Hello, my dear lit lovelies!

I had to share the above photo, which was hidden deep in the Red Mountain archives. That’s your truly and my amigo Nick almost two decades ago, shortly after we left our Wall Street jobs to go chase a dream in the wine biz in Washington State. Can you believe that banjo-playing numbskull in his long underwear can string even one sentence together, let alone make a living doing it?

Anyway, where to begin. Let’s not ruminate over the end of summer, or I’ll start weeping. Riggs is back in school, but I’ve still got one foot back in July, fondly recalling Maine island life: the lobster rolls, the sunset boat outings, the long walks along the shore, the bottles of rosé with friends and fam, the mesmerizing conversations over long meals.

And yet, I can feel the icy fingers of a Maine wint-uh wrapping themselves around my ankles. I am secretly excited, though, as I love hiding out in my literary cave and spitting out words for you whilst (don’t you dare tell me I can’t use whilst!) the sky dishes out snowflakes.

I’ve mostly wrapped up the dev edits of my next book, called (for now) Salvation Isle, and it’s a sizzler, my friends. There’s something special brewing in those pages. It’ll hit shelves next August.

Today, after I check in with you and share some of the art that’s moved me lately, I’m going to start finishing up this how-to-write craft book that’s near completion. Then, time for a new story idea! There’s simply nothing like knowing that my next novel is due in ten months while having ZERO idea of what it might be about. I adore the faith in creativity required. It’ll come to me when it damn well pleases.

Books first!

Y’all, I’m burning through an advance copy of The Pirate Queen by Ariel Lawhon, which lands September 8th. She’s fictionalized the life of the Irish pirate Grace O’Malley and done so with swashbuckling storytelling mastery. The research she put into this book and the way she so easily takes you back to the 16th century is staggering, and I’m already desperately pulling for Grace. I wrote Ariel and told her that the opening pages are as good a start as any I can remember. I bet a lot of you have read The Frozen River; I’ve added it to my ever-growing stack.

Next up, on the suggestion of my supremely talented friend Barbara O’Neal, who has a new one out that I can’t wait to read (A Thousand Painted Hours), I tore through The One Day You Were My Husband, about a British woman whose wedding on a Thai beach is ruined when authorities arrest her husband. Following the aftermath and trying to keep up with the twists were absolute delights. Rosie Walsh knows how to keep you turning pages.

TV

Who here has not seen Hacks on HBO Max? My friends Hunter and Nyree urged me to watch this show, and I was totally consumed and obsessed, not to mention heartbroken that the series has concluded after five marvelous seasons. I’m not the easiest to make laugh with television, but this show breaks me wide open, while also putting my heart through the wringer. It’s a buddy-love kind of show, about an aging comedian and her younger writer who endlessly butt heads while building a beautiful friendship. If you’re easily offended, it might not be your bag. It is HBO, after all. For my money, it’s one of the best shows made in a long time. Here’s the trailer:

Music

Mikella and I had the pleasure of stumbling into Yebba’s afternoon set at the Newport Jazz Festival, and we came away absolutely obsessed with this singer from Arkansas. What do I even say? Yebba and the audience were in tears as she pulled out notes from her soul that shattered us. I can’t wait to see her live again. I felt like I was seeing something really important and can’t wait to follow her as she disrupts the music world.

The marvelous Cassandra Wilson died this week, so I’ve been revisiting the tune below. How good is she? And check out that sax solo that rolls in at the 2:30 mark. That’ll run up your spine and make everything alright.

Look what you guys did, by the way, taking The English Bookstore in Bologna to #1 in all my categories. After a couple of releases that didn’t do what I’d hoped, it’s so satisfying to be playing with the big dogs again. If I could, I’d give you all a kiss. A wet one even! Thank you for leaping into my new story and giving it so much love.

Lastly, mark your calendars for Friday, September 11th at 11 a.m EST. My longtime friend Kevin Kermes and I are going live to chat about writing fiction and our mutual obsession with self-development. He’s an interesting cat; I think you’re gonna like him. Here’s the link.

If you’re up for it, let me know what’s going on in your world.

All my love,

boo

What!!! My agent told me that over four million books were published just last year. How in the world does a wretch like me break through all that noise?

Oh, I’ll tell you.

YOU.

You who buy my books and leap right in, giving me and my characters a chance. You who tell your friends and family. You who gift my books around the island or around your hometown (I’m looking at you, Jack). You who write me encouraging notes, assuring me my efforts are not in vain. You who share pics online of you reading me in foreign lands.

Though I don’t read reviews because the negative ones shatter me, it’s very much you who take the time to leave reviews on Amazon. Reviews are crucial in helping propel my books into the algorithms and make it possible for me to keep weaving tales for a living.

All of you reading this note make it possible. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU.

If you haven’t picked up my latest, the time is now. I’d be so grateful if you would help me kick this baby into the top 100, a feat I haven’t achieved in two or three books.

The supremely talented Susan Wiggs, author of The Lost and Found Bookshop, wrote:

“Boo Walker delivers a sparkling, bighearted novel about reinvention, regret, and the risky magic of connection. Set against the irresistible charm of Bologna’s porticoed streets, his story features a band of misfit toys who embody the wit, longing, and beautiful flaws that mark their humanity. With humor and tenderness, Walker reminds us that it’s never too late to begin again—and that love, like a good book, can find you when you least expect it. A delight from first page to last.”

Book clubs, here is a printable PDF of the book questions.

Mainers, catch me chatting with Rob Caldwell on News Center Maine at 7pm EST tonight.

Thanks for indulging me as I peddle this book that I believe in so much. I’ll get back to regular programming soon, serving you, showering you with new book, movie, and TV recs, sharing notes on the craft and life, whatever I can do to pay you back.

From Peaks with love,

boo

Amazon

Bookshop.org

Also, join me today at noon EST to celebrate with what may be the biggest and baddest Ask Me Anything live event to ever have taken place in the multiverse. Even if not, you’ll certainly get an all-you-can-eat buffet of Boo as I answer your questions with unfiltered openness. I barely slept last night in anticipation of the release, so it promises to be entertaining, no matter which way it goes!

Join the live event

Thank you for your support; it means everything to me.

Cheers!

boo

Yes, you read that right. Come join me August 18th at noon EST for a live session where I will answer as many questions as I can. You know me by now, I won’t hold back, so don’t be afraid to ask whatever you’d like. In fact, the most interesting questions will get extra entries into the raffle. I’ll post the winners in the Substack comments on Sunday.

Here’s the link to join me live. For those who can’t make it, why in the world are you working on Tuesday? Kidding, I’m kidding! You’ll be able to rewatch later if you miss it.

I can’t wait for your questions. See you Tuesday!

Much love,

boo

I’m coming off such a high from yesterday, as I had the incredible privilege of performing music with our son and a few friends for Porchfest here on Peaks Island in Maine. I don’t know what’s better in my world than bearing witness to our talented boy capturing a crowd with his mesmerizing voice, especially with Amy Winehouse’s version of “Valerie.”

It was also the first time I’ve performed in over twenty years, ever since I succumbed to a hand problem that ended my music career. What a giant step toward healing.

My entire summer has been about healing, so please accept my apologies for lying low lately. I’ve been consumed by the present, by friends and family and small and wonderful moments, by the ocean and these islanders and this little island that dazzles at every turn.

Nine days till The English Bookstore in Bologna arrives! I can’t thank you enough for a pre-order as they help tremendously in pushing momentum. If you like Italy, good food, books, and zany characters, I don’t know what you’re waiting for.

-Lake Union is giving away 100 digital copies on Goodreads here.

-My buddy Kevin Kermes included me in his new 3x5 napkin series. As you know by now, I don’t hold back.

-And my friend Marta Lane was kind enough to interview me for her Living with Big Dreams series. Learn all my secrets!

Newport Jazz…

Mikella and I had the chance to once again attend the Newport Jazz Festival, and it was a total balm for the soul. We’re committed to never missing another one.

I’ve mentioned Gotts Street Park before. They were sensational live, especially when they brought out Olive Jones. Here's one of the tunes they sang.

I got to experience a set with maestro Charlie Hunter, who plays a custom guitar that allows him to lay down a bass line with the low strings, then play chords and melodies over it with the higher strings. He performed with Ella Feingold, who has become one of my fave guitarists of late. She plays this dirty, funky style that slow-drips with sassy attitude. Here’s their brand new album, Different Strokes for Different Folks. Embrace the subtle sounds, and you’ll discover a wonderland of groove.

Another giant highlight was when Jon Batiste, who commands an audience like no other, brought Flea and Chad Smith from the Red Hot Chili Peppers up on stage for a totally unplanned improvisation. Flea killed it on the trumpet, and for a moment, I felt like Chet Baker was playing through him. I can’t recommend this festival highly enough. It doesn’t hurt that Newport is one of the coolest towns on the planet, complete with a marvelous food scene.

Here are a few more shots.

Other than that, my dev editor, the supremely sharp Jodi Warshaw, has returned with her edits for Salvation Isle. That’s where my energy is headed for a while. Thanks for hanging around. Enjoy your summer.

much love,

boo

As you better know by now, my latest, The English Bookstore in Bologna, publishes next month, and I’d like to share a tale of how this cool cat ain’t quite so cool, but damned if I wasn’t close.

Last time, I talked about the seeds of my novel, how I felt left out after reading Gabrielle Zevin’s The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry and wanted desperately to contribute to the growing collection of books set in bookstores.

I neglected to mention another seed that predated that one, and it’s a confession like never before. It’s a shameful moment of my past that’s taken me many moons to be able to laugh about.

To protect those involved, I must hold back names (You know who you are!!! Muahahhahha!) and details, but many years ago, I partook in a food fight in a Michelin-starred restaurant in Copenhagen, Denmark (not the one you’re thinking). I know. I know. I know! Awful, right?

If you’re not familiar, a restaurant must meet a super high-level of quality, presentation, consistency, creativity, etc. to be given a Michelin star, so you can bank on all of them being fancy. In other words, it’s the last place on earth you’d expect a food fight.

There may or may not have been too much wine flowing in the lead-up to that disastrous evening. Imagine a baguette flying through the air like a ninja star and you’ll get the idea. It was the kind of night that you regret with all of you the following morning, especially as you taste the dust on your tongue and realize the extent of your hangover.

Long before I decided to set a book in a bookstore, I was intent on creating a story about misfit expats who were either running to or away for something, and I already knew there would be a pivotal scene involving a similar food fight. How could I not bring such a disaster to the page? The entire book evolved from the idea.

Naturally, as a novelist who seeks to always give his readers the verisimilitude they deserve, I was tasked with the hard work of finding the perfect Michelin-starred setting in Bologna. During a night at the remarkable I Portici, located inside a former theater surrounded by frescoes, the scene came alive in my head.

I’d flown ahead of my wife and son to focus on research, so I was dining alone, and I’d decided I would pretend like I was a Michelin inspector. Imagine me sitting down for a nine-course meal, my only dining companions being my notebook and the cast of misfits, including a love-interest chef, running around in my imagination.

Let me tell you, as I studied the food and the details of the night and watched my cast come alive within those walls, I had never felt so grateful to be a novelist. How in the world was this work? I was actually writing this whole thing off!

I don’t know if it was the way the staff treated everyone, but they sure seemed to snap to attention once I started scribbling in my notebook and taking thoughtful shots of my dishes. They appeared to put extra effort into the preparations and pour a little heavier with each glass of wine.

I remember a sense of pride coming over me. I am a Michelin inspector realizing one of the best meals of my life as each person rushes to meet my every desire. Can you see this might not end well?

About halfway through the meal, one of the servers approached and suggested I use the table lamp for better lighting. It seems like no big deal, a great suggestion, but ultimately, it was a message from him that I’d not fooled them for a second.

Like all the other bozos taking photos of every dish, I’d been a total amateur! Why wouldn’t I have used that subtle warm glow from the tiny lamp? Oh, I’ll tell you. Because I’m not pro food critic! On top of that, I learned later that inspectors never use notebooks, as they don’t want to be discovered. They want to experience the restaurant without special treatment. I Portici 1 - Boo 0.

There you go, almost cool boo bringing your next read to life. The English Bookstore in Bologna is up for pre-order now and goes live on August 18th. I’d greatly appreciate your support, so I can keep slinging new stories your way.

I’ll leave you with more shots of the meal. I hope all these images deliver an even better reading experience in August.

Gratzie!

boo

A little over six weeks till my latest novel, The English Bookstore in Bologna, hits shelves!

I’ve not admitted this to anyone, even my wife or agent, but writing it was a direct result of the profound joy I had in reading Gabrielle Zevin’s glorious novel, The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry.

I remember the moment precisely. My family and I were living in Valencia, Spain, and I’d been toying with writing a tale about misfit expats—something akin to my Red Mountain series—but I hadn’t quite found the essence yet. Seemingly unrelated, I’d also been struggling to find print copies of English books and had been wishing there was a lovely English-language bookstore like Paris’s Shakespeare and Company.

Along came A.J. Fikry…

It’s an incredibly compelling story about a grumpy bookstore owner who falls in love with a wonderfully complicated woman. Gabrielle’s writing is exceptional, as always. On that note, her latest, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, is also dazzling.

Though their genres are totally different, I see strong prose ties between V.E. Schwab and her. They both have an extraordinary ability to drop nuclear-bomb phrasing while still allowing a captivating story to lead the way.

I wished I’d loved the Fikry movie more, but that’s fine. We have the book. If you haven’t read it, you’re in for a treat. It captures so much of why we love books and bookstores, and it’ll restore your passion for reading if you’ve been in a slump.

My first thought, as I set the finished book down, was: Hey, not fair, I want to write a novel set in a bookstore!

So began a wonderful journey as I brought my own bookstore curmudgeon to life.

While living in Spain, I was in a really good place creatively. I’d start my days with an hour or two walk through the Turia Garden, then write for a few hours, then join my wife and friends for an always delightful long, long lunch before a siesta. I don’t know that I’d ever felt so rich emotionally, so spiritually grounded, so utterly rooted in the present.

Words flew from my fingers. My protagonist’s name was Sandy, and I fell into the rhythm of her prickly voice with such ease that there were times that I totally left my own skin. I’d dream from her point of view.

But as I reached one-hundred pages, I hit a huge snag.

I’d presented three story ideas to my publisher, Lake Union, pushing for a two-book deal. Sandy and her community of bookstore misfits didn’t make the cut. I was devastated but had no choice but to shelf the story for another time. That was back in 2021.

Fast-forward to two years ago. Sandy was haunting my dreams, demanding I tell her story. And yet, I’d written A Spanish Sunrise in the meantime and had already captured so much of what I love about Spain. Worried that she might slap me, I asked Sandy if she’d mind if I set her bookstore in Italy.

She smirked at the idea, which was a huge sign, because Sandy rarely smirks. This time, my publisher was all about the idea, and the story began to lock into place, especially since my wife is Italian and close to nabbing her citizenship. Though it was her grandparents who were born in Italy, I’m not sure anyone is more Italian than my wife, so I know the culture; we visit often.

After a lot of research, we (my wife, Sandy, and I) decided that the ancient city of Bologna would be the perfect setting, so I booked a trip and immersed myself in what became one of my favorite spots in Europe. On one of my long walks, as I scribbled madly in a notepad, I came across a charming street that took my breath away, and in my mind’s eye, Sandy’s bookstore came to life.

In the novel, I made up the street name, but I can still see so clearly the cobblestone street, the terracotta, the frescoes, the flower boxes bursting with begonias, surfinas, and geraniums. I can smell the yeasty goodness of the nearby panificio; I can hear the chirp of the swifts and doves as they danced between the columns of the elaborate porticoes.

I spent the rest of the trip letting Bologna seep into me, and I made room in my head for the rest of the cast of expats. A mousey British woman with a tremendous secret; a recently retired man who fears he has nothing left to offer; his daughter, a psychotherapist who is having the most epic of midlife crises; and a young nerd from Colorado who has finally found someone who loves him. Let’s just say they’re all going about their lives in the wrong way, and it might take a bookstore and its curmudgeonly porcupine owner to save them.

(Oh, and there’s a love interest chef who is trying to get a Michelin star. I’ll save the silly tale of my undercover visit to a Michelin-starred restaurant for a later missive, but know that there’s delicious food all over this book.)

I’ll leave you with one last ingredient that made this book special.

If you’ve followed me long enough, you know the obstacles I’ve faced as a creative, the warring with imposter syndrome, the tight deadlines, the figuring out how to do this thing for a living, especially after having lost my first career due to a hand issue.

More and more, especially so with this book, I’m not writing to impress anyone, to hit the bestseller list, to make money, to satisfy reviewers. I’m simply committed to falling into flow as often as possible and breaking bread with the magic that’s all around us—whatever you’d like to call it. I’m writing what I want to read and what delivers me joy to write, and the hell with what anyone thinks about the finished product. What’s funny is I think that mindset actually creates a better book! You’ll have to be the judge.

After all these years, I’ve come to peace with the fact that I’m not in a competition with other authors or artists. I just want to be better than I was yesterday, and I want to release onto the page totally unfiltered and authentic Boo Walker, while at the same time, acting merely as a vessel, so that the stories and characters already out there in the ether might land onto my blank pages without me marring them with my ego.

Perhaps that makes some sort of sense. It sure does to me.

So that is the place from which I wrote this book, and it’s a tremendous honor to soon slip it into your hands.

Grazie!

boo

One person in particular had a profound impact on me: Leila Meacham. She was a proud Texan, a football lover, a beloved English teacher, and a novelist who hit the big time (seven-figure deals) later in life. To me, she was more than my writing mentor. She was my hero, and I’d like to pass along some of her wisdom.

What’s funny is I never met her in person. But by the end, she treated me like family. Whenever I get the opportunity to help a budding novelist, I jump on it, because that’s what Leila would do. She didn’t have to help me, this eager yet green scribbler of words, didn’t even have to bring me into her orbit, but she opened her arms to me, and in the years leading up to her passing, changed my writing and my life.

While my family and I were living in eastern Washington State, my in-laws came to visit in 2014 via a ship that cruised inland on the Columbia River. While the ship was at port, my wife, Mikella, boarded to have lunch with her parents. I was working, so I missed out on my one chance to meet Leila, who also happened to be on the cruise.

My mother-in-law, who is another mentor of mine and one of my biggest supporters, had met Leila, learned who she was, and talked me up. During lunch, Leila introduced herself to Mikella, chatted for a moment, then left everyone to their meal. But then she pivoted and returned to the table.

To my wife, she said, “Something just now told me to turn around, that I need to connect with this Boo fella.” So began one of the most important relationships of my career, all by phone and email, seven years of communication. You should know that when Leila wrote an email, it read like a letter she’d sent via the postman, because there was never a misplaced word, never a hurried sentence.

My being here, sharing my thoughts on the craft and life, this is me pivoting, like Leila did on the ship. This is me humbly reaching out and offering what I can to those who seek a creative path (bless your hearts…).

When I’d call her, I’d start into idle chitchat, and she’d say, “Let’s get right to it and talk words.” So let’s do that. I’ve been poring over the hundreds of emails we shared, and I’d like to offer some of my favorites.

To give you an even clearer idea of who she was, she battled pancreatic cancer for two years, then was issued her wings in 2021 at the young age of eighty-three. We were in touch well into her final days, but she never made it about her when we talked. In fact, the below is as much as she would address my questions about her health.

Did you reach your deadline? Fingers crossed and a prayer in the heart that you did. Keep the candles burning for me. I am not out of this darkness yet, but I believe I see lights ahead. Hoping you and the family are faring well enough in this lockdown.

She was suffering tremendous pain, the chemo pounding away at her, and yet she was checking on my deadline! If that’s not a life lesson, I don’t know what is.

One of the traits that made her a great teacher and mentor is that she somehow could give criticism while lifting you up. Like this, her first note to me:

Boo, I am halfway through your book. You are very talented. The passion is there, as well as other essential elements of fiction writing, but you lack craftsmanship that will hamper your landing a top-tier agent and major publisher.

Just to throw out a few in haste: 1) Be precise in your word choice. 2) Make sure your figures of speech match the imagery you wish to project; that is, that your similes and metaphors are not too weak or too strong for the object they modify. All it takes is deeper visualization of the picture you wish to draw and word choice to paint it.

Another, later on, a master class in teaching:

Boo, I have to say that I’m very impressed with your work ethic, perseverance, enthusiasm, and patience, for whatever value you place on that opinion. I shall butt in now with one of my favorite peeves of faulty sentence construction of which even well-known writers are guilty. It is called “the orphaned pronoun.”

I was guilty of the embarrassing infraction in my first literary efforts but since have cleaned up my act. An orphaned pronoun is one that has no antecedent—no noun to which it refers. The pronouns it and that occur most often.

Here are the most glaring examples: John disliked Anna, and it drove her mad. There is no antecedent for it. John disliked Anna, and his animosity drove her mad. John told Anna to be on the lookout for rats and that made her sick. What made Anna sick: that John told Anna to be on the lookout for rats or the possibility of sighting rats? You have to change the construction. John told Anna to be on the lookout for rats, and the possibility of sighting one made her sick.

Just thought I’d toss that in. (Ha)

Keep on trucking,

LM

I loved the following thought, an illustration of her unwavering belief in God:

Ask God to go with you all the way, and He will. Sit quietly before your story, ask, and He will give you the right words, voice, tone. Trust me. He writes my books and my fingers do the walking.

So much of our chats leaned into grammar and diction, constant tidbits feeding into my inbox:

Another sentence construction I’ve noticed to be aware of if a writer wishes to tighten his prose.

Example: “The bolt was thrown on the other side of the fence so far down that he couldn’t reach it.” The meaning is clear.

However, this is better: “The bolt was thrown on the other side of the fence and, to his utter dismay, located beyond his reach.”

Lesson: You can eliminate the relative clause “that he couldn’t reach it” (sentence clutter), reduce the idea to a past participle and be able to include a bit of character within the sentence as well.

Here’s another thought regarding details. Make your words do double duty, get more bang for the buck. Recently, in my new book Dragonfly, I set a scene in a tavern. It’s July. Alistair is a non-drinker. He’s an OSS officer reluctant to send a team of young folks behind enemy lines. Of course, the code name for the team is Dragonfly.

So I wrote: “Alistair swallowed the last of his club soda, set the glass on the napkin, and left before the summer heat of the tavern melted the remaining ice and obliterated his drawing of the dragonfly.”

Club soda re-establishes Alistair doesn’t drink, summer heat that it’s July, and the action of “left before” suggests his reluctance to send the team into harm’s way AND serves as foreshadowing which creates a cliffhanger. Are those young people going to make it, or will they be obliterated like the penciled drawing of the dragonfly?

She was always so kind to let me send her one of my working passages to pick apart, again leaving me upbeat and eager to better my writing. I sent her this one:

Along with her warmth and innocence, there was something slightly “bad girl” about Abby that appealed to the motorcycle guy in Brooks. At parties, she was the one to instigate a round or two of Jose Cuervo shots, and she was often the last one standing. She laughed the loudest at fart jokes and always had a few crude jokes of her own to tell. Morning, noon, or night, she welcomed a good argument, especially one involving church or state. And she’d bury you if you insulted women. At times, not often, but at the most opportune time in a back and forth, she would drop the F-word and she would use it with such confidence and calculated timing that it worked to great effect. Brooks wanted to get to know her, to learn about her past. There were skeletons in her closet that he craved to get to know.

Her response:

OUTSTANDING!! You’ve got the idea. I can see this girl. Only suggestion I’d make is to add a little qualifying phrase to “last one standing” such as “when the lights went out.” We speak in assumptions in conversations because we assume our listeners know what we mean without adding the obvious, but in writing, you have to qualify the when, where, and how of a statement. One other point: Can one get to know a skeleton? Or do we learn about them? Again, in conversation we can get by with loose diction, but not in writing. The writer must be on point. But, my goodness, great job, Boo!!!

I wrote her one time under deadline, totally down and out. She wrote back:

You need some restorative time, Boo. It is essential. Fill it with activities that do not require creative energy but simply give you enjoyment and peace. Who knows but, while you are so engaged, a story line will drop right into your lap, unbidden. There’s no forcing what refuses to come. I once read a wonderful line: Happiness is like a butterfly. Chase it and it runs away. Sit quietly, and it will light upon your shoulder. So it is I believe with the creative muse. Wish you were here and I could hold your hand, but from my heart to yours will have to do.

A reminder to read:

The best teacher of writing quality fiction for a new writer is to read fiction books of quality writing. The general reader reads for the story. The wanna-be writer (for want of a better description) reads for the style, word choice, pace, development, etc. etc. He absorbs it by osmosis, sometimes unconsciously until he puts pen to page.

Here are a couple of great SHOW and TELL lessons:

Thought I’d drop a couple of examples to demonstrate the difference between SHOW and TELL and improved word usage (diction).

Tell: His father’s words to comfort his wife were as meaningless and ineffective as a sprinkler bottle used to put out a house fire, and she wasn’t buying it.

Show: His father’s assurances had the effect of a sprinkler bottle used to put out a house fire, and his mother turned her head to stare out the window.

Do you see that you don’t have to tell the reader that the character’s wife wasn’t buying it when her action speaks for her. Also, assurances is a more specific word than words and implies comfort.

To avoid telling, try using internal monologue to establish character and show action. Emilia’s passage is a great place to employ that technique. Have her observe and speak to herself in teenage-ese in her thoughts, not as an author observer.

“What are you doing, Emilia?”

He knows very well what I’m doing, Emilia thought. It was now or never. He didn’t care about her as the daughter of Jake and Carmen. He didn’t care about her parents. He cared about her. Her!

Another lesson on SHOW and TELL, this one urging that we must find balance.

I thought I’d pass on this element of expression that seems right up your descriptive alley. As you know, the cardinal rule of fiction writing is SHOW, don’t TELL, but I take a little umbrage with that edict because “telling” can pack a wallop of detail without the writer having “to show.”

Example: The hurricanic force of the Hamilton family made landfall before the Wilson residence one day earlier than expected. As Margaret watched from her living room window, four children, one a screaming baby in her mother’s arms and the others in a loud physical scrape, two barking dogs, and a bedraggled set of parents, also involved in a heated exchange, piled out of a luggage-filled car on her front drive.

“Oh, dear,” thought Margaret, thinking of all the un-battened down treasures in the house.

That is an example of telling, not showing, but is there any doubt about the pleasure these guests will be or the reception they will receive? The ordinary writer would have written:

The Wilson family arrived a day early, much to the consternation of their hostess.

That is an example of telling also, but it is as limp as wilted lettuce. Of course, showing is most always preferred, but occasionally you can work humor, sadness, joy, etc. in the process of telling.

I asked her where her ideas came from one day:

I always begin with the first line and let the story develop from there. Truly, I don’t have a clue about what will happen or where the story will go. One of these days I might write myself into an inescapable corner, but so far that has not happened.

Example: One day I wrote: The call he’d been expecting for twenty-two years came at midnight when the residents of Harbison House were fast asleep.

That became Tumbleweeds.

Toward the end of her life, while she was in the hospital, she put a bookend on our work together, and I cherish her words with all of me:

You don’t need me anymore, Boo. You have arrived. Your characters are powerful and unforgettable, your voice strong and confident, your tone honest and true. Some of your written expression is still a bit rough around the edges, which will smooth out in time. I mention it only because in addition to being a great storyteller, which you already are, your goal is to become a great writer of prose. You will have to watch out for descriptions which we say and are easily understood in conversation but must be spelled out in writing.

Example: Her dark chocolate hair was pulled back, a few strays floating free up front. A good editor would correct it thusly: floating around her face. Her forehead was painted . . . An editor would suggest: Her forehead shone with a fine sheen of sweat.

But no matter. What reader but another author would notice?

I have only these words to leave you. I do not know what your religious affiliation is, but I cannot imagine a wine grower who writes of mountains not believing in a supreme being. So if you are one of us who believe that all talent is a divine gift with which we are entrusted, never lose sight of that fact. It will keep you humble and grateful, confident but not full of yourself. You can take credit and should for enlarging and developing the talent, the discipline, patience, and sacrifice to “get the words right,” but there it stops. I know authors who swagger while they’re sitting down, they are so proud of what they believe to be solely their doing. The truly great writers know the source of their wellspring, and that is why the world will remember them.

Vaya con dios, my friend. Don’t forget that I am here, and stay in touch.

Leila

Her last letter to me. July, from the hospital, in between chemo treatments, two months before she passed:

In beauty of expression, an author must be careful not to “overwrite.” Simple, clear imagery will do. For instance, if you will pardon my cheek in using an example from my own current writing, I use the phrase, “In the rubble of his despair, two realities were glaringly clear.” No need to go into the character’s “feelings” at that moment, a tendency many writers indulge in trying to be “literary.” Better to stick to craftsmanship.

The “overwriting” that gets to me is the attempt at metaphoric expressions that do not work, such as “his white hair stood up in the wind like dancing girls in hula skirts.” Dear me. You’d be surprised who wrote that.

Stay well, my dear.

I am in tears now, feeling all kinds of gratitude. Wait, she’d say the tears are enough to indicate gratitude. What a teacher, all the way to the end and beyond. Leila, if you’re listening, your aftershocks still rumble.

Dear writer, I hope you found a few nuggets of wisdom in my communication with Leila. As we chase our literary dreams, honing our storytelling and prose skills, may we also realize our potential as goodhearted humans while we’re at it. I believe the latter is required if we’re ever to lay down the story we’re meant to tell. When you hit the big time, the object of bidding wars and movie options, may you remember to pay it forward, because as solitary as this profession can be, it takes an army of support to carry us forward.

Stay well, my dears!

Boo

(This article was originally shared via Writer Unboxed.)

I am here today to fill that hole. That’s right, boo walker, the literary 3M Bondo wood filler that you didn’t know you needed.

Twenty years ago, when Apple came out with the @mac and @me email addresses, you were given the ability to create aliases. On a whim, I grabbed jenniferaniston@mac(dot)com. I thought it would be funny if I made Jennifer my writer’s assistant and sent emails from that email address, something like:

Here’s where it gets weird, if it hasn’t already. Ever since, once or twice a month, inmates from various prisons around the U.S. have been writing to that address, most often suggesting in various ways that they and Jennifer would make a good couple or that they would love a chance to audition for her next project. It’s always official correspondence coming through the actual prison communication system, the latest of which was requesting a collect call. Yes, on occasion, I have responded. That’ll be a story for another day. Anyway, her popularity with those behind bars sends my mind in all sorts of places.

How tough it must be to be a celebrity on that level. Can you imagine? Also, I wonder if there’s a story there (because I’m always wondering this). What if an inmate reached out to me, the uber-minor celebrity boo walker, and it turned into an interesting tale where we start chatting, then I’m part of a jailbreak, then running for my life, then imprisoned for a crime I didn’t commit? Yikes.

There you go, a peak behind the curtain of an especially looney boo as I approach the final days of my deadline. I hope it was good for a laugh or at least a widening of the eyes. Here’s looney boo in person if you don’t believe me.

With that silliness out of the way, let’s get to the good stuff.

Books.

I’ve leapt into Elif Shirak’s The Island of Missing Trees, and it starts out with a wondrous passage that I had to share. I’d kept hearing that she’s a wonderful writer, and there’s no denying it.

Here’s how her novel opens up:

Once upon a memory, at the far end of the Mediterranean Sea, there lay an island so beautiful and blue that the many travellers, pilgrims, crusaders and merchants who fell in love with it either wanted never to leave or tried to tow it with hemp ropes all the way back to their own countries.

Legends, perhaps.

But legends are there to tell us what history has forgotten.

It has been many years since I fled that place on board a plane, inside a suitcase made of soft black leather, never to return. I have since adopted another land, England, where I have grown and thrived, but not a single day passes that I do not yearn to be back. Home. Motherland.

It must still be there where I left it, rising and sinking with the waves that break and foam upon its rugged coastline. At the crossroads of three continents– Europe, Africa, Asia—and the Levant, that vast and impenetrable region, vanished entirely from the maps of today.

A map is a two-dimensional representation with arbitrary symbols and incised lines that decide who is to be our enemy and who is to be our friend, who deserves our love and who deserves our hatred and who, our sheer indifference.

Cartography is another name for stories told by winners.

How remarkable is that, right? That whole idea of maps deciding who we love and war with. Oh, my. Brilliant. But! I’m having a bit of an issue.

I’m only fifty pages in and was not prepared to welcome one of the narrators, a fig tree. When I first came upon that jarring POV, I was caught off guard, then this morning, I was slightly perturbed, unable to suspend my disbelief. You have to lean in if you’re going to believe a tree has a voice. I sipped my coffee and wondered if I had it in me—if I had the interest—to follow a tree throughout the story.

I ultimately decided that I needed to give it a chance, that my hesitation is nothing but a lack of imagination. I need to remove my blinders and let the fantasy swoop me up and away.

I’ll keep going and see what happens. Of course, I was okay with the dog in The Art of Racing in the Rain. I wrote from a ghost’s perspective in Before We Say Goodbye. Why not a tree?

Elif, if you’re reading this, my own words are not worthy of the flies buzzing ‘round your leftovers, so please don’t take offense to my hesitation.

Movies.

I have a gem of a film for you. Never would I have known about it had my adventurous, sometimes-too-artsy-with-her-taste wife not pushed it upon my son and me. I’m so glad she did. Trust me on this one. If your heart needs a warm blanket, if your soul needs a boost, here’s your ticket. Hunt for the Wilderpeople is on Amazon right now.

Music.

I have so many new discoveries but holding back so as not to overwhelm you. I’ve just learned of Brooklyn-based Big Crown Records, who is putting out amazing soul music. Have a taste here with Mr. Lee Fields. Some call him Little JB, referring to James Brown. Crank that and see if you don’t feel a rumble in your bones.

Let’s go down a totally different lane. Ever since being introduced to him in music school at the College of Charleston, I have adored the composer Philip Glass. His music pounds my heart. So I jumped on monster pianist Simone Dinnerstein and Baroklyn’s new release called Hourglass. Put that in your ears and smoke it. Here’s a taste of the first track, but I encourage you to take in the entire album. If you listen, like really listen, these musical geniuses will draw tears.

Stunning, right?

I’m two days away from sending my work-in-progress to a group of fearless beta-readers, then I’m stepping away for a reboot. School’s almost out, and we’re popping down to Mexico for some sun and sand and reading. So much reading. Any suggestions?

If you don’t hear from me for a couple of weeks, all’s well. Just plugging myself in for a charge. If you’re bored, drop me a line and let me know your plans for the summer. This isn’t a one-way street!

Much love,

boo

Never before have I had my arse kicked by a piece like this one. I can’t believe how much it took out of me, weeks of pondering and re-working, and I’m super proud of how it turned out. It’s not just for you writers; it’s for anyone who wants a look behind the curtain. And there may be mention of a new Red Mountain novel!

You can read/listen to it on Substack, or find the 53-minute audio version via my Drowning in Words podcast on Apple or Spotify.

Okay, we all know what Godwinks are, right? They’re the tiny miracles occurring all around us—should we choose to take notice, those whispers from the mystic that assure us that we’re not alone. Allow me to share how the following collection of art tied together for me this morning as breathtaking evidence of a grand design. I feel touched by the divine and hoping I can pass it along.

Books.

I’m not quite done talking about The Dog Stars by Peter Heller. May I share one of the many passages that knocked me to my knees. Here goes…

I stood in the shade of the tree in the cool breath of the moving water and let the sound, the light breeze blow through me. I was a shell. Empty. Put me to your ear and you would hear the distant rush of a ghost ocean. Just nothing. The slightest pressure of current or tide could push and roll me. I would wash up. Here on this bank, dry out and bleach and the wind would scour and roughen me, strip away the thinnest layers until I was brittle and the thickness of paper. Until I crumbled into sand. That’s how I felt. I’d say it was a relief to have at last nothing, nothing, but I was too hollow to register relief, too empty to carry it.

I really didn’t give a shit what this old bastard did to me. Nothing to lose is so empty, so light, that the sand you crumble to at last blows away in a gust, so insubstantial it’s carried upwards to shirr into the sandstorm of the stars. That’s where we all get to. The rest is just wearing thin waiting for wind.

C’mon! That is fire, folks. That is why I read.

I came away from this novel feeling so grateful for what I have, as it’s such a reminder that it can all go away in a moment.

Film.

Check out the movie trailer to The Dog Stars. Or maybe wait until you’ve read it first. I don’t know that Ridley Scott can do wrong. It’s gonna be a scorcher of a film. And that cast: Jacob Elordi, Josh Brolin, and Margaret Qualley!

Music.

I mentioned one of my fave bands, Bleachers, had a new album coming out. It’s here, and it’s marvelous. I only just learned in preparing to share with you today that Jack Antenoff, the muscle behind Bleachers, is married to Margaret Qualley, who is the aforementioned star of The Dog Stars. How about them apples?

Not only that, she’s the daughter of Andie MacDowell (Groundhog Day), who you know and who just so happens to have been born right down the road from where I grew up in South Carolina. God winks for days!!! Don’t you just love when you plug into the dazzling interconnected web of creative wonder?

Can I throw a cherry on top? Here’s one of the marvelous tunes from the new album. Notice the banjo? I just did as I pulled up the video. You might know my first gig was playing banjo in Nashville. I can’t stand it, guys. All I want to be is wrapped up in this holy web.

Let’s leave it there, right? I’m six weeks from deadline and stoked to bring Salvation Isle to you next year. I know, that seems like a long time. At least The English Bookstore in Bologna is coming in hot, only two months away!

Much love,

boo

We’ve covered opening yourself up to a new story, sowing those seeds, and allowing them to take root. Let’s skip ahead, assume you have a story idea, and talk about sketching out the beats, aka, plotting.

This one’s not only for writers. It’s for any curious souls who want to pull back the curtain on the creative process.

You know that Dos Equis commercial featuring the most interesting man in the world? He says, “I don’t always drink beer, but when I do, I drink Dos Equis.” Well, I don’t always outline, but when I do, here’s an idea of what’s running through my head.

Don’t fear. Following my suggestions below and attempting to hammer out a plot before you start writing doesn’t mean you have to be a plotter for the rest of your life. An outline isn’t going to bite…hard. Stephen King, an infamous pantser, won’t put a hex on you. And you’re not losing the magic by engaging the analytical part of your brain.

I can’t stand the idea that we authors feel a need to jab our flag into one camp, either plotter or pantser. Do whatever the project calls for, whatever’s pulling you. Yes, I pantsed the first half of Salvation Isle, and it was a wonderful ride, but with the new project I just started, the fourth in my Red Mountain series, I wanted to outline as much as I could. And I’ll explain why shortly.

Both plotting and pantsing have wonderful merits.

Pantsers, those who write by the seat of their pants sans outline, thrive on discovery. They have the joy of spelunking into a dark cave with only a headlight, seeing only what’s right ahead of them. It can be scary and surprising and a ton of fun too. It’s as if you’re enjoying the story in real time as you tell it. Also, it’s a thrill to simply start typing and see what appears on the page.

Plotters, on the other hand, can set their story up in a way that might lead to a cleaner first draft. They can take time to weave in layers of complexity that pantsers won’t get to till later on. They have a plot that is likely already adhering to the theme and advancing the character’s growth in a steady arc. The obstacles are presented with precise escalation. And so on…

One could argue that plotters are faster at arriving at a publishable story. I’m trying to squeeze this Red Mountain book in between two other contracted books that have fixed deadlines, meaning timing is of the essence.

Plotting can make tackling a more complicated structure easier. In the case of my Red Mountain stories, I typically have three to five points of view. Pantsing that kind of spread can tax boo’s CPU to the point of a short-circuit, and nobody needs to see boo short-circuit.

Lastly, I’ve found that having an outline makes it far more difficult to get bogged down by writer’s block. I heard someone say once that writer’s block only happens when you don’t know where you’re going. How true!

Did you notice I’m part of both camps? I just wanted to see my name next to all those masters, though I couldn’t allow myself any capitalization. I’m a plantser: bi-curious, non-partisan, and plotsexual. I suggest you be the same. Change it up. Don’t get comfortable—or else your muse will get bored and go find someone younger and thirstier for words.

Though it’s always changing, I prefer the middle ground. I hammer out an idea of where I want to go—sometimes a heavily detailed plan, other times a couple of paragraphs expanding on the premise—but always set out on my story journey welcoming distractions. An ADHD joy ride toward the climax of the story. Even the best plotters make room for their imagination to grab the wheel. You can’t know all the places a story wants to go till you’re submerged, wearing your character’s skin, hearing their dialogue, feeling their feels, seeing the plot whiz by in real time.

Here’s a good place to defend a misconception about plotting. Pantsers love to rub in the face of plotters how boring it would be to miss out on the joy of discovering the twists and turns along with the character. Plotters can do this too. If you spend long enough prepping your story, figuring out your characters, and then pushing through the beats, you can absolutely play discovery games.

Don’t be afraid to get dirty.

Here’s the truth of it. If you really want to outline properly, giving yourself the tools you need to start writing without pausing for a month, then you need to get dirty. You need to get into the head and skin of each character, get into the specifics of each obstacle. You have to answer all the questions lingering as you watch your people run around in this world you’re building, and as you toss out plot ideas to keep them moving. Free write, research, play the “what if” game, find pics of your characters, speak out loud with their accents, create their family tree, draw out settings, go on long walks to consider all possibilities. Whatever it takes to bring the story to life in your mind.

Choose your weapon.

Now, choose your weapon of choice: whiteboard, chalkboard, sand on the beach, index cards on the floor, Scrivener corkboard, Excel (ugh, nooooo! Though I use Excel at times, it feels a little corporate to me).

Naturally, I suggest changing it up. I’ve tried everything I can think of. Stretch those outlining muscles.

During a recent rage-filled episode with Scrivener (which I’m back to loving, by the way), I discovered Plottr. The guys over there were kind enough to offer a subscription, and I committed to using it for this Red Mountain book.

It’s a wonderful tool, cleaner and more elastic than Scrivener’s corkboard. In fact, I’m already thinking that with future books I’ll use Plottr for outlining and Scrivener for character/setting organization and drafting. I’m forced to use Microsoft Word once I start working with my editing team, but I like to stay in Scrivener as long as possible while writing.

No matter your tool, here are the basics that I find important. Of course, talk to me in two years, and I’ll likely have an entirely different process.

With Plottr, I can create as many rows of blank boxes as I’d like, but you can apply this to any tool you’re using, including a good ol’ fashioned notebook. Blank boxes are your index cards. They give you enough space to fill out the crucial information. What’s most important to me, whether I go physical or digital, is that the index cards are moveable, so I can arrange and rearrange them as I massage my plot.

Creating empty boxes.

First, I decide on a timeline. Will it stretch over the course of a summer or span a decade or more? The first step is to create a row of boxes that show rough dates. For Red Mountain Calling, it starts in March and ends around November. Locking that down early on is huge.

Then, I create another row of boxes that’s dedicated to larger events in the story. It didn’t take me long to realize that if I follow the yearly pattern of my Red Mountain stories, this one kicks off in March of 2020, right when COVID arrived. In this timeline, I mark down factual dates such as when restaurants and hotels closed, when the hospitals started spilling over. I also might mark some important dates related to the wine year, like when budbreak takes place, when winegrowers pick their white and red grapes. And whatever other dates apply to the story. I’ll also insert important dates from my fictional universe too. For example, I know a very bad thing will happen on the mountain, and it will affect every character. That goes here too.

I create yet another timeline to sketch out the classic beats in any story, like the catalyst, the midpoint, etc. More on these later.

Now, the good stuff. The beats for our characters. As mentioned, I have a few different storylines going (only do this if you have a death wish), so I create a row of empty boxes for each of my POV characters.

And here comes the author crisis…

I created all these boxes, then just stared and stared and stared.

My seventeenth book, and I felt as much like a newbie as I ever had. I beat myself up for a while, sped down Impostor Syndrome Boulevard, even had the urge to forget my grand idea of prepping and just start writing, but I ultimately held strong to my outlining commitment and took a step back.

I had a sense of how each of the characters was starting out, but I wasn’t quite sure where they were going, so I decided to pull a few craft books geared toward outlining off my shelf. Thumbing through them knocked some wonderful ideas loose, but then I got super frustrated. I noticed that one book disagreed with another, and I found myself wondering if I was reading them wrong and which path to take and who to side with and…

Stop overthinking, Boo. That’s what I told myself. Everything you need is between your ears—and behind your ribcage.

That’s the issue with craft books. I adore them. Hell, I’m writing the first in a series of them! But the user must understand that they offer one way to do things, which is super helpful, but we can’t get pulled into thinking there’s only one way, that there are specific guardrails we must follow. I’ve already talked about Theo of Golden breaking rules. A totally static character without an arc and arguably last year’s favorite in the book world. How about Daniel Kraus winning the Pulitzer with his novel Angel Down? It’s one big sentence! I bet you I can find umpteen billion craft books telling you how to structure your sentences and not one of them will encourage a sentence that stretches for 304 pages.

With these how-to books, we can learn how other writers think, but then we must set ourselves free to make and break our own rules.

In the end, I’m looking to do two things:

1. Chase an idea that brings me joy as I usher it to life

2. Entertain my readers and hopefully make their lives a little better

The first is easy. Write from your soul. Write for yourself. Do not write to prove that you matter to those around you. Do not write because you want to be known as a writer.

The second requires work, but the good news is that the vast majority of readers out there don’t care how strictly you follow the rules. They wouldn’t even know to notice. They care about being pulled in by an interesting character that’s going through something intriguing. They care about pacing. This day and age, we’re competing with other forms of media that are more easily distracting, so we can’t let them get bored.

My point is that you don’t need to ever read one craft book. Just like musicians don’t need to know theory. I was a music major in college because I adore seeing under the hood. Same for story. But by no means are how-to theories required to create a masterpiece. All that said, studying the craft can be a tremendous joy and learning some tricks can save you from reinventing the wheel.

Before I return to the topic at hand, let me say while smashing my fist down on the podium that the far more important piece to your growth is consuming stories, including those that don’t quite work. Books, movies, poems, songs, television shows. Do that enough, and you’ll know what to do once you get started with your own. You’ll build an instinctual sense of pacing, of how characters grow, of how good dialogue works, of how to capture the audience.

Putting my books back on the shelf, I ultimately returned to this idea that it’s all in my head and my heart. Let my instincts steer.

What followed was tremendous.

What is a story?

Before we drill into the specifics, let’s hammer out what we consider a story. That’ll give us a better idea of how to build one.

With respect to plenty of exceptions (hello again, Theo of Golden), a story, or at least my stories, have a flawed character(s) who change as the plot progresses. Typically they want something (even an inkling of the vaguest something, internal or external) but obstacles get in the way. By the end, whether they achieve their goal or not, they have positively or negatively changed, the latter of which can lead to a pretty sad story. Regarding Theo of Golden, the protagonist didn’t change but the cast around him did, which is a glorious example of how the rules are here to be bent and broken.

Here’s another simple distillation I like apropos story, attributed to playwright George Abbott:

Part one, you get a likable guy up a tree.

Part two, you throw rocks at him.

Part three, you get him down.

That’s all you need to pound out a story, amigos, but let’s add a few other ideas in.

Cause and effect.

Your story needs to flow, and the best way is getting most of your plot points to lead into the next. In other words, unless you’re shaking it up, maybe don’t construct a story with a bunch of random scenes. That’ll take you into episodic territory. Your scenes need to flow into each other by cause and effect.

I can’t go further without mentioning the “but/therefore rule” brought to the writing world by the creators of South Park. Trey Parker and Matt Stone would make sure each scene was tied together with “but” or “therefore,” instead of “and” or “then.” Try that and see how much more interesting your story becomes.

I’ll have this concept in my head while plotting, then revisit it when I go over it later. Make the story easy for your reader.

The premise/theme as the spine.

Most scenes should (should is such a bad word!) be connected to the overall premise and theme of your book. To me, the premise is the basic concept, your elevator pitch, and the theme is what you’re trying to say, the underlying currents running between the words. Don’t overthink them and let the definitions of each hang loosely, no matter who tries to tell you exactly what they are.

As you fill out the empty boxes in your outline, stay true to your premise and theme. If your teacher gave you an assignment to write a collection of elephant poems, don’t cram in a tiger poem just because you like stripes.

For all my Red Mountain novels, I’ve held onto this premise: a cast of colorful characters in a small wine-growing region fights for life, love, and belonging. The themes have to do with working together for a grander cause, finding meaning in life, learning to love yourself and others—despite the ugly bits. See what I mean by keeping it loose? Notice how I didn’t just stick to one? This is my party; I can do whatever I want.

I consider these ideas with each plot decision. I’ll even create a micro-premise (and maybe a related theme) for each POV character, which falls under the main premise umbrella.

On structure.

I have a flexible structure concept that I’ve been tweaking for years that includes a few beats that always find a way into my stories—and most stories. I mentioned creating such a timeline earlier.

All of my novels so far reflect the hero’s journey, as brought to us by Joseph Campbell. Go read Christopher Vogler’s The Writer’s Journey for the best way to understand it. You’ll also find I adhere to a three-act structure, the second act being split in two by a midpoint. Thank you Aristotle and Syd Field, among others.

Along with marking each act and midpoint, I have some other essential beats: the opening scene, the setup, the call to adventure/catalyst, character breaking into Act II, midpoint, dissolution/crisis/dark night (my fave), the awakening, the charge leading into Act III, and the final scene, which might hark back to the opening. These are just story basics, beats that I recognize in nearly every book, tv show, and movie I consume, and they come out of me instinctually.

With my multiple POV books, I try to have the characters grow in roughly parallel fashion, meaning that each POV character’s big moments, such as the dissolution, happens around the same time.

Because I have my timeline, knowing that Red Mountain starts in March and ends in October (at least for now) I can guesstimate where the beats will land. The midpoint will be in June. The beginning of Act III will land in September.

Know your characters.

Before we fill this growing collection of boxes, know your people. What are they dealing with? What is their flaw? How’d they get so damaged? What is the wound that led them to this place where they need a story to grow? Why am I telling their story? How are they going to change? What are their worst nightmares?

Once you can answer these questions, nail down what they want. As I say over and over, their desire can be anything. ANYTHING. Don’t let anyone tell you it has to be a measurable external goal. Most craft books will push this idea on you. Yes, that’s one way to do it, and it just so happens to be an easier way, but there are tons of stories out there proving the options are endless. The desires can be internal or external or both. They can be concrete, such as going after a promotion or solving a murder, or they can be absolutely vague, such as a pursuit of happiness or simply a will to get by every day.

It’s just nice to have something in mind, so that you can throw obstacles at them. That’s your story.

I’ll write out what each character wants, then brainstorm all the possible obstacles that could get in the way. You’ll see this in action down below.

This can be the most fun of the whole project. Don’t hold back, write down anything. Then pick and choose your favorites, especially considering what challenges will be most germane to the story at hand.

If you’re really good, you can organize them in a way where each obstacle is more daunting than the next. In other words, start by throwing rocks at your character, then bricks, then daggers, then pull out your gun. But prove me wrong. Start with the biggest monster and end with a tiny bang.

Once you have a list of challenges, start filling out boxes. Your character goes after what he wants, runs into an obstacle, which causes him to recalibrate. Perhaps he’s knocked back a few steps, but he pushes forward. Once he gets past one obstacle, throw the next at him. Your story is coming alive.

At this point, it’s good to remember that your character is growing. He will try to solve his issues in unenlightened ways in the beginning. By the midpoint, however, we should expect that he’s grown and has a sense that he must change before he can truly realize his internal and/or external goal(s). Bake that into your scenes. Think about how someone who has grown might face the same obstacles he faced earlier on.

Putting things into practice with my WIP.

To show you this thinking in action, let’s get granular and look at one of my characters. Otis Till is one of the stars of my Red Mountain series. He’s had a ton of flaws over the course of the series, so I needed to come up with something more creative.

In the last Red Mountain, Red Mountain Burning, Otis left the mountain, but now he feels this desperate need to return. His flaw has to do with feeling like Red Mountain can’t continue without him. He can’t relinquish control even after being gone for a year, and he feels as if he doesn’t matter unless he’s a part of it. His journey will be about returning to Red Mountain and trying to clumsily save the mountain and its inhabitants, only to realize that he must stop white-knuckling and let go.

Here’s a workable micro-premise: an elder winemaker of Red Mountain must find his new place on the sidelines if he is to go into his seventies with a sense of peace.

No promises if that will stick, but it’s a good start. As I hammered out his beats, I only allowed material that hit on that premise. His call to adventure comes to him as a dream; he wakes knowing that he must return to the mountain. His Act II begins when he sets out to drive back from Miami to Washington state.

The Ending.

What I find very important in outlining is getting a sense of the ending. I don’t always have a clear vision, but even a taste helps. Maybe one specific detail or a scene where I see him awakening, see him defeating his monsters. You take his flaw—his issue—which in this case is not trusting that Red Mountain can thrive without him, and ask what his overcoming it might look like.

Let’s assume that he can finally let go of his leadership position and become a sideman on the Red Mountain stage. That possibility leads me to believe that as he returns to Red Mountain, he’ll first try to micromanage everyone, driving everyone mad as he tries to get the mountain back on track. By the end though, I keep seeing him settling on a piece of land on the backside of Red Mountain and being happy in a simpler state, laying down his arms, like a retired general. That gives me a pretty good idea of some beats that I can add into his timeline.

The Arc.

Regarding Otis’s growth throughout: in the beginning, he’s desperately missing Red Mountain and sure that if he doesn’t get back, the mountain will fall apart and everything he’s worked for, for many years, will prove to be a waste. It’s gonna get ugly in the first part of Act II as he tries to save everyone.

But around the midpoint, he might realize that he can’t save everyone, that it’s not about him anyway. He’s just one of the cogs in the wheel. Still, that won’t be easy, especially when he feels like everyone around him is drowning.

The second part of the book will be about him coming to truly believe that he has to let go and that the mountain and its inhabitants will be okay without him carrying every bit of the weight. Along with the external story, the internal story kicks into a higher gear. What all these troubles are really about is his ongoing grief for his sons, wishing he’d done more for them, feeling like he failed them.

See how this thinking can help you refine your story beats as the story moves along?

Sketching out desires and obstacles.

He wants to save and protect Red Mountain and its inhabitants. Things that could get in the way:

• COVID - a huge issue for the food and bev and hospitality industries. So many ways to go. Restaurants can’t buy wine; no one is visiting the tasting rooms. And what about people on the mountain getting sick?

• Otis sold his land and is homeless. He wants nothing more than to make wine again, but there’s no land for sale.

• A time-traveling gladiator challenges him to a to-the-death brawl. Nah, that’s not germane. But it would be fun!

• A new bad guy. How about the son of a bad guy in a previous novel? Ah, yes.

• Brooks, his mentee and closest person he has to a living son, is struggling both emotionally and with the vineyard he bought from Otis, but Brooks doesn’t want his help.

• Brooks has not taken on the leadership role on the mountain, so the community is warring with each other. There is no common vision.

• A new pest or disease that could affect the vines.

• Otis’s or his partner’s health become compromised, outside of the COVID threat.

I could go on forever. Once I have a good list, then I can pick through for favorites, organize by escalation, and then see how they would play out over the course of the story. Each one could be a whole story if I wanted. There you go, more cards to fill out!

Other scenes that need a home.

Another way to fill in the empty boxes is to capture any random scenes that might be floating around in your head. I always have a few ideas that will happen somewhere, but I’m not sure where. I’ll just plug them in as best I can.

For example, a scene with Otis howling at the moon naked is a sure bet at some point; it’s a part of who he is and a reader favorite.

I know that Otis needs to have a fight with his mentee, Brooks, which will crush him as he feels like he’s letting down yet another son. The ultimate way for that to climax is for Brooks to shout that he doesn’t need him. That will knock Otis down to the studs. Which means that’s likely a good dark night of the soul spot, the place where the worst things happen.

Also, I know that there will be a scene where Otis gives Brooks some very powerful advice; I’ve already written down the dialogue. I put that somewhere on the timeline towards the end, and again, I can shift it later.

I mentioned plotters can insert some complexity into early drafts. Here’s an example:

Say we know something about the end, such as Otis and Brooks’s inevitable fight. What can we do to layer in pieces that will make that fight hurt more? Considering their father/son relationship, I will definitely thread in early on Otis’s grieving for his dead sons, and I’ll make it clear how much it hurts that he let them down. I’ll also make sure the reader sees that he considers Brooks a son from the early chapters. And I’ll gradually build the tension between the two men all the way through. By the time the big fight happens, it should be inevitable. Pantsers can’t always do that as easily.

Every POV character needs such attention.

Follow this process with each of your POV characters. You can even do it to important non-POV characters. It can only enrich your story.

As you go, consider the other characters and how they will interact with each other.

There will be a scene where Brooks refuses to let Otis taste his wines, as he’s ashamed. That will impact Otis, but it’s certainly a big internal issue with Brooks. I need to choose where that scene will fall as far as point of view. And I know it’ll happen early in Act II.

Brooks’s moment of dissolution will certainly tie in with the scene when he shouts at Otis and tells him he doesn’t need him. That’ll be both of their low points.

Because that scene applies to both of them, I will have to decide which POV will cover it best. Unless we see it from both POVs, I can remove the block from one of their timelines to simplify.

Now what?

Once I have a general beat sketch of each of the characters, I go back and visit the important beats. Where does the midpoint fall? I’m hoping that the midpoint of each of the characters will fall closely to each other. I like that, similar to how the climaxes all come together. In fact, if I can, I’d like all of them to experience their climaxes in the same room. That’s not always the case, but it serves the reader well if you can pull it off.

Once you’ve done your best, take a day or two, then revisit. Follow the story though the beats. Is there a natural cause and effect flow? Does it escalate in tension? Is there a proper payoff? Does the character grow in a nice arc?

And then…

There is a time when you must start writing, and so much reveals itself only then. The plot that you created needs to be incredibly fluid. If you’re suddenly in your character’s head and something doesn’t feel right, go in a different direction. Let the character and your intuition steer.

Typically I’ll go at it for a hundred pages until things start to feel like they’re falling off the tracks, and then I’ll pause and say, “okay, now that I’ve seen who these characters really are and what’s actually going on, once I’m immersed into the details of the story, I’m gonna spend a few days tweaking the beats.” I might have gotten their flaw wrong, perhaps guessed the wrong ending. And I will pivot.

Don’t be afraid to pivot, friends.

It’s not always pretty, the process. It shouldn’t be! We’re all hacking away, trying to find the pretty. Create a path, then start moving your fingers. Recalibrate the plan, then back to moving fingers. Do that over and over, and you will soon have a book in hand.

Hold on, that didn’t feel exciting enough. Do what I’m suggesting, and by Gods, you will defeat your demons, defy all odds, experience moments of blissful flow, and end up with a book in hand that has your name on the bloody cover!

God speed.

boo

The Red Mountain Chronicles

A book club fiction saga set in the eccentric wine community of eastern Washington — three novels plus two prequels that frame the love stories at its heart. Damaged characters, found family, vineyards, secrets, second chances. A Pulpwood Queens Book Club Selection. An Amazon Charts Bestseller. Over 50,000 reader reviews across the series.

The Prequels

A Marriage Well Done — Margot’s prequel. Margot abandoned Broadway for marriage. Now her husband is chasing a Senate seat — and she’s about to lose herself trying to save them both. Quirky, funny, devastating.

Before We Say Goodbye — Otis & Rebecca’s prequel. How Otis became Otis. The love story at the heart of Red Mountain — from Woodstock in 1969 to the vineyards of Sonoma to the desert of eastern Washington. Epic, devastating, true.

The Trilogy

Red Mountain — Book 1. Four lives intertwined like vines on the mountain: Otis the visionary winemaker, Margot the heartbroken innkeeper, Emilia the celebrity heiress, Brooks the orphan. And secrets that won’t stay buried.

Red Mountain Rising — Book 2. The mountain is threatened. Margot is online dating. Brooks is heartbroken. And a woman named Adriana arrives with a young son and a name she won’t give.

Red Mountain Burning — Book 3. The season when everything Otis built, Margot fought for, and Brooks survived all come due. Some fires temper. Others consume.

The Red Mountain Chronicles Box Set — Books 1–3 + A Marriage Well Done, in one collection. The cleanest entry point — and a great deal. (Note: Before We Say Goodbye is sold separately.)

Standalone novels (as Boo Walker)

The English Bookstore in Bologna — Coming August 2026. Bologna, Italy. Five expats — a prickly bookstore owner, her hopelessly optimistic employee, a psychotherapist running from her own self-help book, her father wrestling with retirement, and an awkward Denver barista recovering from his first heartbreak — find each other inside the city’s only English-language bookstore. Charming, funny, poignant.

An Unfinished Story — A widow finds her late husband’s unfinished novel — and asks a famous, hiding-from-the-world author to finish it. Neither of them was expecting what the manuscript would reveal.

The Singing Trees — Maine, 1969. A young Italian-American artist named Annalisa Mancuso fights her way out of a stifling factory town toward the New England art scene she’s been quietly dreaming of — until an Ivy League boy and the lie no one warned her about put everything at risk.

The Stars Don’t Lie — Vermont, twenty years after he swore he’d never go back. Veterinarian Carver Livingston returns to save his parents’ marriage — and runs straight into the high school soulmate he never got over and the English teacher who once saved his life.

A Spanish Sunrise — A widowed musician and his grieving eight-year-old daughter follow a surprise DNA result to a centuries-old olive oil estate in southern Spain — and find the family, the love, and the second chance neither of them knew they were looking for.

An Echo in Time — Charli Thurman has spent thirty years convinced her family is cursed. To break the cycle, she follows the threads of a centuries-old murder to Winchester, England — where an English pub owner with his own family history might know more than he’s letting on.

The Secrets of Good People — Co-written with Peggy Shainberg. Florida, 1970. A welcome party for newlyweds on a tiny island off Paradiso ends with the groom dead on the beach by morning. Detective Quentin Jones knows the killer is on his guest list — and one of the suspects is the blind sculptor he never stopped loving. A twisty whodunit.

The Stand-Alone Crime Thrillers (as Benjamin Blackmore)

Where I started. Two Charleston-set crime stories and a Pacific Northwest standalone.

Lowcountry Punch — DEA Agent T.A. “The Pretender” Reddick leaves Miami for Charleston and lands undercover in the cocaine trade rotting through high society.

Off You Go (a novella) — Dewey Moses — vegetable farmer, bluegrass musician, recovering alcoholic — takes the case nobody wants: why did a happy young woman jump from the Cooper River Bridge?

Once a Soldier — Ex-Special Forces, Pacific Northwest, AI singularity, a religious sect that thinks a scientist is playing God. Things move fast.

Not sure where to start? An Unfinished Story is my favorite. Or grab the Red Mountain Box Set if you’re the binge type. You can see all the covers here.

Want two books for free? Subscribe to my Substack, and I’ll send you A Marriage Well Done (the prequel novella) plus Red Mountain Recipes for the Body, Mind, and Spirit — the cookbook companion I made to go with the series.

Let’s start with the book world. Ridley Scott has made a film adaption of Peter Heller’s The Dog Stars, which is a post-apocalyptic book that’s been on my TBR pile for far too long. Years, in fact. I’m halfway through and so so into this book. He’s a tremendous writer, a sort of Hemingway-esque vibe, coarse and virile, but there’s a gentleness too. And his imagining of what happens after a flu kills most of the population will definitely keep you tearing through pages.

Have you read it? I know, I know. Surprise, boo is talking more about end-of-times books. Sorry, not sorry. The movie hits theaters in August, so plenty of time to read first. I highly endorse this wonderful novel.

Quick side story: director Ridley Scott’s television person reached out to me a few years back about adapting my Red Mountain series. That, my friends, was a wonderful day and an agonizing few weeks as we chatted a bit, and I waited for a big fat green light. Alas, nothing came of it, but that only means Red Mountain is waiting for a better time to find the screen. I feel it coming soon!

Are you watching Your Friends & Neighbors on HBO? What a show; what a cast! The second season is total fire, and I feel almost guilty as I delight in how toxic and unhinged this crew of Westchester, NY high-society misfits has become.

Now, music! As I mentioned, the Newport Jazz Festival is my spirit place, and I’m getting to know this summer’s lineup. I’d not heard of Gotts Street Park before, a jazzy soul group from Leeds, but they’ve climbed the boo charts in NASA fashion.

Check out some of their work with these killer female singers, Pip Millet and Celeste. For real, crank these tunes up and tell me if your soul doesn’t start dancing.

Yeah, that’s right. Doesn’t get much better than that. Celeste is going to be at Newport too, so I’m hoping they all share the stage together. Anyone else going?

Last and least, here’s what’s happening in my world. My mom and the one other wonderful person who listen to the audio versions of these missives will be over the moon to know that I recorded an into and outro with my acoustic guitar that will now be included on all further podcasts, starting with this one. Don’t fear, I’m not getting all professional. It’ll still be unedited and an unfiltered mess, but I just had an urge to write a couple of catchy jingles, what my friend Charlie has taught me is called bumper music. You can listen by hitting the play button above or via my Drowning in Words podcast on Spotify and Apple, which will have the latest episode up shortly.

My agent came back with edits for my work-in-progress, Salvation Isle, and she’s thrilled with what I’ve done. She’s most certainly lying, but it’s the encouragement I needed to take this baby home. I have a July 15th deadline and feeling beyond wonderful about this story. You have NO IDEA what’s coming.

For you writers and readers who like craft talk, I have some good ones on deck, so stay tuned.

Much love from Peaks and thanks for letting me share,

boo

I’m toying around with a new Red Mountain novel, and a new bad guy has surfaced…a real peach of a guy with cruel intentions. I’m plotting from his POV and pondering how I might destroy the mountain and its inhabitants. It’s slightly disturbing how much joy fueling my inner darkness is bringing out of me. Fingers steepled, maniacal cackle, while truly feeling into what it would be like to boil over with hatred, desperate to realize my revenge. My goodness, what a job, my friends. I’ll be doing this till they put me in the ground, or so I pray.

Anywho, I’m delighted to share a gift with you today.

I don’t know that I’ll ever love writing a character more than Whitaker Grant, the star of my 2020 novel, An Unfinished Story, and it was so nice to jump back into his head as I revisited a wacky acupuncture-gone-wrong scene that my editor and agent cut during the dev edits. How dare they!!

If you remember, the opening of the book is Whitaker headed to his nephew’s birthday party. Originally, he was off to meet his extended family at a community acupuncture clinic. I’d come up with the idea while going through the experience myself in St. Pete, Florida, and it so cracked me up. But I suppose it was a bit much for my team. Maybe they were right. What do you think?

If you choose to listen to me read the passage via the play button above or through my podcast feed on Apple or Spotify, apologies in advance for my abysmal accents!

Otherwise, here it is:

The Lost Chapter from An Unfinished Story

Whitaker’s mother, Sadie, ushered the extended family—the whole crazy bunch of them—inside the doors of the community acupuncture clinic, where they were all to join together in a collective holistic experience. In other words, they were paying actual money to sit together, which was torture enough, and have some hippie jab them with needles. Who in God’s name would have ever thought of such a business?

The youthfully enthusiastic receptionist passed out clipboards of paperwork, and someone from each household scribbled in silence. Whitaker finished first and approached the large world map on the wall, thinking of all the places he’d rather be. Guantanamo. Syria. Stuck in northern Virginia traffic. A funeral. He’d even rather be facing his computer and trying to work through the first draft of his new project, which was still nothing more than a blank screen. A protagonist simply floating around in his head, not offering a plot, a point, simply knocking around like a pinball, each ping reminding Whitaker that he’d never amount to anything more than what he’d accomplished with his first book.

Eventually, the receptionist led them through a beaded door into the next room for treatment. With spa music setting the mood, the Grant family took seats in the blanket-covered recliners at the far end, as far away from the other clients as possible. Whitaker settled in his chair and glanced at the rest of his family, who were fiddling with the wooden handles on the sides, finding their most comfortable positions.

A dainty man with a long thin braid and a bounce in his step approached them and introduced himself as Damon, the acupuncturist. “Have you all been here before?” He had the warm and gentle disposition of Mr. Rogers and could break into song at any moment. Where were Big Bird and Kermit?

Sadie took charge and squealed, “Just me!” Whitaker had to give it to her. Her optimism was almost infectious, though more than forty years of evidence otherwise assured a less than desirable outcome.

Whitaker, on the other hand, could barely contain his urge to leave. Nevertheless, in the spirit of “family time,” he kicked off his flip-flops, sat back, and listened to their practitioner’s short spiel.

Damon ended with, “Everyone sit back, close your eyes, and relax. I’ll get to you one at a time. You can hang around as long as you’d like. Please, no talking. When you’re finished, raise your hand and I’ll come to you.”

Whitaker raised his hand. “Too soon?”

When the acupuncturist looked toward him, Whitaker flashed a happy rack of teeth.

Sadie swung a Popeye arm in the air and said (for perhaps the thousandth time this decade), “Witty Whitaker strikes again!”

The rest of the family laughed dutifully and uncomfortably. Whitaker didn’t dare look at his father, but he could feel the headshake of disappointment. No man could say more in an entire monologue than Jack Grant could say with this dominating gesture. The only thing they had in common, other than the toxic DNA, was their equal desire to get this over with as quickly as possible.

Attempting to push aside his daddy problems, Whitaker closed his eyes. Every few minutes, he’d take a quick peek to see Damon moving his cart of needles down the line, working his way from one family member to the next. There might have been some mild pleasure in watching his siblings get jabbed.

When it was finally Whitaker’s turn, Damon pushed the cart his way and asked in a whisper, “How can I help today? What’s wrong?”

Whitaker looked at the shiny needles on the cart and cracked into a laugh. “I’m mentally deranged, depressed, and suffering from severe tension all over my body. Not to mention father issues.” He not so subtly pointed at Jack, who glared at him from ten feet away with dark and angry eyes that were always shaded by his veteran cap.

“And my creative constipation could be likened to that of an old man who hasn’t taken a proper shit in a week. My spine consistently feels like it’s about to snap at any moment, and—hmmm. My wife left. I’m stuck in one-hit wonderland and can’t seem to…. How long do you have? You’re going to need more needles.”

Damon offered a sweet smile. “Let’s start with the tension in the shoulders.”

“Great idea.”

Ten minutes later, Whitaker was doing his best to relax. Had he been by himself, he might have thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but something about relaxing and family didn’t mix well.

Breaking the silence of the room, Jack whispered to Whitaker, “How’s the new job?”

“It’s… it’s a job. It’s fine.”

Someone in the family shushed them, but Jack plowed forward. “You’re still advising?”

“Yep.”

Jack chuckled. “What kind of world do we live in where Whitaker Grant advises people on anything? Jesus, when I grew up, you had to be good at your job or you failed. What in God’s name do you know about financial advising?”

“Am I supposed to answer that?” Whitaker wondered if he could pluck the needle from his forearm and send it like a dart at his father’s cheek.

“Advising,” Jack said, shaking his head.

Whitaker’s muscles tightened. He almost took the bait but let it slide. The last thing he wanted to do was start a public war. As is the case with such established roots, everyone knew the Grants. Though Sadie didn’t mind public spectacles, Whitaker despised them.

Saving the day, Damon came over in his regal bounce to check on them. “Everyone doing okay?”

After a collective nod, he asked, “Do you mind holding it down, please? There’s no talking in here.”

Another nod from the Grant family, and Damon returned to his office to go smoke a hookah or whatever it was he liked to do.

Father wasn’t done. “You know, I have to ask, Whitaker. Do you think you can hold onto this job for longer than a week? Your grandfather had the same job for fifty years. I’m on my second. Why is it all you kids these days feel like you have to find your calling? Why can’t you accept that working sucks and that you just have to get over it?”

“First of all, I’m not a kid, Dad.” Whitaker realized how loud he’d spoken and backed off. “Second of all, just because your life sucks doesn’t mean all our lives have to suck.”

“Forgive me, Son, but remind me which part of your life doesn’t suck.”

Whitaker bit his tongue. As he adjusted in his seat, a needle in the top of his foot stung a nerve, and he winced.

“Find your calling,” his father said. “That’s the worst gibberish ever uttered. I’d love to sit in the room when you advise those clients. Do you tell them to go write a book? Go chase their dreams? Follow their heart?”

Sadie typically tried to let things play out, but this time she chose to interject. “Boys, let’s keep this civil.”

Jack turned to her. “Where did I fail, Sadie? What did I do wrong in raising this kid?”

“That’s enough, Jack.” She raised her hands in prayer. “We’re supposed to be contributing to the collective energy of the room.”

Whitaker laughed. “Oh, I think we are, Mom.”

Jack turned to Whitaker. “If you had just stayed away from writing that damned novel of yours, your life would be so much better. But no, you had to get a taste of being an artist and happened to pen something that a bunch of bonehead literary blowhards liked. You thought life after that so-called “masterpiece” would be easy. Someone even called you a national treasure, didn’t they? Give me a break. Your grandfather was a national treasure. He fought in the war. What did you do worth the toilet paper that he used to wipe his ass in the trenches in Africa?”

Whitaker noticed Damon softly racing back toward them. Pitter, patter, pitter, patter.

“You’ve really kept this bottled up, haven’t you, Pop? Let it out, old man. Exorcise the hurt inside. I think Damon is coming to tell you that he likes the energy you’re sharing with the rest of us. I know I do. Always glad to be dropped back into the jungles of ‘Nam.”

Jack let out a grunt. “It does feel good. It’s about time someone tells you the truth. That novel and everything around it turned you into a fairy. A little creative fairy. And now you sit around waiting for your next work of genius to come to you. How’s that going? How long’s it been? Ten years. Let me clue you in. You’re out of words, buddy. That fairy-tale world you’re living in is only going to bring you more and more pain. No wonder Olivia left you.”

“Jack!” Sadie said. “Stop it!” A plea from his younger sister followed.

Damon tried to intervene again. Gently asserting himself, he said, “Folks, please, no talking. I can’t have it.”

It was all quiet on the western front till he walked away, then Jack said to Sadie, “We failed as parents. But never once did I tell your son to chase his dreams. Not once!”

“Please, sir,” Damon said, appearing out of nowhere.

“Shut your hole, soldier!”

Damon nearly fell backwards.

Whitaker and his brother laughed at the same time, and Whitaker almost started singing the Mr. Rogers theme song. Damon, still want to be my neighbor? It wasn’t actually funny, and Whitaker felt for the kid for being sucked into the Grant hurricane.

Jack fired a finger at Whitaker. “You’re a one-hit wonder. A washed-up wreck of a man.” And, he added, “Olivia was always too good for you anyway.”

Whitaker felt like a blowfish expanding to the point where the needles might start shooting out of him. Other members of the family encouraged Jack to let it go.

Realizing he was out of his element, Damon stood silently with his arms crossed, staring at Jack.

“I had a dream,” Jack said, “that one day my son would get it together. That he’d accept—”

“And now he’s Martin Luther King,” Whitaker announced, the loudest words yet to fill the room. “Tell me about your dream, Mr. King!”

Jack gritted his teeth, then spat out, “I had a dream that one day you’d let go of this writing thing and learn how to work for a living. Get a job. Go to the gym. Pull yourself together. And get out of your goddamned head.”

“That’s a lofty dream, Dad. Why don’t you start with being a good role model?”

“Why can’t you be like your sister? Or even your brother! They at least understand that life’s not some polished piece of glass you slide around on. Life is a ragged edge.”

“Oh, I assure you,” Whitaker started, “I know all about the ragged edge. You might be a piece-of-shit father, but you taught me all about the ragged edge. I’ve got the scars to prove it.”

“Don’t speak to me that way,” Jack said, his face reddening. Much more and the needles would start shooting out of his skin.

“Do you hear yourself?” Whitaker asked. “You definitely left part of your brain in Saigon.”

Jack shook his head but didn’t respond.

“Oh, you’re out of words now?” Whitaker asserted. “Is it my turn?”

Jack waited, a smirk surfacing. He loved a good battle.

Whitaker drew in a long breath. “Never mind. I don’t need to stoop to this.”

“I should have thrown that computer out the window. You and all your books growing up. I failed.”

“Maybe you did, Dad. But I do have another book in me. Mark my words.”

“Oh, here we go. Are we writing again?”

Whitaker was losing it.

Damon tried again. “Folks, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Jack warned, “You stay out of this, boy.”

Damon turned away with a frustrated pivot, muttering that he was calling the cops.

Whitaker jumped in louder this time. “I’m always writing. I’m just having to wade through all the shit you put me through to find the right words.”

“Okay, Sherlock, so while the rest of the world goes to work, you’re wading through your dad’s shit looking for words. Let me tell you the truth. You got lucky and stumbled upon a novel. There won’t be another one. You can stare at your computer jacking off all day long. You had your time in the spotlight. Now it’s time to join the rest of us in the real world.”

“You know,” Whitaker said, watching Damon apologize to the other clients, “even the slightest encouragement over the years from you might have saved me. But something inside of you is so royally dismantled. That war took the human out of you, and it’s slowly taking it out of me too.”

“There it is,” Jack growled. “Still can’t take responsibility. I had very little to do with creating your joke of a life.”

Lowering his voice, Whitaker said, “I can’t stand you. Nobody can. Don’t you see that, Dad?” He looked at his mom, who was fighting tears. “Don’t act surprised, Mom.” Then he raised his hand, shouting across the room at Damon, who was now on his phone. “I’m done here. Will you take these needles out?”

“One moment, please,” he said, with an impressive politeness considering he was on the phone with 911.

“There he goes,” Jack said. “Time to start running. My little fairy named Whitney. Run away, young lady.”

“Screw you, Dad.”

Jack shook his head.

With needles running up and down his legs, like Pinhead from Hellraiser, Whitaker stood. He couldn’t wait for Damon. He had to get out of there.

“Sir,” Damon yelled from across the room, “let me take the needles out.”

Whitaker brushed him away and said to Jack, “I’m going to walk out of here before I throw a punch. But don’t think you won. You’re a sad old man with a family that for some reason has let you hang around. But don’t think we’re going to keep putting up with it forever. Your funeral will be a lonely event.”

“Don’t say that to your father,” Sadie begged.

“Oh, let him take his punches, honey. They fall like limp-wristed slaps.”

Whitaker had not anticipated how much the needles would hurt as he moved. He plucked the ones he could get to and tossed them to the ground as he offered apologies around the room.

Though Whitaker was simply preoccupied with pain, Jack took it as being ignored. “There he goes, fucking up another family excursion. Been doing that since he was in diapers.”

It was all Whitaker could do not to flip the recliner backwards. Instead, though, because he was one of the only sane ones in the family, he bit back his words, held back his rage, and turned to go.

His foot caught an edge of the carpet, and he tumbled. Had he gotten all the needles, he would have been fine, but he’d missed a few and at least two or three jutted deeper into his skin. He howled in pain.

Damon was there in an instant, scrambling to save the day. Everyone in the room, all of them stuck with needles, a whole lot of fucking Pinheads, watched with mouths agape.

Sadie begged for it all to stop. And Jack, the great soldier, the patriarch of this botched crew of humans, broke into a belly laugh that captured exactly everything wrong with Whitaker Grant.

“I want out,” Whitaker whispered to himself, the pain pulling tears from his eyes. “I just want out.”

Thanks for reading, amigos. Much love from Maine. Talk to you soon.

Who else is watching Rooster on HBO? How about the last season of Shrinking? We’re a bit behind with Shrinking, but it’s one of my favorite shows of all time—the perfect dramedy. As I was jumping into an episode of Rooster with Steve Carell last night, I realized that Bill Lawrence, the producer behind Shrinking, Scrubs, and Ted Lasso, is also responsible for this new show. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I adore a story that makes you laugh and cry in equal measure. Dear storyteller, just toy with my heart, and I’m all yours…

Do you know Jack Antonoff and his band, Bleachers? I went to see them on a whim a couple of years ago here in Portland, and it was pure heaven. Jack’s one of the most successful and talented music producers in history, working with the likes of Taylor Swift and Lorde and Kendrick Lamar, but it’s in this band where he lets it all out. The guy’s a preacher on stage, and he turns the audience into a congregation. It was such an immersive experience, and I find myself comparing all concerts to it.

They have a new album called Everyone for Ten Minutes coming out May 22nd, and it’s sure to be a killer. I don’t know that there are many people out there with more creativity running through them. Though it would probably be somewhat awkward, I’d kill to have dinner with him and pick his brain. Here’s a taste from their show on Howard.

I had no idea I needed a queer vampire novel in my life, but I sure as hell did. It took me a while to take down V.E. Schwab’s new one, Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil, only because it’s a tome and I’m deep into a new project, but it’s WONDERFUL.

And I thought her previous release, The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, would never be topped. They’re certainly equal, at least. She’s a master, plain and simple. Makes me want to hang it up.

And where have vampires been all my life? I don’t know if I’ve even read Anne Rice before, but I’m opening all my windows and doors and welcoming in all the fictional vampires now.

What should I read next in the vampire/fantasy/horror world? I’m a newbie.

Don’t forget to come find me on Instagram. There is almost twenty-thousand people following me now. I can’t believe it!

Yesterday, I shared my rediscovered love of dictating first drafts while on the treadmill. AI has made it remarkably easier. Now, you can drive by my house and wave at the lunatic in the window regaling himself with exciting new stories told in unbearably awful accents. My wife holds her phone up to the door to prove to her friends that she married a madman.

What questions do you have for me? I’d love to answer them in my next reel.

Okay, with a few weeks to go till I need to return my focus to Salvation Isle, I’m off to the races with a new Red Mountain story. We’ll see how far I get. It was beyond delightful to sneak back into Margot’s world yesterday to see what she’s up to. And Otis, oh my God. He never ceases to shock and awe me.

Thanks to those who gave me ideas for the new story, and big congratulations to the winners of my raffle: Natosha, Miselle, and Neil.

Next time, I’ll share a lost chapter from An Unfinished Story that I still wish had made it into the final publication. The protagonist, Whitaker Grant, will always be my favorites of my creations. For those of you who have been listening to my audio of these musings, you’ll get a real treat when I dramatize it.

Much love,

boo

We’re just back from a lovely roadtrip to Charlottesville, a place that’s captured my heart over the years. On the way down, we got our first taste of New Haven, CT apizza at Sally’s Apizza. OMG, slightly burnt as is the style, a crispy bottom: total joy. Once we arrived in Charlottesville, the food continued to dazzle. What a sleeper culinary town. And we kayaked, fly-fished, went wine-tasting, and I even braved my terror of public pools by taking my son to a huge indoor water park.

Back in Maine, I’m shimmering with renewed energy. Having wrapped up a draft of my work-in-progress, tentatively called Salvation Isle, I have time on my hands and was thinking that Red Mountain might be calling. Oh, how about titling it Red Mountain Calling? Hmmm.

If you’re all caught up with my Red Mountain series set in Washington State wine country, you might remember everyone survived a fire in Red Mountain Burning; Otis and Joan were taking off in their Winnebago, the one that plays “La Cucaracha” when you blast the horn; Margot was married to Remi; and Brooks (single again) and Emilia were gearing up to take the reins as the new guard of Red Mountain.

Here’s your chance to chime in before I let loose the hounds of my imagination and start plotting a fourth in the main series.

In return for you chiming in, I will enter you into a raffle for a chance to win several prizes, including a T-shirt of your choice from my merch store, signed books, and your name used as a character. I’ll end the raffle next week and announce winners when I send out a new newsletter.

The only requirement is that you insert your comments at the bottom of this article on Substack, meaning you open this up in a browser or the app and comment there. Replying to my email doesn’t count. Also, the more helpful and creative, the more entries you get. Trust me, I will take your ideas to heart!

Here are thoughts to stir your own imagination (the same questions I’m asking myself this week):

• What do you want to see happen? What new challenges await the mountain? Any ideas for new characters?

• What’s the next obstacle for our fearless Margot, who has realized so many of her dreams since escaping her marriage and moving west with her son, Jasper? Sometimes, once we get everything we’d hoped for, external achievement and validation doesn’t always deliver happiness. How’s her married life? What’s up with Jasper?

• Where is Otis now? Will he and Joan survive? My friend and astute beta reader Lauren C. pointed out that he still has some grieving to do over his sons. Will he ever return to the mountain?

• Does Brooks deserve love? Can he handle the pressure of taking over Otis’s winery?

• What’s new with Emilia? Is she thriving as she takes over her father’s winery, Lacoda? How’s her family? Does she still talk to Jasper? Dear God, how is Carmen? Up to trouble again?

I’ll be talking about the recently announced lineup for the forthcoming Newport Jazz Festival (Mikella’s and my spirit place) in the coming missives, but it’s Eric Hilton who has been in my ears a lot lately. He’s one of the driving forces behind Thievery Corporation, a group from D.C. who play outernational downtempo chill and have been a major part of the Boo Walker soundtrack for decades.

Eric’s latest album, A Sky So Close, is a stunner. Here’s the Apple link. For multiple reasons easily found online, I have shifted from Spotify and will no longer be sharing the links. Of course, it sounds even better on vinyl, and if you buy it straight from Eric, he gets the profit he deserves.

I’ll leave you with a few shots from our Charlottesville adventure. What a place. That last one is of our son as we sipped chai while sitting cross-legged on the floor at the Twisted Branch Tea Bazaar, a place where you might be fooled into thinking you’re in the Himalayas. I looked over as Riggs people-watched through the window and thought the light was particularly arresting.

I can’t wait to read your ideas for Red Mountain. Thanks for being here.

Cheers!

boo