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.
2 Responses
Boo (if I may so bold),
As a novelist with serious writer’s block staring at five unfinished novels and a widow, I found your book hard to read at first. I wrote my first novel when my husband was dying. It was published by what I later learned was almost a vanity press, and when the publisher died, I republished it myself. I am a stickler for grammar, and the only comment I have is that your work is excellent (but please put “of” between couple and whatever time, as in couple OF minutes). By the time I finished your book, I have revisited my dead husband with joy as I let the happy memories we shared surface. I am also determined to get over this stagnation. Thank you for that! I will leave you a good review, but I wanted to let you know how much I appreciate you.
Sincerely,
Lanna Richards (Heart of Stones)
I’ve very touched by your note. Thank you. I’m so glad it hit home for you.
Regarding the grammar, I believe the only instances of missing “of” after a couple is in dialogue, which was intentional in that case, as that is how we heard them speaking. Sorry if it drove you crazy! Hopefully, there weren’t any such errors in the actual non-dialogue writing. Nevertheless, keep in touch and keep writing!