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A few years ago, I ran a writing workshop in Knoxville, Tennessee.

If you don't know how these things go, I chat with a bunch of high schoolers over a long weekend.

Then they take a stab at writing a fiction piece, using the advice I had to give.

The advice piece is tough for me.

Most of these kids, they're looking for a secret,

a tidbit of magic wisdom that will turn them into an Oscar winner or something. I don't have advice like that. No one does. A whole lot of being a good writer is figuring it out for yourself,

but sometimes, rarely, I come across a lot of being a good writer is figuring it out for yourself. But sometimes, rarely, I come across a student who already has.

That happened in Knoxville.

After a lecture, I took the kids writing samples to my hotel, read through the stack,

writing notes here, encouragement's there.

Finding a balance between thickening their skin with appropriate critiques and being supportive.

But then, I got to this one story.

It was, well, it was about a monster, a wretched, ancient one,

that the Cherokee people once warned their nearest and nearest

about. This creature, this witch, lurked in the great smoky mountains, in the wilderness,

...