Wine Writer

Boo Walker

After picking the five-string banjo in Charleston and Nashville and then a few years toying with Wall Street, Boo chased a wine dream across the country to Red Mountain in eastern Washington with his dog, Tully Mars. They landed in a double-wide trailer on five acres of vines, where Boo grew out a handlebar mustache, bought a horse, and took a job working for the Hedges family, who taught him the art of farming and the old world philosophies of wine. Recently leaving his farm on Red Mountain, Boo and his family are back on the east coast in what’s called the Portland of Florida, St. Pete. As he wraps up the second book of the Red Mountain series, he’s got his eyes and ears open, building his next cast of characters. No doubt the Sunshine City will be host to the next few novels. The author of Lowcountry Punch, Off You Go, Turn or Burn, and Red Mountain, Boo’s novels are instilled with the culture of the places he’s lived, the characters he’s encountered, and a passion for unexpected adventure.

Jonathan Lowe) You’ve always wanted to write, but you’re involved in the winery business. Have a friend named Jeff Davis who has a wine show in Napa area. Did you start with articles or fiction?

Boo Walker) I used to play music in Nashville for a living with a band called the Biscuit Boys. My first taste of the creative process and putting words together was writing songs. When I left that career, I had to fill the void. Being a voracious reader, I always wanted to try my hand writing fiction. So I went from songs to full-length fiction.

JL) Anything happen at the winery itself that could be described as “mysterious” or “suspenseful?”

BW) There’s always things that happen at the winery with a sense of suspense or mystery. Our winemaker was nearly killed by the press one year. A year before that, someone stole our neighbor’s grapes, picking them at midnight during harvest. I’ve seen wars waged between humans that may not resolve themselves for generations. Eastern Washington is desert country, the wild west. We have coyotes that will track you, we have badgers that will maul you, and we have rattlesnakes that linger in the grass. Even though Red Mountain is a tiny blip on the map, the potential stories are endless!

JL) Drinking a bit helped me with live interviews, and many writers have been aided by wine in loosening up the free flow of ideas. Red or white for this?

BW) Ha! The best interviews always begin with a glass of white. But I have a steadfast rule… no drinking while writing. Even Hemingway stuck to that.

JL) Favorite authors? Influences?

BW) My favorite author for many years has been Pat Conroy. We share pasts in Charleston together. If I could emulate one writer, it would be him. But I read Plum Island by Nelson Demille while traveling through Ireland after high school, and it gave me the thirst. I was in Waterville on the west coast, and I remember thinking that I had to write a book. Not that I could or should, but that I had to. So I owe him a lot. My favorite book right now though, one that has utterly blown me away, is A Gentleman in Moscow. I’ve never felt so motivated as a writer. Amor Towles puts words together in ways that make my eyes water. The way his mind works is pure art and genius. And most importantly, he’s reminded me to be free in my writing. I don’t need to subscribe to any particular way of doing things. I need to write from the heart and let my voice shine.

JL) Your wine is carried at Whole Foods, bought by Amazon. Some of your characters are in wineries, too. Ever thought about sending a case to Jeff Bezos? He might buy movie rights.

BW) I love the idea of sending wine to Bezos! I sent him an email one time; he never responded. Perhaps a box of wine would do the trick!

JL) Hobbies? What’s next for you?

BW) I’m halfway way through the sequel to Red Mountain. Once that’s wrapped up, I’ll be writing a few books from my new home in St. Pete, Florida. After many years in Washington, my wife and I decided to take a new adventure. So I’m getting out and about in St. Pete, learning the history, the culture, the people. And then I’m going to throw it all in a blender and see what kind of fiction comes out. I always tell my new friends that they better be careful what they tell me, because I’m always looking for new material. Other than writing, I still play some music and absolutely thrilled to be buying my son his first guitar this Christmas. My newest hobby will be teaching him everything I know!

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A Poem by RAY BRADBURY

Saddened to hear of the death of Ray Bradbury. He was a child at heart, a genius, an inspiration. Here is the poem he sent me once, besides answering every letter I wrote him as a young beginning writer in awe of his stories. He was the real deal. Fantastic, universal, with an unerring sense of what matters most in the human heart.

Ray Bradbury

Jonathan Lowe

poetry

by Jonathan Lowe

(em)Powered by Ray Bradbury

iBooks

When Ray Bradbury was interviewed about Fahrenheit 451, he said that the book wasn’t about censorship, as is widely believed, but rather about his fear that television was lowering our attention span and incinerating our imagination.  “There are worse things than burning books,” he said, “and one of these is not reading them.”  And so I dedicate my novella “Who Moved My TV?” to Ray Bradbury, whose work inspired me to write, and who once signed his response to a letter I sent him, (mentioning I’d never really known my father), with “your honorary papa.”  The novella features two rats who become more intelligent as the bachelor living in the home they’ve invaded watches ever more television…and becomes dumber by the day.
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Once upon a time, not long ago nor far away, there lived two sewer rats whose names were Duff and Tuff. Like most ignorant rodents looking to survive, they didn’t always have names, nor were they always friends. In fact, neither of them had even so much as sampled dumpster nachos together until one day a rain surge flooded the tunnel into which they’d run, and ejected them from their dark culvert, high up onto a soggy lawn in the forbidden daylight of Overground.
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At first the two were terrified, and unable to move. They just looked at each other for the first time, splayed out as they were on the wet grass, with their slick hair matted down. Then the one to be known as Duff said, “you ugly.”
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Oddly, this statement got no reaction, even though it occurred somehow to Duff himself that it wasn’t a very nice (much less constructive) observation to make. Here, in the daymare realm of suburban lunacy, it had just seemed so appropriate that Duff felt no guilt at all. So he repeated himself. “Did you hear me?” Duff asked. “I said ‘you ugly.'”
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Now the other rat, as yet immobile, merely stared past him at the drainage culvert from which they had both been ejected, yet seemed to feel no disgrace or outrage at Duff’s statement. And when he finally did reply, it was with another odd question. which was, “What’s ugly?”
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Duff was puzzled by this response, and then felt a sense of awe overwhelming his terror as he realized that he really shouldn’t know what the word ugly meant, either. After all, with what was he making a comparison? Considering it, Duff eventually concluded that there was something about being here–on this beautiful green lawn in broad daylight–that had somehow influenced such thoughts. Perhaps the very act of noticing how beautiful it was had somehow done it, if not considering the very concept of beautiful. In any event, the next thing he said was, “You Tuff.”
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“Tuff?” asked Tuff, perplexed.
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Duff sighed, having noticed that Tuff had not only lifted his head, (while dodging the insults hurled at him), but had also managed to stand and swish his tail, allowing a warm breeze heated by the sun to dry out his fur. Duff tried to stand up himself, and failed.
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“Tuff,” repeated Tuff, noticing how pathetic his new companion now looked by comparison. “I guess I am Tuff!” Then he frowned, which in sewer rats consisted of flashing one’s lower teeth. “But you. . . you better get up off your duff and act tuff, or we both be seen, sure enough.”
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“Duff?” Duff queried.
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“Well, it rhymes, doesn’t it?”
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Sure enough, thought Duff. Then he looked over at the big, ominous house on whose lawn they’d been exiled, and back at the dark drainage culvert which had finally stopped gushing brown water. “Can you help me get up? You know, I haven’t competed in as many races as you have. I’ve been more. . .of a spectator. Like from the side tunnels? In the dark? With the food?”
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Tuff clicked his teeth in derision, which among most mute sewer rats easily translated as laughter. Then he scuttled over to nab a flap of fat on Duff’s duff, lifting his hind legs into the air.
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“Ouuuuuu!” protested Duff. Yet with his legs soon under him, instead of splayed out on either side, he did see method behind Tuff’s madness. When Tuff bit down on his neck in order to lift his front side, though, Duff had to bite his own tongue to avoid the embarrassment of crying out like a wimpy mouse.
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Once upright, and facing the culvert where they hoped to escape danger, Duff felt a little better, until he had another surprising thought, which was to wonder whether any other members of their pack had even survived the flash flood, or if they were indeed the sole survivors–the only tail swishers left. “What if,” he said, “we go back down there, and. . .and they’re all dead.”
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“Dead?” said Tuff.
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“And what if,” added Duff, “there’s been another flash flood? What then?”
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“Then we die,” Tuff concluded.
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“Yeah. Think about that one.”
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“Well, how can I? I’ve never thought about it before. I mean, up to now it’s just been a matter of. . . .”
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“Instinct?”
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“Right. Like staying out of sight. Like dodging black cats at night.”
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“Or a wall of brown water?”
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“We got lucky there, pal. Not so lucky if we stay here, I fear.”
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Duff nodded, and looked back at the house, which was huge and bright. Whiter than any house he’d seen at night, and just like the house on the left and on the right. Then he realized that these houses were always white, even at night. He had just never realized it!
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“Wow, think of that,” he said.
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“What?” asked Tuff.
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Duff didn’t answer, since a new thought had just come to him with startling clarity. It was, indeed, a flash of genius, this self awareness. A thing he suspected few rodents had ever been privileged to experience, being afraid of the sun, as they were.
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I THINK, was his thought, THEREFORE I AM.
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Then, quite inexplicably, he felt impelled that they should go in search of something he now knew was called cheese.

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(Continued, from Who Moved My TV?, an audiobook narrated by Christopher Vournazos.)

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