Boo Walker's Blog, page 3

You might be wondering about the roots of my latest novel, as it’s definitely a bit different than stories I’ve told in the past. Well, here goes…

About two years ago, I was submitting ideas to Lake Union for possible publication. I had my first one, An Unfinished Story, alive and well in my head. There was another that may never see the light of day, though some of the characters will surely land somewhere else. But I needed a third and was under time pressure to come up with something. That’s when the magic happened.

As all of you creatives know, trying to force an idea rarely works, and that’s what I found myself doing. My agent wanted all my ideas the next morning. I was at my in-laws’ place in Naples, Florida, pacing the floors, beating my head against the wall, nearly losing my mind. What about this or that? None of it rang true. (Creating on demand is a skill that I suspect takes a lifetime to master.)

Exhausted and frustrated, I finally collapsed onto the couch, shaking my head. About the time I was reminding myself, “Just stop, Boo. Quit trying to find something and be present, let the fear ago, and the story will appear,” my mother-in-law sat down next to me. We started chatting and she suddenly was telling me her story, growing up in a poor Italian family in a small coal-region town in Pennsylvania, eventually breaking away to make it on her own as an artist. Guys, every step was jaw-dropping. I’d never known any of it, nor had my wife.

There was star-crossed love, and both the strife and romance of the sixties and seventies: the war, the protests, the music, the clothes. There were the struggles of women in the workforce and the beautiful and ugly characters in and out of her life. And there were the bones of some great drama that I knew I could throw gasoline on to make even worse.

She must have been halfway through when I, with chill bumps rising on my skin, said, “I need this story. I want to tell this story.” I asked her if she’d let me run with it but allow me to make it my own, changing characters and tweaking plot lines, making the people and situations more extreme than they actually were. (For example, and for the record, her real grandmother was nothing like the Italian nonna in my novel.) And I wanted to move the setting to Portland and Bar Harbor, Maine, both of which I knew would make for a great setting and offer the bonus of fun research trips.

I wanted to keep so much of her tale, though, including her huge Italian family and their amazing traditions, and the way she fought to make money after moving from her small town, and all her struggles as an artist. And, of course, the juicy drama that had hooked me. (Sorry, no spoilers.)

In the following weeks and even months and really all the way to publication, she and I worked together to create The Singing Trees. Basically, we played the what-if game all the time, figuring out ways to amp up the drama. What if she’d done this instead of that, what if this had happened, almost like supercharging the story. And often, when I was stuck, I’d call her and we’d chat about solutions or possible outcomes. Or if I wanted to know more about the time period or Italian-American life, the little details, she’d fill me in. 

It was an amazing way to get to know my mother-in-law, who is one of the kindest and most loving people on earth. And she’s one of my most ardent supporters, always has been. She’s about to read The Singing Trees for the fifth time! How lucky am I?

Oh, how could I forget the wind chimes? As my mother-in-law’s story brewed in my imagination, I began corresponding with a reader named Liz Thurston, who casually mentioned that she made wind chimes and hung many of them in her backyard. I suddenly pictured an entire forest of wind chimes (ah, that’s where the title comes from) and the vision stuck with me, so much so that I knew the idea belonged in my book. Side note: Liz, who I’ve come to learn is an extraordinary person, gifted me several beautiful sets, and I can’t wait to hang them in my backyard upon our return to the U.S. You’ll have to read my book to see the influence the wind chimes throughout the story.

Thanks for reading!

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I write this from my desk, looking out one of the back windows of our flat in downtown Valencia. It’s a fascinating and inspirational spot, as I am filled with glimpses of the daily lives of my neighbors on their terraces, the fit couple working with a trainer, the bearded man who stares when I play the banjo, wondering what alien instrument I hold, the older woman who feeds the doves, always refilling with seed a plastic tray pushed under the railing.

I’m up early and writing as we’re off with a fellow expat to a Michelin-starred restaurant called RiFF for lunch, and something tells me I won’t get a thing done afterward. (Yes, there will be wine… and probably a bunch of weird foams… and I can’t wait.)

Would you allow me to share a breakthrough I had this week? It’s about letting go.

Every book I write comes with new challenges. You’d think, or at least I would, that taking on my tenth book would prove easier than the first. I’m not so sure. Lowcountry Punch , my first, required a ton of rewriting, mainly because I was still finding my voice. At one point, the whole second half took place in Bolivia! Red Mountain required me to find drama in the smallest of places. It was my first non-thriller, so I had to find a way to drive the book without car chases and murders. For The Singing Trees , I took on telling a tale inspired by a story of someone close to me, and I had to figure out how to make it mine. It was also my first historical, first duel timeline, and it’s carried by a young female lead. (What were you thinking, Boo?)

For this one set in Spain, the challenge has been incredibly apropos. For the first time in ten books, I didn’t know how it would end. I’ve beaten my head against the wall, searching for the climax, clawing for it, hoping to find a way to put a bow on this thing. At times, it’s been frustrating because I like to know where I’m going from the outset. Oh, and it’s due to my editor next month!

The other day, the solution hit me. The theme of this book is about letting go. One of the major reasons we moved to Spain was to learn this lesson, to embrace the no pasa nada, tranquillo, mañana lifestyle, to learn to relax and to accept uncertainty, to break away from the material things that now collect dust in our storage unit in Florida, to remind ourselves that life is indeed about letting go and that’s where the fun begins.

I set out to write a book that captured the lesson I wanted to learn myself, as I often do. I don’t want to live a life worried about my 401k or my next paycheck or deadlines or if and when my next story might alight upon my shoulder or if I’ll ever run out of words. Or where we might move next, a hot topic in our house.

In Spain, they work to live, not the other way around. The only real worry is that you’re not living in the moment. Isn’t that a wonderful worry to have? Perhaps the only one worth having.

I was re-reading Richard Bach’s Illusions last week and the question is asked: What if you were commanded only to be happy for the rest of your life? What a question! Could we do it? Would we know how? What would that look like? And the other piece I really love in that book is the opening, about the creature letting go, despite the others clinging to the rocks, refusing to let the current carry them, warning him to hold on, that he’s crazy to even entertain letting go. Aha! It was all coming together.

Perhaps the ending of my new book wouldn’t reveal itself until I’d ingested what I set out to learn. Just a couple of nights ago, before bed, I decided not to worry about it any longer, to have faith that the ending would come when it was needed.

High on this idea the next morning, saying to myself, “No pasa nada, chico, está bien, (don’t worry, it’s all good,)” I was writing an email to a friend when the ending fell on my lap. I could see it so clearly, and chill bumps fired on my skin. Tears pricked my eyes. All I had to do was let go. How about that!

To verify that I hadn’t been led astray by my faith, I raced to tell my wife what had come, and as I shared my ideas for the last scene, she burst into tears. That, my friends, is when I know I’m onto something.

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A look at our life in Spain while I work on a couple of books set here. Thanks for your interest.

(Click to enlarge image; click back button to return to gallery.)

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I’m about a third through the first draft of my new novel, A SPANISH SUNRISE, and things are coming alive in my head. Today, I wrote an important scene that kicks my characters, Baxter and Mia, into act two, which is akin to Luke Skywalker leaving Tantooine after discovering his aunt and uncle have been killed. 

Things are getting interesting as this father/daughter duo travel to a famous, yet crumbling olive estate in southern Spain to meet the family they didn’t know they had. (If you read my last email, yes, olives are a fruit.) Mia is embracing the Spanish culture, but her dad is a complete wreck. Oh, you just wait, Baxter. It’s going to get so much worse. Your creator loves to see you suffer.

I have a draft due to my agent on May 7th, so it’s on right now, no excuses. As is typically the case during the first-draft process, I’m a complete madman. (Thank you, my dearest wife, for not kicking me out yet). Before I talk about Otis popping up in my dreams lately (that’s right!), I thought I’d share the wackiness that is in my brain right now, if for no other reason than to draw a smile out of you at my own expense. 

This morning, I didn’t feel like hitting my typical 3000 words, which is admittedly why I took some time to write you. Considering I had no choice but to forge ahead, I needed to find a way to light the fire. I complained to my wife for a while, did every other task on my to-do list, and searched almost the entire internet for things that didn’t matter before I finally decided it was now or never. 

But then I thought I’d better get psyched up since it was such an important chapter, so I unrolled the yoga mat, turned on one of my favorite self-help audio books,  Unfu*k Yourself , and commenced to find the courage to get in front of my computer and keep telling this story. It’s not that it’s not fun; it’s just hard work, a serious level of focus required. Once I get rolling, it’s the best drug in the world. 

Something the author said while I was on the mat got me fired up, and it might hit home for you too. By the way, he’s Scottish, so the audiobook is just lovely. He talked about relentlessness, and how, sometimes, it’s all you have. 

And that’s all I needed to hear. Sometimes, you have nothing in the tank and you have a million distractions (not gonna lie, that Oprah/Megan interview looks interesting), a million other things to do, a billion excuses, but it’s the relentlessness that puts your arse in the chair, or wherever it is you go to embrace your calling. You get up and do the work, period.

I wrote something in my Boo Walker Readers Facebook page the other day about procrastination that will further reveal my lunacy:

It’s sooooo easy to procrastinate when you’re writing a novel… or, I suppose, doing anything that requires intense focus. It’s the challenge of being present, but being present in an alternate universe, one that you’re making up as you go. And it’s so fun but it’s so hard to get started some days.

I don’t want to write at the moment, it’s too much work. My coffee isn’t quite kicking in. Please, just not right now. I have other things going on. What if I wait until later? Maybe then, I’ll hit 4k words and find the energy to rework that one piece I’m missing in the plot. I’m just gonna read this for a minute and then check this and…. gosh, I forgot to look into this. It’s okay, Boo, enjoy the morning. It is Sunday after all, lighten up. Oh, what’s happening with the news? Wait, is that my old friend on Facebook sharing travel pics? I’m gonna look at those. I should reach out to him soon. Dang, I really want to go to Vietnam. COVID just sucks. All I want to do is travel. And the mask thing, I’m OVER it.

Did I eat anything yet? I’ll write better with something healthy in my body. And then I should brush my teeth, probably dress for the day. Maybe a crisp button-up, that will make me feel like a writer. Something about dressing like a washed-up professor from Oxford motivates me. Where did my plaid cardigan go, the one with the holes in it? 

Now that I’m sitting back down, I should restart my computer, the ultimate procrastination ritual. Oh, crap, I forgot the lime for my Pellegrino! [Boo gets back up.] Now, that I’m back, I’m gonna tag a few writer friends just to have something else to do before I start writing. I wonder if I’m the only one that goes through such strife and turmoil. Then it occurs to me my romance writer friends have no issues hitting their word count. In fact, it’s three in the morning in the US and they’ve probably already crossed over 5k. Hand smacks forehead. Enough, Boo. STOP.
***

So about Otis… I have to tell you about an image that keeps creeping into my head, but I must preface it with a GIANT disclaimer, though. I make no promises that another Red Mountain book will come to fruition. In fact, I’ve just signed another deal with my publisher and hope to work with them for eternity. But maybe, just maybe, before I kick the bucket, we’ll see more of Otis, Margot, Brooks, and the gang. I certainly appreciate all of your notes asking for me; it means the world.

SPOILER ALERT: don’t read any further if you haven’t finished the Red Mountain Chronicles. Last we heard from Mr. Otis, he rode off in his RV with Joan, the horn playing “La Cucaracha.” It’s been a year now in this dream I keep having, and Otis and Joan are down in Miami. He’s in Birkenstocks and shorts and a white short-sleeve button-down, and it’s unbuttoned liberally, revealing his wild gray chest hair and a blingy gold necklace. Miami has clearly gotten to him. He and Joan are on a rooftop sipping Mojitos. It’s late at night. Suddenly, Joan points up, and Otis lifts his gaze. Like the signal that Gotham uses to call Batman, a red triangle is glowing in the night sky. In his head, he hears the song dogs of Red Mountain calling out, howling for him. Awwwwwhhhhoooooooo! He turns to Joan and says in his English accent, “It’s time to go back home, my love.” He kisses her madly. “It’s time to go back home.”

I keep wondering why he needs to go home. What do you think? What’s happening on Red Mountain, and why is it calling him? I don’t think it’s COVID. If we were to ever revisit the good ol’ mountain, who would you want to read about? What loose ends need tying up?

When there’s nothing left in the tank, remember that you always have your relentlessness. Get up and do the work and quit talking about it.

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A note to anyone struggling right now…

Like so many of you, my whole world changed the day the towers fell. Not in the way you might think though. I used to play the banjo professionally, but a career-ending hand disorder called focal dystonia sent me scrambling to pick up the pieces. It all started on 9/11/2001.

My struggle pales in comparison to those who lost loved ones, and today is certainly about them and the people who died and those brave souls who stepped up to assist in so many beautiful ways.

But I posted the below note in a Facebook group of musicians who suffer from FD and thought that I might share with you too. We are all facing our own focal dystonias, especially right now.

Here goes…

9/11/2001 was the day I first experienced focal dystonia symptoms. I had just moved to Nashville with a band of great friends, and we were heading into the studio to record our first big album. I drank my coffee, warmed up on the banjo, then turned on the news. The first tower had been hit. Banjo in hand, I watched in utter disbelief. We considered canceling our studio session, but our producer urged us to come in. It was the opening day of a week-long session.

I can’t remember the exact moment, but during the recording of our first song that day (“Ramblin’ Fever”), I remember thinking that my index finger wasn’t doing what I was telling it to do. I pretty quickly told the guys that something was going on, and we chalked it up to studio jitters.

That night, I read about focal dystonia on Google and knew I had it. It took a lot of money and doctors (of all varieties) before I was finally diagnosed at Johns Hopkins a year later. Though some lucky souls have found their way around the disorder, there is no cure. Shortly after accepting my fate, I left the band and Nashville with a sad heart and a broken spirit.

They say something stressful triggers FD. I’ll always wonder if seeing the towers fall on television was my moment.

I’ve had bursts since when I’ve decided to find a way through it. Switched picking hands, Botox, worked with some of the best doctors in the field, read every book I could find, etc. For whatever reason, I still haven’t broken through. Maybe one day. I don’t play much anymore, as my symptoms are as strong as ever.

But… focal dystonia sure did give me a lot of good.

I wouldn’t have found my wife had I not left Nashville, and we wouldn’t have adopted our son. I can’t even FATHOM a world where those two aren’t by my side.

I wouldn’t have found my calling either, which is writing novels. After a few years of a pretty serious decline emotionally, physically, and spiritually, I finally came to peace with my diagnosis. I dug out of my hole and found my muse in writing. No, I can’t play the banjo as fast I used to, and I wish like all hell that I could. I still tear up thinking about the thousands of hours I put into my instrument, but I’m grateful for my broken road and what ultimately led me to my place now.

To all of you with FD, hell, for anyone who is struggling right now, I have an inkling of what you’re going through. Even if you can’t overcome whatever your focal dystonia is (I hope you can), there is abundant and beautiful light ahead. For the record, I’m 41, and I’m not giving up. One day my fingers will fly again. In the meantime, I’m having a ball playing electric guitar and teaching my son his first chords.

Thanks for listening.

***

Here is a video from our band’s reunion show last year. No, I wasn’t on stage, but I was front row with my wife and son, a giant smile stretched across my face. The song they’re playing is one I wrote with the mandolin player, Scott Simontacchi.

Since I’m a novelist, I have to throw in a little drama. As you’ll see on the link, we had to bill the reunion show as The No Dough Travelers formerly known as The Biscuit Boys. That same year I was diagnosed with FD, Dwight Yoakam sued us and took our name.

Sending you love from me and the rest of The Biscuit Boys (Drew, Charlie, Steven, and Scott), who are also exactly where they should be at this moment too.

boo

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You know what I miss? Restaurants. Long amazing lunches and dinners with my wife where we can reconnect as a couple over a glorious bottle of wine, a meal that doesn’t require us to wash plates afterward. I miss the fancy dishes prepared by classically trained chefs, and I miss my go-to comfort food.

The next time I’m able to sit down at a table and have a server take my order, I’m going to slow the hell down. While I mindfully sip an aperitif with my legs crossed, I’m going to take my time scrutinizing the menu the chef poured her soul into creating. When the server sets down the first plate, I will take each bite like it’s my last, thinking about all the people who worked to make our experience special. I will look into the beautiful eyes of my wife and raise my glass and say, “Let’s never take our restaurants for granted again.”

I don’t know about you, but I live for eating meals with good friends, a bottle or two or three of wine on the table. I’ve worked in the wine business for a long time and have been savoring good bottles and writing about all things wine for even longer. To me, there’s nothing better than cozying up to my favorite table at my favorite spot; an open bottle, a board of cheese & charcuterie, a loaf of crusty bread, and good company surrounding me. I miss that. I miss it like crazy.

I miss my restaurant friends who I’ve come to know, the folks who visit our table during a slow moment in the dinner rush. I miss the wines they offer, the stemware they use. I miss the dishes that I could never begin to create at home. Not that I haven’t tried. My failed efforts make me appreciate you even more.

Here’s to the restaurateurs, the chefs, the dishwashers, the farmers, the wine and food suppliers, the distributors, the servers, the line cooks, the sommeliers, and the bartenders who are all fighting to save their jobs right now. We already know how tough you are after years of working this industry; hats off to you for being warriors now as we navigate this wild time together.

This pandemic has hit you as hard as anyone in the world. Thank you for closing down your businesses with such grace, so that we can flatten the curve and slow this threat to our society. What all of you are going through breaks my heart.

Though my wallet has been hit too, I’m still ordering takeout, and I’ll be first in line the moment you have our table ready. But be forewarned, I plan on camping at that table for quite some time and ordering damn near everything on the menu.

I miss you, I love you, and I’m pulling for you.

The post You Know What I Miss? Restaurants. appeared first on Best-selling author Boo Walker.

As this pandemic began to mess with my life, I first took a rather selfish stance.

My concerns went to my immediate family. How will COVID-19 affect us? What will we do with our son if he doesn’t have school for the rest of the year? Will I get a refund? Do we have enough food and water? Of course, do we have enough toilet paper? What about our trip to Spain? We were so excited.

Much worse, what will happen to us financially? We just lost a lot of money in the market. Will it ever come back? Oh, and will the fear of the pandemic hamper the release of my book in August? It feels tone-deaf to hype a new novel when people the world over are fighting for their lives.

For a moment there, I felt this very strong survival instinct take over, not unlike my reaction during the last scary hurricane. And I could have easily empathized with someone who might fight over the gas pump or food or toilet paper if the crisis worsened.

And then I snapped out of it.

With one tiny question, my entire perspective changed. With one question, I realized that COVID-19 is giving me a chance to be the best version of myself.

What about the people that are worse off than me?

Think about that question for a moment, like really ponder it.

What about the people that are worse off than me?

See that, what just happened? Like the flip of a switch, my entire mindset changed.

What about the people with HIV in Wuhan who can’t get medicine? What about the woman in a nursing home who feels all alone right now? She doesn’t have much time left and she might not ever be able to see her daughter again, as her daughter can’t visit for fear of spreading the virus.

What about the couple who had planned their retirement for this year, working their entire lives for the moment when they’d be able to hit the road in an RV to see their country? And then they watched in horror as their savings—just like the chance of living their dream—dwindled in a matter of days.

What about the single parents who somehow have to navigate working a full-time job (or two), while taking care of their children who won’t be going to school for maybe the rest of the year? How in the world can they do what my wife is doing at this moment, which is figuring out how to home-school?

What about the hourly wage workers living paycheck to paycheck? How will they pay their rent? Or even eat! What about the couple in Seattle who put all their money and time into the restaurant of their dreams, opening it just in time for spring? Their first few days are a success and they hug and kiss each other, knowing they’d finally done it. They’d made it. And then, suddenly, their restaurant is empty. For that matter, what about all the people who took giant risks and started their own companies in the past few months?

And what about the people who actually have the virus and are dying? Or those who are losing their loved ones?

The lesson I’ve learned and will white-knuckle all the way to the end of this crisis is that it isn’t about me protecting my family. It’s about my family looking out for strangers. It’s about me finding the strength to offer my last roll of toilet paper to my neighbor. It’s about me wondering if that elderly man down the street needs any help. It’s about me getting my selfish head out of my ass and doing the stuff that matters, being the man my parents raised me to be. Now is the time for me to love harder than I’ve ever imagined possible.

My heart breaks for all of you who are struggling right now. If my family can do anything for you—if we can help in any way, all you have to do is ask.

When I read stories about the brave souls in Wuhan finding ways to help people get medicine, or about the heroes racing to create a vaccine, or about anyone going out of their way to pull up their fellow man or woman, I am filled with tremendous hope. Not only will we overcome this awful plague, but mankind will come out better because of it.

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