Your Writing Life Needs a Party (And Chelsea Fagan's Hosting Book Proves It)

Photo by Elevae Visuals

Hear me out. I picked up Chelsea Fagan's Having People Over from the library — it was buried in a teetering stack of holds that all released at the same time, as they do — and I devoured it in one afternoon. By the time I closed the cover, I wasn't thinking about centerpieces or signature cocktails.

I was thinking about you. About your book. About every writer I've ever coached who's been waiting for the "right time" to start, to share, to commit.

Because it turns out? Throwing a great party and writing a great book have more in common than either of them would like to admit. Let's get into it.

Send a Real Invitation (A.K.A. Take Your Work Seriously)

Chelsea opens the book with something I didn't expect: a gentle roast of how casual we've all become. Nobody sends paper invitations anymore. RSVPs are a suggestion. Half your guests will text "omw" at 8:47 for a party that started at 7. We've decided that hosting — like so many things — doesn't need to be a whole thing.

And honestly? We've done the exact same thing to writing.

I was in a meeting recently where everyone was brainstorming for an event — except they weren't really brainstorming, they were typing one-line prompts into ChatGPT and passing around the same generic taglines. No real ideas. No actual creative friction. Just... vibes and copy-paste.

That's the written equivalent of texting "u up?" instead of sending an invitation. It gets a response, but it's not a party.

Here's what I know from years of working with writers: the moment you take your work seriously, other people do too. Set a writing date like you're hosting a dinner. Put it on the calendar. Tell someone. Show up prepared. The formality isn't pretension — it's respect for your own creative life.

Your book proposal isn't something to dash off and hope for the best. It's a dinner party. Plan the menu. Set the table. Make it worth showing up for.

Find Your Back-Pocket Recipes

One of my favorite bits of hosting wisdom from Chelsea: you don't need to be able to cook everything. You need three to five things you can make really, really well — dishes you love, that you could pull off half-asleep, that feel like you. You rotate through them, you get better, and your guests feel taken care of.

I think about this all the time when writers tell me they want to write in every genre, reach every reader, cover every topic. It sounds like ambition but it usually looks like paralysis. 

(Confession: I avoided setting my own novel in California for the longest time — even though it's literally set in California, about a woman who comes home after a wildfire destroys everything. California is my back-pocket recipe. It's where all my best creative flavors come from. But it felt too easy, too personal, too obvious. So I tried to hide it.)

Chelsea would not approve.

The thing you know deeply, love completely, and could write about in your sleep? That's not a limitation. That's your signature dish. And the writers who grow the fastest — the ones whose audiences actually find them — are the ones who stop trying to please every palate and start cooking what they actually love.

Go deep. Not wide. Trust the recipe.

Open the Door Before the Candles Are Lit

Here's what Chelsea says about hosting that I want to tattoo on my forearm: the connection matters more than the perfection. Sometimes guests show up early. Sometimes the appetizers are store-bought. Sometimes everything goes in a basket because you ran out of time, and the basket still looks cute. The point isn't a flawless performance. The point is the gathering.

Writers. Please. Read that paragraph again.

We are in a loneliness epidemic — Chelsea says it about hospitality, and I say it about the writing life. It is a lonely, solitary, often-despairing process if you try to do it entirely by yourself in secret until it's perfect. And "perfect" almost never comes. So you wait. And the book doesn't get written. And the readers who needed your story don't get it.

The antidote is embarrassingly simple: let people in. 

Share your messy pages with a trusted reader. Say your idea out loud in a conversation. Book a call with someone who can help you figure out the next step. Be the host who throws open the door before everything is ready — because the people who love you will bring wine and help you finish setting the table. 

Your writing doesn't need to be perfect to be worth sharing. It just needs to be yours.

Want help making the eh, exciting again? Book a Golden Hour call with me now, and let’s make this the year of non-stop confetti.