Howdy, howdy, word soldiers!

I am packing for Spain, already dreaming of warm weather, sangria, grilled calçots, Cava, boquerones en vinagre, and endless tortilla Espanola, but please allow me to first share the final part of my Organizing the Madness essay, where I complete my thoughts on reaching the midpoint of a novel and setting eyes on getting to “The End.”

Maybe next time, I’ll talk about two books that are pounding my heart right now: Allen Levi’s Theo of Golden and Emily St. John Mandel’s forthcoming Exit Party. By God, amigos, I LOVE BOOKS! Are they not the best? Please, tell me what you’re reading—if it’s great—by leaving a comment or responding via email.

Anyway, let’s go…

For you just joining us, I’d recommend you read Part 1 and 1.5 of Organizing the Madness before continuing. And as a reminder, you are in my head right now, seeing me bring a story to life. I am offering you a “making of”-style documentary that will hopefully give you readers—and writers—a glimpse under the hood.

I must admit I felt a sense of urgency to complete the back end of this essay, so that I might get back to drafting my WIP. I do have a deadline and a family to feed. But after a nice walk in the snow, I realized that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. By exploring these thoughts on the page, I am writing; I am working.

So get off my back, you pig-nosed voice in my head, you who try to wedge your way into my psyche and tell me that the only thing that counts as work is hitting my word count. Not so, dipshit! Every book has a different path to “The End”, and I’m no doubt on it now, knocking down tall weeds with my machete—er, keyboard. This is me being fluid. I can guarantee you that by finishing this essay I will have inched closer toward success. “Measure twice, cut once,” they say.

One realization while I was writing Part I hit me hard. I was teasing out the idea that yes, I want to step back and examine what I’ve done before moving forward, but there’s more to it than that. A voice in my head is suggesting I not only recalibrate but also take a stab at a proper outline to light my way to the finish line. I have a stronger sense of where I’m going, so why wouldn’t I? It’ll give me a chance to add more complexity and also some clear, razor-sharp momentum. And it’ll save me time, which I’m big on.

After writing out the scenes and pondering what’s happened so far in the mess of the first half of my work-in-progress, it’s time to visit a few topics that might not have been clear at the outset.

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Thus far while drafting, I’ve learned that Cara’s WOUND was an occurrence that happened when she was seventeen while summering on Salvation Isle. It could be argued that the first blood was drawn by her mess of two parental figures far earlier in Cara’s life, but it’s what happens on the island that really messes her up and leads to a series of huge mistakes that will become festering secrets.

Her FLAW, which is really a symptom of the wound, is that she is always trying to run away—from her past, her secrets, the hard conversations, even her current life. As I touched on last time, the GOVERNING VERB of the entire novel is running.

I have a PREMISE: What if a wildfire pulled back the veil on a series of secrets that a woman had kept hidden for thirty years?

My LOG LINE needs some work, so we’ll hit that in a minute. Same with her GOAL(s). Though I wasn’t sure what she wanted when I started hammering away, it’s become more obvious.

I had no idea where my MIDPOINT was till I was staring at it in the face. It’s like how Justice Potter Stewart described the threshold test for pornography in the 1964 case of Jacobellis v. Ohio. “I know it when I see it.” The midpoint must dazzle, shock, ignite, refuel. As I hover over it now with my WIP, it feels like the second half of the story is an arrow and the midpoint is pulling back the bowstring, ready to send the whole thing off with renewed force. For Salvation Isle, the midpoint is the moment we realize the extent of her wounds. I want my reader’s jaw to smack the floor.

I don’t know the ending yet, but I’m betting my THEME—or one of them—is something like: You can’t run forever. Or, the past will eventually catch up with you. Conversely, if she’s able to keep running by the end, if she hightails it from her family and her secrets, the theme might be: You can always outrun your demons if you don’t stop moving.

But I’m thinking Cara’s in trouble. All her secrets must come to light. And she must pay the consequences, which promise to be severe. If we go that route, then we already know where we’re headed. The CLIMAX must be that Cara will finally stop running and come clean. That gives us a huge story beat to add to our cork board. Now we can work backward from that climax to fill even more spots.

Of course, the RESOLUTION of the story must be the fallout of her secrets coming to life, filling out even more index cards.

In addition to the obvious story beats that we can add toward the end, there are plenty of other scenes that need to be included, scenes that were given birth by an earlier scene that I tackled while drafting in a free fall. I hit plot points that required explanation…or left tremors.

For example, I wrote a scene early on where Cara finally accepts that she and her family have nowhere else to go but Salvation Isle, and she knows then that she’ll soon have to see her ex-boyfriend, Davin, who was part of the horror that took place when she was seventeen. Even worse, she knows that Luke will actually meet Davin; they will soon shake hands. And she can’t imagine anything worse. You can bet those future scenes need to be in there. I could give you fifty more examples.

Allow me to throw one more spice into the soup. Whilst doing a writing sprint a few weeks ago, (I am of British descent, so I’m allowed the occasional whilst), a phrase leapt from my unimpeded imagination that seized me by the throat. I wrote (from Cara’s POV):

Never in my wildest imagination did I think Luke and Davin would come face to face. Two handsome men who once captured my heart, only to learn that this bird does not do cages well.

I’ll likely edit the above till it bears no resemblance to its firstborn form, but that bit about cages…this bird does not do cages well. Thank you, deep brain and muse and mystic guide, for such a remarkable image. I wasn’t trying for that. It simply appeared whilst I was hammering away at the keys under the pressure of a twenty-five minute timer. This, by the way, is exactly why flying away unencumbered in first drafts pays. We get out of the way and tap into something far more powerful than ourselves.

So. Cara doesn’t do cages well.

Hating cages is additional color to the idea of running away. She hates being pinned down. So we keep her from running by not only breaking her legs and cutting off exits, but actively putting her in as many cages as we can conjure. And stealing the idea from Star Wars, having the walls of the cages close in on her.

Can you see that we’re roping all the wild ponies, bringing some serious left-brained, analytical, accountant-type energy into the writer’s room? That’s part of the magic.

Pete Townshend and Keith Moon of The Who are a wonderful example of how both our analytical and creative parts must work together to make art that matters. Pete was an infamous taskmaster, a highly organized go-getter who was constantly composing complex pieces, whereas Keith Moon, the savant drummer, was an agent of chaos, a wild stallion if there ever was one. It was best to simply steer Keith toward his stool and let him go wild. Together, they became a force of nature, an essential part of one of the greatest rock bands that will ever live.

So Pete’s now in charge of Boo’s brain. Let’s see if he can make sense of Keith’s mess…

————

Now is a great time to talk about GOALS. As I’ve said before, writing a great book does not require having one measurable external goal. You can argue with me as much as you like, show me every craft book that disagrees, but then I’ll throw a hundred epic literary achievements at you that debunk the rule. I will indeed concede that a protagonist with one measurable goal might make writing the story easier, but since when was easy right?

I do believe, however, that DESIRE is required. A character needs to want something (or multiple somethings)—even the vaguest of somethings, as it’s the obstacles standing in that way of the desire that creates CONFLICT. Even Hallmark has conflict! Inward and outer desire are canvases begging for obstructions.

Fortunately for me on this project, Cara does have measurable external goals. It’s not as clear cut as Sherlock Holmes going after a murderer, but they are there.

1. Cara wants to keep her secrets in the bag.

2. Cara wants to get her daughter off to college before her marriage to Luke falls apart—or she loses her mind.

3. The moment her daughter is gone, she wants to finally leave Luke and her work and go chase a new life, one that makes her feel young again.

See how neatly the goals fit with the idea of running away? She’s running away from confessing secrets and from letting her daughter in on how much she’s struggling (though we all know that children are highly perceptive), and she’s prepping for her biggest escape yet, leaving her marriage and work and everything that’s currently caging her in.

Are each of the goals measurable? Yes! I’ve had plenty of books that don’t come with such easily determined goals, but this one’s cut and dry-ish. And hell yes, she can have more than one goal. I do that all the time with characters, as do thousands of other writers that are far more capable than I. She also has internal goals, and let’s just state the vaguest of the vague now, just to upset a few people: she wants to be happy! Oh, and she wants to be fulfilled inside. What she doesn’t know, the wall she must climb, is that she needs to find peace with the terrible things she’s done.

How do I fill out the rest of my book? With obstructions that apply exactly to those goals! That’s how we break her.

Before I started drafting, I had a log line—that elevator pitch you need to have ready to drop when you happen upon Ridley Scott in a hotel in Paris and he asks you what you’re working on.

Here’s what I had from way back when; let’s see if it needs tweaking.

When the cushy life of a family of three implodes in California, they retreat to an island house in Maine that they inherited from an aunt, whose only stipulation was that they can’t sell it. Can the island and this house be their salvation?

Not bad, actually. I’ve stayed in this lane, but it’s become clear that I’m telling Cara’s story. Luke and Lainey are soldiers in the fight to help Cara realize her true potential. What if I rewrote my log line specifically for Cara?

When the life of an unmoored wife and mother implodes due to a devastating fire, she and her family retreat to an inherited island house in Maine, where she will be forced to stop running and dig up the bones of her past.

Not bad! They really go together, don’t they? The first applies to the overall concept, which includes her family, then we drill down to what is happening to the point-of-view character.

I’ll write the new log line on my white board, knowing that this is my Northstar.

I’m eye-to-eye with one more choice that I’d like to share, and then I’m going to spare you and go sneak off and do the rest of my brainstorming in private. As I face the second half and flesh out my best effort of an outline, of which I’ll surely deviate, I must decide whether I should first take a stab at polishing the first chunk of lit dung, that first 45k words, or forge ahead.

For most of my books, when I reach the midway point—or even before, I do like to run a comb through what I have so far, smoothing sentences, expanding on descriptions, deleting unnecessary chunks, adding details that I only learned later. A run through can help you reinforce what you’ve written, firming up the characters in your mind, solidifying the protagonist’s voice. And it can help get your runaway train back on the right track.

Or I can keep plowing ahead. I prefer this option if I can stand it. It depends on how far off the tracks I’ve run. Or if I want to change it up. I suppose my rule of thumb is that I want to chase after “The End” till I have no choice but to return to the beginning and start into a second draft.

I’ve no idea which way I’ll go right now, but it’ll come clear after a few days attempting to outline the second half, and more importantly, as I carve out some quiet time to let all the voices in my head get a word in.

There you go. You’re all caught up with me and my WIP. See you soon.

boo

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Cheerio, fine humans,

This is going to be Boo’s attempt at brevity. I’m back-ish from a hell of a sickness and neck-deep in my new story again. We leave in six days to Madrid, Barcelona, and Sitges, but I’ll make sure I get out the final part of my essay on organizing the madness before I go. I also share some new book recommendations soon.

A. I have a podcast! It’s unedited, unprofessional, unfiltered, and I’m doing them in one take, so you’re getting true authentic Boo. The idea is that I read through these notes to you and expand whenever I feel like going off script. I’m also going back and adding audio to my previous Substack posts, so look out for those too. You can listen by hitting the play button above each note or subscribe to me via Spotify or Apple.

B. I’m loving this Ray Bradbury quote, which came to me by way of Bob Lefsetz’s newsletter.

“I’ve had a sign over my typewriter for 25 years now which reads ‘Don’t think.’ You must never think at the typewriter, you must feel, and then your intellect is always buried in that feeling anyway. You collect up a lot of data, you do a lot of thinking away from your typewriter, but at the typewriter you should be living.”

I talk about this often, the idea that your best writing comes when you get out of your own way. When I sit down to write, I look at it as my way to break bread with the muse. I’ve done prep and research, but once it’s go time, I just want to turn on the spigot and see if magic happens.

C. Having almost survived my fourth wintah in Maine—and this one has been a BEAST—I’ve put together a list of lessons I’ve learned. You might also find a gem of a picture of Mikella and me freezing our tushes off in Wiscasset, Maine. Do any of these lessons resonate?

That’s it for now. See you in a few days.

boo

Drowning in Words is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

WELCOME, welcome, especially to those of you I’ve dragged over from my previous email provider. The water’s far warmer here…and turquoise…no sharks.

Before I chat about my new book and reveal the cover, a few notes on what you might expect from this new space:

* See the audio option above, the gray box where it reads Listen to post? I intend on recording a SUPER informal, unedited podcast of sorts that allows me to read my messages aloud and ramble on a bit. Should it work, they’ll also push out to Apple and Spotify as podcast feeds. But you simply push play above for a listen.

* You’ll see about four emails from me a month, though don’t hold me to that. I’ll try to stick to three different themes: (1) Boo’s News, which will cover all things apropos to my novels and me (2) The Shallow End, which covers book, film, and music recommendations and other things that are impacting me in the moment(3) Deep Dives, which will be my essays on writing craft or anywhere else my muse leads. Lately, I’ve been documenting how I bring a book to life. Even if you never wanted to learn how to write, I think you’ll dig the insight and find it a nice companion to my novels.

* I hope you love Substack like I do . You can be involved as much as you like. Read my note in your inbox like usual and be done with it. Or download the app, chat with me, comment and engage with others. I can’t stand most social media. Substack is different. It’s a haven for world-class writing, covering topics from books to music to cooking. You wouldn't believe what other authors you’re going to find here. I finally feel like I’ve found a home.

* You’ll notice a paid tier. Don’t feel obligated. Though some posts and the archive are behind the paywall, I share plenty for free. Think of it as a tip jar, a way to say, “Boo, put more time and energy here. I love and get a lot out of what you’re up to.”

NOW, LET’S TALK NEW BOOK!

I can’t remember a time in my career when I got back the first cover designs and thought, “That’s it! Perfect.” Till now. I knew the moment I saw this one that the team had wonderfully captured my new novel, The English Bookstore in Bologna, which is now up for pre-order on Amazon and Bookshop.org.

Here’s the blurb:

Tucked away on a cobblestone street in enchanting Bologna, Italy, is the only English bookstore in the city. It’s owned by prickly Sandy Cooke, who keeps love, and even romantic fiction, at a distance. Her employee, timid and hopelessly optimistic Moira, dreams of transforming the struggling shop into a vibrant community hub. Against the odds, one Bolognese summer, it becomes a haven for fellow expats at their own crossroads.

Bianca is a psychotherapist escaping both a breakdown and withering reviews of her new self-help book. On her heels is her father, George, wrestling with retirement—and regrets. He’s had a few, but the light of his life has always been his daughter. Then there’s Harold, a young and awkward barista from Denver recovering from his first belly-flopping high dive into love. Maybe it’s time for reinvention.

At the only English bookstore in Bologna, paths converge for five damaged souls who discover that healing doesn’t require much—just honest connection and an open heart.

And here you go, the brand-new, not-even-uploaded-anywhere cover:

What do you think, amigos? Sound and look like your cup of tea? You can reply in this email or comment in the app.

See you next time,

boo

We will have to wait a little longer to break Cara’s legs.

If you read my last post, Organizing the Madness, Part I (I suggest you do so now if you haven’t), you’ll know that I’ve shed my plotting ways and pantsed my way to the midpoint of my WIP, but I’m now taking a step back and attempting make some sense of the mess I’ve made. I want to make sure I’m making it as difficult as possible on Cara, my protagonist, hence the breaking her legs comment.

Next time, I’ll resume with the second part, but I had to take a surprise side trip to voice a more immediate concern and address some words of wisdom that were passed down from one of my favorite writers on Substack, Tamara. Yes, she’s so cool she has no last name—of which I’m wildly jealous.

Other writers ask if I plot or run free. Do I follow a protocol, a process? Do I always have a logline? Do I strictly adhere to the hero’s journey structure? Do I stop at a certain point and edit what I’ve written or race to the end? If I may pass along any one lesson in all my rambling on craft, it’s that you should not follow an instruction manual. Yes, study the craft and diagnose stories till your mind breaks, but don’t you dare attempt to find a secret sauce that you can apply to every project. Doing so seems to be a way to make things easier, but that’s not what you want. I’m on my sixteenth novel, and this whole gig is as hard as ever—and I suspect that’s for the better.

The only part that’s easier is that I now know there’s a way through. That if I keep pushing every day, I will get to the end. No matter how much of a mess it’s in, I will find a way to edit the manuscript into cohesion and will one day deliver it to readers. Resilience kills writer’s block and sets books in their rightful place on the shelf. Period. Knowing these facts helps.

But the getting there, figuring out where to go with the plot, skillfully building suspense, the bringing of characters to life, the writing of sentences that dazzle, that’s as hard as it ever was.

What I want to convey by this interlude is that you’re starting over every time, and you don’t want to hone your process till you’ve landed on the perfect recipe. You want to light your process on fire. Hell, do the opposite of what you’ve done before. Change it up, be liquid, and go with whatever’s happening in the moment.

Here’s what I mean:

This post was unplanned, but I was gifted some fresh thoughts on where I should go with my WIP. It’s by no means my usual MO to post about my process as a way to seek the answer, but that’s what I’ve been doing. I’ve written out these essays for you—but also for me, as a way to joggle free the right words. It’s a new trick that’s been delightful. On top of that, I never thought someone would chime in and give me such incredible wisdom as Tamara has. But I so welcome it! I’m also making a giant pivot from pantser to plotter as I survey the battlefield of this project from the halfway point.

Years ago, I read Team of Teams: New Rules of Engagement for a Complex World by General Stanley McChrystal, and his words have stuck with me all this time. He suggests that the key to being a great force in battle is adaptability. Yes, soldiers should take what they’ve learned by studying every important battle ever fought, but elite warriors should be able to move with the fluidity of a ballerina. They should be able to take in the uniqueness of the particular situation, studying what’s happening in real time, adapt, and then act quickly.

The times are changing. What I did last book doesn’t necessarily apply to this one. The “your books are like children” cliche has been run into the ground, but seriously, are you going to raise your straight-As, never-breaks-a-rule go-getter the same way you raised your pot-smoking hellion of a teenager? Let’s hope not.

I’ve been adapting from the start of this project. Early on, a voice from inside the story screamed at me that I needed to leave all the rules behind and just go, get to typing, move the fingers, see what happens. Don’t think, don’t plan. Do.

Wait, isn’t that what Maverick teaches Miles Teller in the new Top Gun? [Goes to browser] Yep! Maverick tells Rooster (Goose’s son), “Don’t think, just do!”

The same voice has told me lately, “That’s enough of that.” Maverick now says, “Step back, run a tactical assessment, triple confirm your orders, then make sure you have missile lock on your Russian MIG, and only then pull the trigger.” You see, I’m water. I’m not steering, not by a long shot. I’m simply listening—to Maverick, in this case. Who would have known?

Continuing with the flow, I’d like to share Tamara’s comment to my previous essay and explore how it can help me pave the right path to find an ending for my WIP. She’s suddenly pushed Maverick out of the cockpit, and rightfully so. Even her replies and comments on Substack are worthy of their own platform. Here she goes:

This is the moment most writers misdiagnose as fatigue when it’s actually structural intelligence kicking in. Résistance may be easily seen as a lack of energy. But it’s the psyche refusing to spend narrative capital blindly. Early drafting is appetite-driven. Midpoint work is ethics. You’re no longer asking what happens next, but what must happen to justify what’s already been said. That’s why it feels heavier. And yes, I reiterate, the office really is a psychological gymnasium, and you’ve just increased the weight. The slowdown means the story has found its governing verb (running), and now every scene has to either accelerate that motion or break it. Options multiply right before coherence hardens. That’s selection pressure.

I admire here your instinct to inhale instead of panic-type. Even if writers have imagination, most novels die from over-exploration without consequence… curiosity without a spine. You’ve already located the spine: Cara’s flight reflex. Now the island doesn’t need to offer plot; it needs to remove exits. Community, weather, memory, witnesses, all forms of friction that make running expensive. You don’t need dragons or ghosts; you need social gravity. The torture devices that work the best are sustained exposures: situations where silence costs more than speech, where staying hidden hurts someone she loves, where confession stops being moral and becomes practical. That’s when play turns back into momentum. The muse doesn’t return, in fact she never left, but the story has finally told you what it demands in return.

Yeah, you should read that a few times. She’s a sage, and I’m so honored that she would take the time to post her wisdom into my comments.

Let’s get back to my damaged protagonist Cara and apply a couple of Tamara’s suggestions.

—The governing verb is running. She’s so right about that. “Every scene has to either accelerate or break that motion.” If you’re lucky enough to find a word that captures your story early on, preferably a verb (you rule breakers can use whatever lexical category you like; an adjective?), then you have the keystone that will hold up the rest of the story, the mighty coatrack where you can hang every sentence.

Cara is running. We get that now. How about her husband, Luke? And Lainey? Ah, the dusty gears are kicking into action. Luke has a sense that Cara has always held back truths, but he has no idea what they are. Same with Lainey. But what are the two of them running from—or to? We best know, if we’re going to bring them to the party. To that end, how about Cara’s aunt, who plays a major part in the story? And even the more minor characters. Won’t it be a stronger narrative if I, as the author, have a sense of their relationship to the governing verb?

Not that I need to rub the reader’s face in it, but you can bet I’m going to spend a few days considering how running applies to every character that matters in the story. And as I chase the ending, let’s see how my deep brain weaves in those ties.

If I plot out the rest of the story before I resume drafting—which I’m leaning toward, every scene beat that’s pinned to my cork board will drip with the velvety blood of the verb “running.” And if I simply start going again without an exact structure sorted out, I’ll still have my keystone in mind.

—The island doesn’t need to offer plot; it needs to remove exits.

We’re getting into the guts of it now. I mentioned that my plot could go almost anywhere, and that’s why I needed to recalibrate.

Remember that scene in Star Wars: A New Hope where Luke and company are stuck in the trash compactor and the walls start closing in? What if I make Cara’s family, the island, and its inhabitants the aggressors, closing in around her?

It pushes her to respond, doesn’t it? Her goal arises as she begins to squirm. For the rest of the novel, she’s trying to keep a lid on her secrets. And I, as the author, am trying to rip the lid off! I’m removing exits. That’s plot, the yin and yang.

Here’s how I’m doing that so far:

Cara and family lost their house in California to the fire. Even if they wanted to rebuild, the insurance payment was abysmal, and all contractors are overcharging for their work. The only option they have is to move into the island cottage Cara inherited from her aunt on Salvation Isle in Maine. Little do Luke and Lainey know, Cara experienced something horrifying on Salvation Isle when she was summering there as a seventeen-year-old; it’s the wound that led to a series of terrible mistakes. So Salvation Isle is the last place Cara wants to go. It would be great if they could sell the cottage, but her aunt prevented a sale of any kind in the will.

Do you sense the walls tightening? It’s getting worse by the minute for her. Here are a few more:

- Cara’s intent is to leave Luke, but not until after they get Lainey off to college in a year, as she wants to protect her daughter’s emotions. So Cara’s stuck on the island and in her marriage.

- Someone on the island knows her secrets. The second part of the book will definitely explore how that vulnerability plays out.

- Tamara mentions memory as a form of friction. That’s a great one. Cara’s memories keep bubbling up, and I’ve been showing them in flashbacks. But one crucial set of memories needs to start closing in on her, and it’s how much she and Luke used to love each other. As she starts to recall and hopefully feel their love again, the sustained exposure will begin to eat at her, and her need to confess her sins will grow stronger. She can’t keep lying—which is most often the exit she takes.

As you’ll see, I’ll fuse more of these ideas into the final part of my essay on organizing the madness, but I want you to see what a vulnerable spot I’m in as I carve out next steps. The experience of the last fifteen novels only gets me so far. Only this story matters now, and the answer lies in setting your literary rabbit-ear antenna just right so that you can clear the static.

Analyzing what I’ve written so far is helping. Writing out these thoughts for you is helping. Tamara is playing a part. And I’m hoping, in the course of the next few days, that I’ll have equipped myself with what’s needed to plow ahead.

Can you see that it’s laughable to think you will arrive at a place as a writer or creator where it’s easy, where you can simply tap into the same process time and time again? The muse will laugh at you, and no one wants to be laughed at—especially by her.

Isn’t it fun to blindly run toward the edge of the cliff and leap, fearless and faithful? You might have a plot in hand, you might not, but you’re listening, you’re open, your lightning rod stands tall. You are water, ready to flow wherever the source/She/the universe/He/Spirit guides you.

Let’s end with Terence McKenna’s brilliant words:

“Nature loves courage. You make the commitment and nature will respond to that commitment by removing impossible obstacles. Dream the impossible dream and the world will not grind you under, it will lift you up. This is the trick. This is what all these teachers and philosophers who really counted, who really touched the alchemical gold, this is what they understood. This is the shamanic dance in the waterfall. This is how magic is done. By hurling yourself into the abyss and discovering it’s a feather bed.”

There is no shamanic dance if you’re caught holding a cookie cutter. I can guarandamntee you that.

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A. I just finished Orbital by Samantha Harvey last night, which won the Booker Prize in 2024. What a ride! It’s nearly plotless, more like a glimpse into the lives of six astronauts and cosmonauts during their residency aboard the international space station. I can’t imagine anyone will ever capture life aboard the station better than she has. If you’ve ever been curious, just go. It’s super short, consumable in one sitting, and every single sentence is a master class in writing.

Here’s one of my fave lines:

Somehow, Nell thinks, once you’ve been on a spacewalk, looking at space through a window is never the same. It’s like looking through bars at an animal you once ran with. An animal that could have devoured you yet chose instead to let you into the flank-quivering pulse of its exotic wildness.

Yowzers.

B. I’m wrapping up Anthony Horowitz’s The Word is Murder. It’s incredibly entertaining and clever on so many levels. My favorite element is that he’s written himself, Anthony Horowitz the author, into the story. He gets drawn into an investigation as a sidekick, Watson-type character to the main detective. I highly recommend this book. The narrator is dazzling, if you go that route. I’ll certainly continue the series.

C. I adored the movie, The Materialists, with Pedro Pascal and Dakota Johnson. If you don’t know A24, they’re a production company with the mostess. In a world drowning in superhero movies, they are fighting the good fight and putting out films that matter.

D. Bobby Weir is dead. There have not been many days in my life when I haven’t listened to or hummed or played the guitar with or at least thought about the Grateful Dead. They are so much a part of my life and have been alongside me while I write (and live) for thirty years.

Mikella and I are riddled with sadness but so grateful that Bobby and the fellas left a tremendous and nearly endless catalog of incredible work to explore. The first thing we did upon hearing the news was set Workingman’s Dead on the turntable. Though their live work captures them best, I adore this album.

Cheers!

boo

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I’m 37k words into my WIP, and it’s been a wild downhill slalom on the momentum of curiosity, but I can sense the slowdown, the resistance to keep typing.

“Oh, dear boo, bless your heart, has writer’s block seized your throat? Did the muse go find a younger, more handsome novelist? Did your writerly curiosity die?”

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“No, Master, you crooked-nosed porcupine, my curiosity is still intact. And I’m not blocked. The muse is right where she always is. I’m simply lingering in the beauty of the pause after a creative exhale.”

(This is really what it’s like in my head.)

Anyhow, moving on…

My instincts are telling me I need to step back from drafting. I’m not writing On the Road here. As much as I want to be, I’m not the Jackson Pollock of the lit world; I can’t randomly keep throwing word paint onto the canvas forever.

By the way, you know what’s fun about being here right now? I’m sharing a glimpse into my world in real time. In this moment, I don’t know where my story is going, and as I hammer out my thoughts below, I’m hoping to find a morsel of direction.

Let’s establish a few things: I’m shooting to make this novel shorter than my usual 120k. Not that I’m lazy but because I want to see if I can hit closer to 90k and make my words matter more. Emily St. John Mandel is a master at overdelivering power and good sauce without overwriting. Check out her masterpiece Station Eleven; 333 pages and not a wasted word. I’m reading the 2024 Booker Prize winner, Orbital, and it’s a tiny little thing too, basically a novella, but dear Lord, it packs a punch.

We’ll see if I can limit myself, as I get on a roll and it’s tough to halt. Ideally, my midpoint will be around 45k. Once I go back and feather out the details of what I have, I’ll be close to halfway. Which means I need to quickly smack the midpoint in the face (a topic for the future), then take some giant leaps toward the climax.

I can sort of smell the end, like the scent of the ocean when you draw near, but that’s about it. The goal now is to breathe in the mess I’ve made so far, check my heading, recalibrate, then forge ahead with a stronger vision.

(FYI, I’m trying to share my process and brainstorm without totally spoiling the plot and book for you, as I hope you’ll read it one day. Actually, I hope following me along the way will make the read even more enjoyable.)

How do we know when it’s time for a deep breath during the drafting process? What does the resistance feel like?

We write for a while unencumbered, and there’s this wonderful sense that we know what’s happening. Some of it is obvious in the first part of the book. We had a seed of a story, and then there are inevitable consequences, the this happens, then this must happen idea. But a moment will come when you dry up, when your fingers don’t know where to go, when you’re at a crossroads that must be taken seriously. Or else…

Currently, my savage urge to bang my keyboard around has dimmed. Working on my story is feeling more like work than play. You should see my walk of shame up to the office in the morning. But why, boo? Writing is fun! Yes, it’s fun. But also terrifying and agonizing; it can be war sometimes. As the great sage Tamara suggested to me, my office is really a psychological gymnasium disguised as a study.

Here’s what we’re working with:

My work-in-progress is called Salvation Isle, but we’ll see if that sticks. Assuming I don’t lose my mind or get arrested, it should publish in the late summer of 2027. As a reminder, it’s a story about a woman named Cara who’s been plagued by her hidden past. She’s now in her mid-forties, married, a mother of a teenager, living in California, and struggling in all respects: riddled with guilt, bored with marriage and life, running from an ugly past. She might have kept hiding forever, but a fire takes their home and her community, and in the aftermath, she’s forced into a reckoning.

It’s not that I don’t have options with my story; it’s that I have too many and don’t know which to choose.

Fine, sometimes we have to explore with our writing, knowing we’ll be mashing the hell out of the delete key later. We have to test what it would be like to send our protagonist through different scenarios. Perhaps we need to go down a road for a few thousand words to see if the bell rings. But I don’t want to explore every potential option. Well, it could be fun, but my readers won’t ever see another novel of mine. It’ll be an endless choose-your-own-adventure that will never find its way to print. And I, my dear friends, will be looking for a real job. Boo no want real job.

Remember, boo and all of you: it’s not that I’ve lost control and now in a tailspin toward doom. It’s more like I’ve exhaled a chunk of story onto the page, and it’s time to inhale again, before adding more. We’re simply riding our breath as we create.

So here we go, let’s narrow down the choices.

Cara has come alive in my novel. When I first started, I had a sense of her, mainly because I knew she’d screwed up multiple times when she was younger, and I knew she wasn’t happy with her marriage, but I didn’t quite know her like I do now.

With most books, I’ll spend a month getting to know my character before I type even a word of a new manuscript. Not just a simple questionnaire interviewing my character, asking silly questions about their brand of toothpaste. I’ll do whatever it takes to get into the skin of my character, so that I know them as well as I know myself. I’m aware of what decisions they will make, what they’re thinking, who they trust, who they doubt, when they feel hungry, when they’re tired. I will close my eyes and feel myself in their body, the energy of their limbs in mine. I’m method acting at that point, and it’s a lovely place to be from the outset.

But with this book, simply because I wanted to change it up, I’m following my instincts and letting my fingers fly with less coaching. With each bit of dialogue or internal thought, with each revelation of Cara’s past, I get to know her more.

I can now close my eyes and see through hers. You might think I’m joking, but I’m not. I can feel what it’s like to gather her hair in a ponytail. I hurt when she hurts. Yesterday, I was writing a scene where something awful happens, and I was weeping as if I was actually there, suffering in the same way as Cara.

Now that I do have a hold of her—and now that I’ve come to this natural pause in the creation of the story—it’s a nice place to stop and polish my spectacles.

My WIP has somehow evolved from a dual-timeline to a triple- and now quadruple-timeline structure. (That’s right, I’m a moron who loves inflicting pain upon himself.) I have a strong sense of direction with three of the timelines. Not because I’ve outlined, but because they’ve revealed themselves in my imagination. The outcomes are nearly inevitable. But the main timeline, the one in the present, has come to a complete stop. Aside from the salty bouquet, it’s total darkness up ahead.

After their house burns, Cara and her family move from California to an inherited cottage on an island called Salvation Isle in Maine. This is the guts of the story, their arrival as a broken family of three and how the island and their new community will guide them out of the darkness and usher them toward their elevated selves.

At this point, near the middle, I could go anywhere with the plot, so long as they stay on the island. Their fixed location is just about my only guardrail, other than the obvious: I’m probably not going to bring a dragon into the story, or have a ghost appear.

The first step is to write out what’s happened so far. In other words, pantsers, put your pants back on.

One of my favorite features in Scrivener is the corkboard layout, which allows you to create and organize a series of digital index cards. I’ve used it for so many of my past books when I’m outlining. As you can imagine, it’s not unlike using actual index cards and writing scenes on them, then spreading them out on the floor.

Since I’ve been pantsing, the corkboard has been blank, but that’s changed. I went through my ugly first draft and backfilled the outline using the index cards, including any helpful information, such as the date of the scene and a short summary.

A common thread began to reveal itself in the last few weeks, but sketching out the plot delivered the idea to me like a severed head on a stake. Cara’s main flaw is that she keeps running away. All her life, she’s been running away. (Forget that it’s a cliché flaw; they all are.) What I have now is the throughline of the novel. I know what she’s supposed to learn by the end: she has to stop running and finally face her past. For poor Cara, it’s going to require multiple painful and perhaps even catastrophic confessions. And I now know that everything (or almost everything, as I do like to break rules) that happens to her should push her to the giant revelation that it’s time to come clean.

Let’s dream up some scenarios now.

But first: how enjoyable is this? We get to torture Cara and not go to jail! This is the best gig in the world. Not that I don’t like her, but she needs to grow up.

Like any good literary sadist, we must know which torture devices—narrative torture devices? (Bwahahaha!)—to employ. And we do! Whatever it takes to make her stop running. I’m thinking we start with her legs.

Sadly, we’ve run out of time. Let’s spend a week or two (till the next post) thinking of what awful things could happen to Cara and her family during their year on Salvation Isle. Steeple those fingers and pet your bald cat, you evil villain, you.

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I’ve spent the first part of my early morning enjoying the brilliance of Maggie O’Farrell through her lovely novel Hamnet, and it’s set aglow the warm places in my chest, and it’s from here that I want to send you my love and well wishes as we crawl or jog or leap into new beginnings.

You won’t hear from me about how terrible it is out there right now. There’s enough of that going around. Sure, things could be better, but I have little time for anxiety and fear—certainly none for hatred. There’s too much good to chase, to be done, to be created, in what little time we have.

It’s a wonderful time to be a creator—perhaps the best in history!—just as it is to be a fan, a supporter, a curator of creative output. The juices are flowing, amigos!!!! If you close your eyes and let go of your worries and all the noise and listen and feel—really feel, you might sense that river of creativity and beauty rushing through you.

I feel so blessed to live in a world where Yo-Yo Ma and Bela Fleck and The Cure and Pat Metheny can exist with my new favorite band, Geese. Their album, Getting Killed, might not be for everyone (my wife can’t stand Geese), but it has devoured me this year. Cameron Winters is creating from the absolute core of the divine. And I’m so flipping excited that there are people on Substack with magic ears and a desperate love of music, like Jacqui Devaney and Marc Myers and Stephan Kunze, who lead me to new aural frontiers. They set the stage for my own creativity, as I write best when good music plays loudly through my headphones.

I’m so fortunate to inhabit a world where I can choose to read Maggie O’Farrell, or Tamara, or Anthony Horowitz, or Kevin Kermes when I wake. Or Chris Whitaker, Jess Walters, Wally Lamb, V.E. Schwab, Claire North, EMILY ST. JOHN MANDEL!

Frank Conroy’s Body & Soul came into my life this year, by way of a former high school teacher at St. Andrew’s-Sewanee called Tom Gladstone, who stoked my love for music and the written word when I was still trying to find my way as a lost seventeen year old who’d been booted out of another school for leaning a hair too far into vive la résistance. (Maybe I’ll tell you that story over a glass of gamay one day; you’ll have to come find me in Maine.) Though it was published long ago, Body & Soul will always stand at the top of the art I discovered in 2025. I’m not sure I’ll ever experience something else so profound. Every sentence dazzles.

Another book that hit me hard was Dr. James Doty’s Mind Magic. It’s a tragedy that we lost him this year, but his message lives on. I’ll share with you one of my favorite lines from his book, the lesson that took him sixty-plus years to learn:

Only when we believe we are enough in ourselves do we find the ability to contribute to life, but only in contributing to our world do we discover we are inherently enough.

How is it even possible that humans can create epic movies like One Battle After Another and Jay Kelly? Especially in a time when it’s hard to get movies made. Don’t even get me started on Task from HBO. That show shattered me, tore me apart. I’m only now sleeping okay again. But I’m also still caught up in its spell, as Task was such a mind-bending feat of storytelling. Find me a television series that does a better job at building out each character and creating empathy.

I can’t avoid mentioning Taylor Sheridan too. I love that we live in a time where he can keeping making whatever the hell he wants to. Oh, and let’s not forget the production company, A24, who has the Midas Touch when it comes to the camera. If you haven’t seen Past Lives yet, what are you still doing here? I’ll happily consume whatever they put on the screen. And Stranger Things! Give me, give me, give me! Soooo good!

I am beyond grateful that I’m allowed to partake in this creative energy that exists right now. How is it that little ol’ boo walker from Spartanburg, South Carolina can be living this life, writing stories for a living, being supported by a wonderful agent and publisher who believe in him, a readership who will go almost anywhere with him, and friends and family who embrace even the worst parts of him, while taking it all in with the woman of his dreams and a child that fills every corner of every cell of his existence with hope and joy and love?

I’m thankful that YOU are here, reading my words, partaking in all this lovely energy too. And I hope with all of me that you’re finding the light in the darkness, the glittery specks of awe that flash when we’re open to seeing them. If you’re not already there, I hope you’re on your way to finding exactly what it is you’re supposed to be doing here on this big bright blue ball.

I’m getting closer. I’m shedding more and more of my ego. I’m creating art that is unfiltered, that’s soul deep, that is exactly and only and truly me, while at the same time, I’m determined to make all of it—my writing, my living—less about me, hoping that I might simply serve as a creative vessel, a mere literary garden hose pointed toward my screen.

And my desire, as we step forward into the unknown of a new year, is that I may shine my light brighter, that I may open my heart wider, that I might create something new that makes a difference to someone out there, even if that’s simply to give them a brief respite from what hurts.

If you have a moment, tell us about yourself in the comments section. It’s time to start building this community of artists and art lovers. Who are you? What are you trying to do? And what can I do for you in the coming year here on Substack? What topics can I cover? What fears of mine or yours can I explore?

I’m eager to get started.

But for now, I’m signing off from 2025 and going to put all I have into my family and our little extraordinary life.

Peace and love and gratitude to you,

boo

What are we creatives doing here? I often ponder this question, as I examine the balance between writing/creating for ourselves and for our audience.

Quentin Tarantino and Taylor Sheridan are exceptional creators because they do it their way, unapologetically, and make movies and TV shows they themselves want to watch. I’m sure Stephen King is the same way. All of their work glows with authenticity.

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On the other hand, many artists create to market. What does that mean? You could almost think of these makers as being led by their left brains or by their accountants. They study trends, such as the soaring trajectory of romantasy, and write exactly what is popular at the moment, even if they aren’t feeling such a calling in their heart. Film producers, directors, and actors are especially guilty of following the money right now, as illustrated by the abundance of superhero flicks. Not that all of them are selling out. I’m sure they’re having fun on set, and they’re certainly providing entertainment to a large audience, like my son, who can’t get enough Marvel and DC.

No judgment here. Jon Favreau and Emily Blunt, if you’re reading this, I love you. Big action movies are making all the dough while arthouse films, sadly, are dying slow deaths in theaters. If you want to tell stories for a living, you’ll have better luck lasting in your profession if you cater to demand. And maybe your destiny is to make lucrative art that will allow you to do good deeds with your cash. As the breadwinner of my family, I agree that we must let our accountant play a part. Otherwise, we’ll have to reset and find a new career. I can’t imagine what else I’d do! Tennis coach? Homicide detective? Your next Spiderman?

I myself am compromising. I likely won’t surprise my audience with a dystopian-zombie novel next year, despite my desperate urge to write one. I may down the line, but it will be under a pen name to avoid jarring my upmarket fiction readers. On a subtler level, I’m aware my books with a female protagonist appeal more to my audience, so why wouldn’t I at least consider that fact when I’m deciding who will be the hero of my next story? I sometimes rein in my potty mouth (I didn’t on my forthcoming one—my apologies, Dad!), knowing that one too many F-words will turn some readers away. And I’m careful not to take sides with regard to religion or politics. (That’s not only because I don’t want to alienate people; I strongly adhere to an “all are welcome here” policy with my art.)

So I’m indeed playing the game, but I draw a big line when it comes to how much I’m willing to sacrifice. You won’t ever hear me say, “Yeah, I’m not making what I want, but I’m laughing all the way to the bank.” Actually, I kind of wish I could take on that attitude, but I’m more the mindset that I will create what resonates with all of me and hopefully others will get it. There are far easier ways to make a buck than to force myself to write books that don’t spew from the depths of my essence. Ugh, it’s so freaking hard to be an artist, isn’t it?

This is where we need to revisit what put us in the creative chair in the first place. I’m convinced we can’t only create for us if we’re to achieve our best. I suspect even Tarantino and Sheridan and King have their audience in mind and enjoy sharing their gift. You know King loves scaring the shit out of us. Yes, I cherish the act of writing, of falling into flow every day, and coming up for air at the end to marvel at this creation that I’ve made. It’s an addictive cycle that I repeat yearly. But I also love impacting readers.

No, I’m not an ER nurse or a teacher. The world doesn’t necessarily need me. I’m just little ol’ me, little ol’ Boo Walker, an artist who wants to share his work with the world.

Let’s ponder the idea of serving others as a life’s purpose and how it applies to novelists (and other artists). Service is a thread that runs through nearly every spiritual tradition—religious or not—and at its core is love. I’m far from perfect, but when I’m seeing clearly, love is what drives me, what guides me.

I’m not saving lives or standing in front of a chalkboard gifting knowledge to the youth of the world in hopes of making it a better place. I’m merely giving readers a chance to leap into an imaginary world, but it’s still an offering. It’s me narrowing in on my potential and sharing my light into the world.

Offering an escape to fellow humans is a beautiful reason to get out of bed, especially these days. How nice it is that we can give people a safe place to go. Well, sort of. There may be murder, but even in my darkest stories, you’ll find light.

I push it one step further with my work. My specific charge is to give people an escape while also slipping in an injection of love, hope, and optimism. When I’m taking my last breaths or when I lie down in my chamber to be cryogenically frozen, I would like to look back and know that I made life a little easier for a few people. That’s all little ol’ me can ask for. I firmly believe this is my calling. Sorry, Ma, it’s not looking like I’ll be the one to defeat cancer.

Back to striking the balance between writing for me and writing for my audience—and I’m strictly speaking for me now… (You have to find your balance, your truth.)

I must write for me. I must create art that vibrates on my frequency, that screams “BOO WALKER!” As Oscar Wilde said, “Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.” I must sit down and put words on the page without worrying about the reception it will receive a year later. I have to forget that my parents will read my book and share it with their friends, that if my book flops, my nuclear family might have to tighten our purse strings. To fulfill my purpose, I need to first let the outside world go, then climb into my literary drilling rig, bore a hole into the subsurface of my soul, and find the holy oil that will populate my sentences. That’s it!

But…

Since my mission involves my reader, I have to consider them while I’m drilling.

Just as Pink Floyd offered a dazzling light show, I like to sculpt my story in a way to enhance the experience for my reader. Though I could talk about the details of the acoustic guitar in my hero’s hands for four pages, the reader doesn’t want to endure that. There are times when I delete sections that I adored writing and equally enjoy reading, but I know they won’t hit my readers the same way. Here comes my delete button. Kill those darlings, baby!

More importantly, I want to be a puppeteer for my reader’s emotions. As I’m writing, and even more often when I’m editing later drafts, I love to consider what they are feeling. Have I created tension? Am I holding it too long? Have I pushed her to tears or do I need to push harder? Are they laughing? Is the joke too subtle, too obvious? Is the sentence too long? Despite it working technically, will it trip him up and pull him out of the story? Am I ending my chapter in a way that will make them want to push forward? Will they close the book with a bit more hope in their heart? Perhaps a desire to be a better person? Will they find pieces of my characters in themselves? Will they feel more connected to the world?

Abraham Lincoln always delivered speeches by considering his audience. He understood what the specific group in front of him wanted or needed to hear. And he knew how to penetrate their ribcage and get at their heart. How fun is it to write in such a way!

As we sculpt our mini-masterpieces, we must consider what a reader will take away from our words, how the roller coaster of emotions we put them through will affect them. If done correctly, perhaps we can mine into what hits us all, those deeply rooted pressure points that give rise to our war to be better humans.

That’s the dance, amigos.

What’s your why? You certainly don’t need mine, but I can’t help but think most artists want to heal themselves while also making the world a better place. Isn’t our purpose on this earth to shine our light a little brighter each day, to serve those around us? How are you going to do that?

There’s a certain power you can tap into if you enter a creative session with the mindset that you’re going to go unfiltered into this world, shining your light unabashedly, being yourself like no one else can, so that—SO THAT—you may give your audience a brief respite from the world, and even a shot of love, or perhaps a new perspective, a glimmer of hope, a challenge to make amends with a friend, or themselves, a chance to see how someone else views the world.

There’s a favorite quote of mine that I think belongs here, though you might have to do the work to tie it in. Dr. James Doty wrote in his wonderful book Mind Magic:

Only when we believe we are enough in ourselves do we find the ability to contribute to life, but only in contributing to our world do we discover we are inherently enough.

When you crack open your next blank page or canvas, or when you next grab your guitar to set out to write a song, run the idea up your spine that we are here to contribute and serve. You might just find a power that you never knew before.

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To be a novelist is to live in a world of external and self-imposed deadlines, whether you’re under the gun with a seven-figure contract like Taylor Jenkins Reid or stabbing out your first attempt on a commute to the city.

Deadlines are the difference between a published work and one that hides half-finished under the bed. They are what get the job done, so you better find a way to love them.

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Though I’m fifteen novels into this absurd passion, I won’t claim to be an expert novelist, but I am an expert on deadlines because I’ve been making a living under highly demanding conditions for ten years now, writing at least one lengthy book a year—sometimes two when my Icarus Complex kicks in.

Allow me to share how my relationship with them has evolved, as you might learn something from my agony. Please let me save you heartache.

In the year COVID arrived, I was working on a novel called The Singing Trees, which wound up being my most successful book to date, selling hundreds of thousands of copies. Getting there, however, was…not pretty.

A few challenges stood in my way that year, in addition to what COVID had brought to all our lives. The Singing Trees was my sophomore effort for my new publisher, Lake Union. I’d nailed the previous book, An Unfinished Story, so I felt serious pressure to outdo it and prove that I was unstoppable. In addition, my wife, young son, and I were obtaining visas to move to Spain, and I was about to leave my day job to write full time.

In other words, I’d better not screw up.

The toughest part of The Singing Trees was attempting to tackle almost more than I could handle (my first historical fiction, first dual timeline, a female point of view, etc.) in a tight nine-month window. I narrowly made my first deadline, submitting the manuscript for a developmental edit by fellow Writer Unboxed contributor, the magnificent Tiffany Yates Martin. “I’m lost,” I said to her. “I know there are good pieces here, but the propulsive throughline is missing. Should I toss this thing out and go to med school?”

She gave me multiple therapy sessions (dev editors are also psychotherapists) and ultimately, saved the day, helping me see what had been right in front of my face. Apropos the nearly impossible timeline in which I was supposed to rescue my heap of litdung, she tried to suggest I ask for an extension. I didn’t listen.

Being new to the publisher, I didn’t want to be late. More importantly, I’d designed a beautifully liberating October day as the time I turned my book in, left my day job, and began again overseas. Therefore, I’d do whatever it took to stay on track.

The pressure, coupled with my devotion, catapulted me into the heart of the story; the fictional world became my reality. I wasn’t sure if I was Boo or Annalisa, the protagonist in my WIP. I heard her voice in my head, felt her fingers when I typed. Thankfully, my supportive family cheered me on, let me hide in my office, and delivered meals like I was in prison. One day, in a caffeine-induced frenzy, I wrote eight-thousand words. That, my friends, is a big day, and no way could I have done it without a deadline.

Let’s be clear, though. Yes, I was often able to tap deep into my creativity, and the book resonated with readers, but I had to wade through a swamp of fear to get there. What if my instincts under duress fail me? What if this novel doesn’t sell like the last? What if I don’t have what it takes to create at my best under deadline?

Unaware that I could have made the process far easier on myself, I was over-caffeinated, detached from the real world, and fully embracing the tortured-artist cliché. As you can imagine, I wasn’t easy to live with and didn’t take care of my body or mind. COVID was happening all around me, but I was completely out of touch.

And my arms started hurting. Like, no kidding, serious pain in my forearms when I typed. That scared the shit out of me, especially considering this was my new gig, the one that would pay our bills. If you follow me, you know I’d already lost my first career as a musician due to a hand issue, so I knew exactly the emotional toll. With a few weeks left to Liberation Day, I was barely sleeping, the story running through me at all hours, and I was popping Advil multiple times daily to cool the pain so that I could keep mashing keys.

Guess what. I survived the deadline. Barely.

But even as our plane to Europe climbed through the clouds, I knew I had to make big changes. That nightmare wasn’t sustainable. I couldn’t put myself or my family through that again. I couldn’t keep hitting pause on my real life every time a deadline appeared on the horizon.

Spain was the first to rescue me. We Americans can be guilty of letting our work define us. Most Spaniards aren’t like that. They work to live, not the other way around. Hanging around new Spanish friends, and even the expats who’d adapted this more laidback mindset, I realized I was taking myself too seriously.

Yes, writing means everything to me. I write because I have no choice. Art is my salvation. But dear God, Boo, there’s more to life than words! And your literary output doesn’t define you. You’ll be okay even if a typo, a passive sentence, an error, or a plot hole sneaks into a published book for all the world to see. Please, no! Or if your book doesn’t hit the top one hundred, or if everyone hates it. Even if I didn’t write a thing, or if I never had a bestseller, or never hit a deadline, I’d still be okay. The earth would keep spinning.

Spain gave me the wonderful gift of not caring as much, allowing me to detach from the worry of missing a deadline—and the outcome of the book, in general. Writing had to be fun, or what was the point?

Then a guru named Ruth Chiles entered my life. Spain softened me; Ruth transformed me. Now living in Valencia, I was in the early stages of working on A Spanish Sunrise, my third book for Lake Union, and I was determined to tackle, no, dance with it more gracefully. I shared the details of my often horrific experience, including the arm pain, and admitted I was terrified of losing this career that meant everything to me.

Ruth helped me reframe the idea of deadlines. We acknowledged the intensity and intimidating nature of the word itself: DEADLINE. It implies that you will reach a point in your creative endeavor where you will die, where monsters wait to sever your head.

Will deadlines actually kill you? No. What happens if you don’t hit one? You might beat yourself up. Your publisher might label you as a problem author. They might push back your pub date. But no author, to my knowledge, ever died by missing a deadline.

Ruth suggested we use a racing analogy and call them pit stops instead of deadlines. You don’t perish when you take a pit stop. You’re simply stopping for fuel, new tires, and a few repairs. Often, a deadline means there are people waiting for you. They’re not monsters with swords who will berate you for your inadequacies. Like Tiffany, they’re professional editors, agents, publishers, and early readers who are invested in you and want your book to be better.

My goodness, that concept was a revelation, and to this day, I still cling to it. I can’t wait to hit a deadline because I know that the team around me is waiting to do whatever it takes to send me back on the track anew.

I mentioned that I had become absorbed into my fictional world during The Singing Trees. That can be wonderful. I mean, not for my family, because my ADHD is on fire, but when you’re under deadline in healthy terms, you have an unstoppable momentum. You wake each day with itchy typing fingers, motivated to stay on track, despite distractions. It’s in this state of flow where the storytelling juju happens.

Also, having a deadline pushes you when you’re running on empty. Yesterday was the most important deadline of my WIP, my response to the first round of edits. Sadly, I still didn’t have the ending right. I hacked away all morning, desperate to fire off the book to my new editor so I could enjoy a couple of weeks off, but the right words were stuck somewhere in my head.

I fixed a severed irrigation pipe in the yard, then went at it again. Nada. I had lunch, took a long walk, then tried again and failed. I’d shake loose those words if it took me all night. An hour before we had to leave for my son’s dance class, I made tea and once again tried to tap in. Finally, flow! What a magical exchange, a breaking of bread with the universe. The words had simply been waiting to see how badly I really wanted them. Ah, the loving push of deadlines!

You know that song “Purple Hat” by Sofi Tukker? “People dancing on the people, I got people on the people, with the people on the people.” I now make up my own deadlines and have deadlines for the deadlines on the deadlines.

I use a Pomodoro timer to stack a series of twenty-five-minute, uninterrupted sprints into my morning. And I don’t quit for the day till I hit a certain word count. For me, that’s usually around three thousand words. These daily practices are essentially micro-deadlines. It should be said that I don’t beat myself up if I don’t achieve those goals. Sometimes, the bird don’t sing.

Beta readers are a wonderful opportunity to ramp up pressure. I have twenty-one seasoned readers right now. I break them up into groups and notify them weeks in advance which day they’ll see a version of my working manuscript. They’re amazing cheerleaders and always eager to see what I’m working on, so I push hard and stay at it extra-long each day to deliver the best manuscript I can.

Being pushed also keeps you from overthinking. Guess what: your words and sentences and stories will never be perfect. A deadline will force your analytical mind to take a much-needed time out, so that you can have some fun and get something on the page. Who cares if it’s rubbish!

For this last book, I came up with a fun idea to help me reach “The End” before my first deadline. I shared the details with my readers, told them I had to write 3-4k words a day for three weeks. Then I gave updates along the way. Not because I enjoy self-flagellation, but because adding friendly pressure can bring out the best.

My arm pain went away within weeks of moving to Spain and meeting Ruth, and though a few deadlines still rattle me, I’m far more comfortable with them. They don’t need to be scary. They’re lovely, cuddly puppies waiting to greet you when you get home. They’re the fuel you need to keep going when you’d rather binge The Morning Show and eat popcorn.

And don’t forget the celebrations. What’s better than hitting a deadline, then whipping up a charcuterie board and pulling the cork on your favorite bottle of wine? The more deadlines the better, come to think of it.

Ultimately, pit stops achieve what Steven Pressfield insists in The War of Art is the most important part of being a writer: getting your butt in the chair.

(This article was originally published on Writer Unboxed, where I am a regular contributor.)

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I’m cracking into my new project today, so it’s the perfect time to dive into how to grow your spiffy little story idea into a hundred-thousand-ish-word effort that might stand the test of time.

This is my fave part of the process: watering the seeds of a novel, cranking tunes, drawing out mind maps, exploring a billion What-ifs?, free writing, having long conversations with ChatGPT, tearing through books, movies, plays, and TV shows, pacing back and forth while mumbling to myself, creating fresh voices, slipping into the skin of new characters—syncing my heartbeat to theirs.

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I am now Cara, a forty-two-year-old Californian with slightly anxious tendencies who has no idea how bad it’s about to get in her life. Everything she’s been hiding will be blown wide open, leaving her and her family to pick up the broken pieces a long way from what they once called home.

On the topic of character, I committed to names a couple of weeks ago for my mains: Cara, Luke, and Lainey. And I like to pair them with a face on the internet. Sometimes, it’s a random person I find while searching applicable keywords, other times I might have a famous person in mind. The bonus there is you get a sense of how they speak and move and even a glimpse into their personality.

In the early drafts, I couldn’t quite find the voice of Annalisa, the protagonist in my novel, The Singing Trees, but she suddenly came alive after I watched an episode of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and realized they shared a similar sense of humor. As I rewrote sections of dialogue, I imagined the hilarious Mrs. Maisel speaking. Cracking that code gave Annalisa the verve she needed and created so many laugh-out-loud moments, making the writing experience intensely enjoyable. Of course, if it weren’t for me putting it out there now, no one would ever know I’d injected some of Mrs. Maisel’s DNA into Annalisa. The best artists steal anyway, right?

For my WIP, Mr. Mark Ruffalo is a sure bet for Luke. The casting decision was actually a request from the real-life person on whom Luke is loosely based. Smart, quirky, sensitive, warm. A professor type. Perhaps a bit aloof. I’m not sure on Lainey yet, but I see straight sandy blond hair that falls well past her shoulders. For some reason, I also see her wearing big headphones, hiding from the world. Note to self: I need to figure out what she’s listening to.

I’m thinking Jennifer Lawrence would play a mean Cara, but we’ll see. She’s the big one, the make-or-break hero, so I need to feel her in my bones before I get started. Later today, I’ll spend some time watching Jennifer Lawrence clips and interviews, seeing if she makes sense. Or I might start over and search images of women in their forties till a bell rings in my head, saying, “Yep, that’s her!”

Sure, these decisions might change, but I like settling on names and faces (and even voices) early on, so they can seep into my subconscious.

Another great trick for getting to know your people is to let them speak through you. I don’t necessarily work out all the details of my cast’s histories, but I like to free-write for a while in first-person from each of their perspectives, exploring their beliefs, their loves and hates, their strengths and weaknesses. Even more minor characters. It’s amazing how doing so breathes life into them, like plugging an air pump into a blow-up doll.

Before we get too carried away, let’s take a step back and consider the project from a wider purview. One call I like to make early on is my angle of attack. How am I going to let this tale unravel?

Choosing your narrative stance—the point of view and tense—is a big one. Remember, these decisions can always change; you’re not wasting your time. I wrote my first thriller, Lowcountry Punch (published under pen name Benjamin Blackmore) in third-person past, then totally rewrote it in first-person past. Guess what? It only got better, as I was forced to rethink each sentence, so don’t worry about making a bad call. Most of the time, you’ll know after a few pages if you’ve gone in the wrong direction. I like changing it up with each book, as a fresh choice brings out a different vibe. Besides, who doesn’t like compounding challenges? For some reason, I never make it easy on myself.

Yesterday, I decided to start free writing the opening scene of the book, which had come to me a few days earlier. Without any thought at all, the tale sprung from my fingers in first-person present, a narrative mode I’ve not used before. As they say, there’s a wonderful sense of immediacy, and it felt right in my bones—at least for one of the two timelines.

This one’s a dual-timeline novel, meaning it will feature two separate stories woven together across time. As I did with An Echo in Time, which was also dual timeline, I’ll use present tense for the present-day story and past tense for the earlier part. It makes the time jump easier on the reader.

My advice to you: don’t be a lunatic like me and feel like you have to go outside of your comfort zone and change it up with each book. If you’re just getting started, spin your first tale or two in third-person past and go from there. For God’s sake, don’t write dual timeline. It’s twice the work!

The other big decision that needs to be made early on is how you’re going to arrive at your plot. Maybe I’ll one day add to the robust surplus of words dedicated to plotting versus pantsing, but today, I’ll keep it rather simple.

I’ve most often been a plotter and heavy organizer. You ought to see this Excel sheet I created last year that prompts me to hash out flaws, wants, needs, wounds, motivations, etc. When you write under deadline like I do, I try to minimize the amount of words I’ll have to delete later by spreading all the pieces of the puzzle onto the table. Even when I follow an outline, I typically axe upwards of fifty thousand words during the editing process. God knows how much chopping I’d have to do if I played the discovery game like Stephen King, writing without a sense of what happens next.

That being said, each book seems to take me further from following a particular regimen. I used to be tied to the story beats of Blake Snyder’s Save the Cat!, which is a distilled version of Christopher Vogler’s The Writer’s Journey, which is a distilled version of Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces. In tackling the last few novels, I’ve followed the general idea of a hero’s journey, but I’m not tied to the beats in a systematic way. As they say, you can break the rules once you know them. After publishing nearly two million words, I’d like to think I can follow my instincts more.

With this book, I have a strong urge to set myself free. In my current genre, which I like to call high-impact fiction, or upmarket fiction (others like to say book club or women’s fiction—the latter of which I really don’t like), the beauty is it’s actually genreless. There are no tropes I must follow, no guardrails keeping me on a specific track. Hell, you don’t even need clear external goals, a narrative component nearly every writing craft book out there crams down your throat as essential.

So no, I don’t need to follow a recipe. I might have one character who only has an internal goal—or none at all—and another that might switch external goals every fifty pages. It can all work!

Ultimately, my own external goal is to write a page-turner while sneaking in a few eloquent lines that might be worthy of the muck on the bottom of Pat Conroy’s loafers. Okay, I’ll never write a line that great, but I’ll keep trying. Anyway, there are infinite ways to create a page-turner. Don’t you dare let your OCD win and think that you have to follow the latest rule book.

There’s a quote that’s been knocked around for a century or more, perhaps first said by playwright George Abbott, that captures the essence of story well.

“In the first act, get your hero up a tree; in the second, throw rocks at him; in the third, get him down.”

Let’s stop overthinking things. Just do what he says! That’s my intent with this one. My simple outline will mostly consist of a bunch of rocks that I’m going to throw at Cara and the gang.

I’ll also spend some time imagining the end, see if I can get a sense of the climax—even a a few vivid images. Right now, a big part is Cara and Luke rediscovering the love they have for each other, so there will inevitably be an emotional scene when they finally break down the last wall standing between them.

Sometimes, simply by knowing our character’s flaws, we can get an idea of their ending. I’m unsure on Cara’s issues right now, but if her flaw is that she runs from everything in her life, then she’ll need to stop running and finally face her demons…or daddy issues. Having a feel for the ending can be a north star guiding you home.

To summarize, I now know my humans, how to attack them up in the tree, and how to get them back down without breaking too many bones. Now I’m ready to jump in and get going, without worrying much more about formula. I may or may not follow the outline. As I heard someone say recently, what would I have to stray from if I didn’t have an outline?

Let’s see how this goes. Like my last book, I might smack into a wall at thirty-thousand words and have to back up and get super-detailed with my preparation, re-hashing the outline and all the moving pieces in a big way. But I like the idea of going after it untethered with this one. A tiger with a laptop let out into the wild.

All these rules we study are great, and you need to know them, but at some point, we’re simply trying to write a story that snatches the reader from reality and throws them into our imaginary world in awestruck fashion. How do we do that? By letting it snatch us, the writer, away from reality first. In other words, readers won’t get chill bumps or shed tears unless you do first. Last I checked, their chill bumps and tears don’t care if your midpoint falls right at the fifty-percent mark of if your external goal isn’t tangible enough.

So put in some prep time, then turn off the critical part of your brain, slip on the skin of your character, jump into the story, and get those digits moving.

Hell, break every freaking rule out there. Write art-house anti-pop if you want. Unless you’re trying to pay the bills. I guess you need to decide that too—your end goal. What are you trying to accomplish? Is this for Mom and your crazy aunt Loopah? Or are you setting your sights on dethroning J.K. Rowling? Heeding to some sort of structure will likely make your work more appealing to the masses.

There is no right answer. That’s the concept you need to keep telling yourself. There is no one right way. Seriously, tattoo that on your flipping forehead in bright red. I wish I had early on, though my wife might not have so easily fallen into my spell. Feel free to type out a hundred-page outline or try to outdo me with an even more detailed Excel sheet, capturing every meal your hero had since birth. Or, don’t spend one second of your precious time planning. Open up a blank page and let her rip.

All I can do is share what’s working for me right now and how I got here. Now go on and start hacking away at your masterpiece.

P.S. First thing I did this morning was change the name on my Alexa from my previous protagonist, Sandy, to Cara. Now my wife has to “drop in to Cara” if she wants to speak to me. Commit, folks!

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