how to get people to actually taste it.

My perspective? Writing is only half the equation. The other half is making sure someone actually reads the damn thing—and better yet, finds it enjoyable enough to tell their friends about it. Revolutionary, right?

This insight explains why I click so well with clients one-on-one. While most writing gurus are obsessing over the perfect three-act structure or debating the merits of the Oxford comma, I'm over here asking the really radical questions: "But will anyone actually want to read this? And if they do, how will they know where to find it?"

I've watched too many writers pour their souls into creating content, then stare at their computer screen like it's going to magically sprout legs and walk itself to the nearest bestseller list. They invest everything into the creation, but have absolutely no clue how to make it appealing to an actual human audience. The "if you build it, they will come" approach works great for baseball movies, but it's a disaster for writers in today's content-saturated hellscape.

The enjoyability factor is where I get really subversive. Marketing doesn't have to feel like you're selling used cars in a polyester suit. When you approach it as making your writing more discoverable and appealing to people who genuinely want what you're offering, it becomes a natural extension of good writing rather than some soul-crushing separate task that makes you want to hide under your desk.

This perspective didn't come from a marketing textbook—it came from years of watching brilliant writers struggle with the business side while less polished but savvier content creators built empires. It's the kind of practical wisdom you only get from seeing the same tragic pattern repeat: amazing work gathering digital dust while mediocre but well-marketed content gets all the attention.

My clients gravitate toward me because I'm solving their actual problem. I'm not just helping them write better—I'm helping them write in a way that connects with real readers and serves their real goals. That's infinitely more valuable than teaching someone to craft the perfect metaphor that only three people will ever see.

Because let's be honest: if a brilliant blog post falls in the forest of the internet and no one reads it, does it make a sound? I'm here to make sure it does.

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Billionaire's Mistress

By Liz Dubelman

Maya should’ve sensed something was off when her "interview" took place not in a drab office but in a lavish Century City penthouse. Katya entered exuding Ukrainian supermodel vibes, with platinum hair and eyes so unnaturally blue they seemed Photoshopped. Officially, Maya was brought on to edit wellness–nonprofit content. Unofficially? She became Viktor’s digital spy—Viktor being Katya’s Russian billionaire boyfriend who adored charity as much as he did vodka: purely for show.

“You will monitor the branding call,” Katya instructed, her voice so thick it could be spread on toast. “Mute yourself. Listen only.”

Maya had envisioned a comfortable role tweaking blog posts. Instead, she found herself thrust into the role of a corporate mole, eavesdropping on smoothie-brand pitches spun from four different ridiculous angles—almost enough to make her laugh out loud. Viktor’s tagline demands were even more absurd: “Make it epic! Like a Russian novel!”

Days turned into weeks of disappearing paychecks, cryptic to-do lists, and increasingly bizarre requests. Her car was stripped for parts, her Wi-Fi froze more often than the Siberian tundra, and she spent more time dodging L.A.’s chaos than actually working. Meanwhile, the backstage drama escalated: Viktor schemed to launch a for-profit arm to entice investors, splurged millions on star-studded galas, yet balked at dropping twenty grand on a decent .com.

The breaking point came on a sticky Friday in May. Maya found herself at the public library, watching as napping patrons were gently prodded awake by security. Her journal lay abandoned. Her novel gathered dust. And she realized her fate was precariously tied to whether Katya and Viktor remained a duo, or would he go back to his wife who just informed him of her cancer.

That night, as the Hollywood Hills shimmered with golden light, Maya hesitated as she opened her laptop to draft a resignation. Two lines in, she stopped. Torn between escaping and exposing, she began writing the true story: a Ukrainian femme fatale, a Russian billionaire, and the hapless editor caught in their charity-laundering soap opera.

Some stories are just too tempting to silence.