A young romance writer makes a discovery that throws her elitist family into chaos in this sharp, witty and entirely delightful family drama for fans of Elinor Lipman and Jennifer Weiner.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Viola Shipman’s The Page Turner, which is out April 8th 2025.
Emma Page grew up the black sheep in a bookish household, raised to believe that fine literature is the only worthy type of fiction. Her parents, self-proclaimed “serious” authors who run their own vanity press, The Mighty Pages, mingle in highbrow social circles that look down on anything too popular or mainstream, while her sister, Jess, is a powerful social media influencer whose stylish reviews can make or break a novel.
Hiding her own romance manuscript from her disapproving parents, Emma finds inspiration at the family cottage among the “fluff” they despise: the juicy summer romances that belonged to her late grandmother. But a chance discovery unearthed from her Gigi’s belongings reveals a secret that has the power to ruin her parents’ business and destroy their reputation in the industry—a secret that has already fallen into the hands of an unscrupulous publishing insider with a grudge to settle. Now Emma must decide—as much as she’s dreamed of the day when her parents are forced to confront their own egos, can she really just sit back and watch The Mighty Pages be exposed and their legacy destroyed?
From the wealthy enclaves of the Hamptons to the sparkling shores of Lake Michigan, The Page Turner is a delectable glimpse inside the world of publishing, and Viola Shipman’s most glittering achievement yet!
My parents, Phillip and Piper Page, glide down the stairs, holding each other’s hands. My father is wearing a vintage tux, shoes as shiny as the polished railing, my mother in an Oscar de la Renta black sleeveless cocktail dress that’s a bit too short but shows off her stunning legs that she’s drenched in baby oil.
Magazine writers and publishing editors have described them as a modern-day Jackie and JFK, old-fashioned elegance come to life.
But that’s not an accurate reference. As a writer, I know who my parents really are.
Moira and Johnny from Schitt’s Creek.
Rich, entitled, driven, obsessed with their lives, careers and personas. They believe in their hearts they are—as my grandma used to say—“salt of the earth,” but the salt is pink Himalayan. They love Jess and me, they really do, it’s just that if you asked our mother out of the blue what our middle names were, she would likely not be able to answer but blame it on the fact she hadn’t gone to yoga or barre class that week.
In fact, my entire family is the Rose family from Schitt’s Creek.
Jess is pretty Alexis, who loves the surface beauty of her life, and I am cynical, sarcastic David, who watches the spectacle with horror and bemusement but cannot keep my mouth shut to save my life.
I feel like I’m the only one in on the inside joke.
My parents wave as they descend. They stop on a landing before a grand portrait they commissioned of us on the beach at sunset when we were not these people. I glance at their faces then and now. They are the same people, a bit older, a bit more work, but I don’t recognize our family any longer.
“Speech!” someone yells.
“Soon,” I hear Jess call. “Could everyone grab a cocktail and gather on the patio, please?”
My parents do not yell from landings. This is a choreographed dance. Their lives are a choreographed dance.
A swarm of people rush the table to nab a cocktail.
When the line clears, I make my way to the bar.
“I’m going to need something a bit stronger than champagne to make it through this night,” I say. “Could I have a gin and tonic with extra lime and extra gin please.”
The bartender laughs, and I realize he’s about my age and looks like Michelangelo’s David come to life.
“I like your dress,” he says.
I smile. “Thank you.”
“Your gin and tonic,” he says, handing me the glass. “Extra lime. Extra gin.”
“Thank you,” I repeat.
I take a selfie of myself with the cocktail and text it to my BFFs, Gin and Juice.
In honor of you.
“Now that I know what you like, maybe we could get a drink sometime,” he says.
He’s good.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “You sure are pretty, but I don’t have time for boys right now. Except in books.”
His chiseled face softens, and I can see he’s never been turned down.
“Rejection stinks, doesn’t it?” I look at him. “I’m a writer, so it’s going to be a big part of my life. As my parents have told a million writers about their manuscripts, ‘I’m sorry, it’s just not right for us at this time, but I’m sure it will be scooped up by someone who loves it.’”
“You’re a writer?” the bartender asks. “Have you written anything I’ve read?”
“Ah, the question every writer hates at a party,” I say. “I’m sorry to sound so dismissive,” I continue, “but next time maybe just ask a writer what she writes.”
He nods, his curly dark hair falling in his eyes.
Behind him, in the library, is a portrait of my grandparents with our family when we were all still babies.
Beyond, I see Marcus on the deck. He waves at me.
His nepo baby remark haunts me, partly because the creepy bastard is right and partly because the matriarch who started it all is hidden away, like her beloved books.
I look the bartender in the eyes.
“Can I ask you a question?”
His eyes light up. “Of course! Anything.”
“Why is it so hard to talk about anything other than a man?”
He cocks his head at me, not understanding.
I grab my drink and start to turn. “Thanks for the extra lime. I may die tonight, but at least it won’t be from scurvy.”
He still doesn’t understand me. Few do.
As I start to walk away, the bartender calls, “Hey!”
I turn.
“What do you write?”
I wink at his effort.
“I write happy endings,” I say.
“But you don’t seem happy,” he says.
I smile.
“That’s why I write.”
The Page Turner Copyright © 2025 by Viola Shipman
