D. Vincent DeLorenzo and Clara Wren journey behind the pages of 'The Last Boat,' tracing its poetic origins, thematic anchors, and the craft choices that shape a story of departures. Listen in for a reading, scene-making insights, and thoughtful listener questions about writing departures with quiet power.
Chapter 1
Clara Wren
Alright, Vincent, let’s set the scene—take us right back to the first image or moment that wouldn’t let you go when you started The Last Boat.
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Strangely enough, it was... it was an empty slip after this pretty vicious storm—a real row of boats gone, just one stubborn coil of rope left dangling where something used to be tied up. It just stuck with me, you know? That sense that a place remembers what left it, especially when everything else has gone.
Clara Wren
That’s such a vivid picture—the rope, the shape of absence. Was that always a departure in your mind, or did it, I dunno, wiggle about a bit during the drafting?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Oh, it wiggled—a lot. My first draft... well, I fell into the old trap of explaining everything. The character practically gave a TED Talk about why he was leaving! I kept telling the reader what to feel instead of letting the harbor—like, the objects—the rope, the old ticket stub wedged under a plank, the wake of the ferry—do that work. Eventually, I realized I needed to sort of pull the camera back and trust the details to speak for themselves.
Clara Wren
We keep coming back to that “let the objects work for you” idea. I think we actually talked about that—was it the Ashes in the Rain episode? Let ordinary things bear the emotion, right?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Yeah—and, for me, it’s almost always something in the world with texture—like how the slip after a storm feels loaded, or how a stubborn rope can mean more than dialogue ever will.
Clara Wren
And that threshold space—the title itself hints at the in-between. Is that intentional, you always circling those moments where someone’s just about to go?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Absolutely. I realized every story I write is, in one way or another, about thresholds—the moment that’s before the actual leaving. For The Last Boat, the real scene in my mind was the second right before the foot actually lifts off the dock, before anything dramatic. Living here in Southeast Asia, I’d watch ferries leave before sunrise, you know, the island half-asleep, water glassy, some old man smoking and the same coil of rope left behind. That’s where it all started—it was pure image before it was anyone’s story.
Chapter 2
Clara Wren
Alright, let’s talk threads. What are, like, a couple of the core ideas holding this book together? I feel like it’s more than just “someone leaves.”
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Yeah—definitely more. I kept circling this idea of duty versus escape, you know? Like, are you leaving because you need freedom, or is it something heavier you owe yourself? And then... repair as prayer. That fixing a thing, even an old boat, can be almost sacred. And another strand—weather as a silent witness. It’s—it’s always there, honest but not invested: tides shifting, storms, or even just a stubborn calm.
Clara Wren
The courage part gets me. It’s not the big cinematic leave-taking, is it? More like the quiet decision to leave clean, not bitter.
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Exactly. It takes a small courage to part ways and not poison your memory of where you’ve been, right? There’s something honest about leaving without ceremony.
Clara Wren
And on the craft side, what did you find yourself reaching for, technique-wise?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Restraint—always. Short paragraphs, nouns that do heavy lifting, verbs that move. I wanted to leave more off the page than on. Sometimes it meant skipping over time or whole feelings and just trusting the image to hold the weight. My little mantra: if the image is carrying the tone or opinion already, slice the explanation. Otherwise, I’m just crowding out what the weather or the rope or even silence could say better.
Clara Wren
You actually did a lot of literal hands-on repair for this book, didn’t you?
Chapter 3
Clara Wren
Let’s dig into that scene you read—the repair moment that’s quietly a farewell. Why does the boat become, like, both object and argument there?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Because it stands for what words can’t get at. The character’s not making a speech, he’s not, you know, delivering a self-important monologue. He’s just—I might be repeating myself—but he’s making something right, by touch, by fixing. Redemption happens in action, not noise. That’s why the scene feels weighty without anybody saying “goodbye.”
Clara Wren
And the weather—like the tide, or that turning of the season. We talked about this too when we read Ashes in the Rain. The environment does a lot of the emotional work.
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Absolutely. Weather is honest. It can’t lie. When the tide turns, or the season changes, you just know something’s about to shift, even if no one names it. I like to let those honest forces carry the mood, instead of dressing it up in big language. And, yeah, I’ll always cut the “speech”—if the wood’s warm under his hand and the rudder’s finally quiet, there’s nothing else he needs to say.
Clara Wren
Let’s bring in a couple listener questions. I love this one—how do you write departures without melodrama?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
You write the preparations, not the performance. Let the leaving be, well, a fact. One honest image—the way a coil of rope sits, or a ticket disappears into a pocket, or just that brief hand on the rail. That does more than a page of dialogue.
Clara Wren
And balancing clarity and mystery at the end? That’s always tricky—how not to be, like, either totally cryptic or way too tidy?
About the podcast
Authors, readers, and dreamers—gather round the lantern. Each episode, novelist D. Vincent DeLorenzo and co-host Clara Wren, a curious Australian storyteller, unpack the journeys behind great books, the discipline of writing them, and the meanings they leave behind. Through rotating segments—Behind the Book, For Writers, and For Readers—they offer cinematic readings, actionable craft advice, and heartfelt discussions that remind us why stories matter. Subscribe for weekly conversations that illuminate both page and soul. For more information visit the Authors website www.dvincentdelorenzo.com
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Yeah, I did, and that’s probably the bit I almost never talk about. I once helped restore this fishing boat in Thailand—the planks leaking, metal fittings all rusted, and something about the rhythm of sanding, re-caulking, not rushing it. It was sorta like rewriting—one stubborn patch at a time. And those mornings bending over a hull, mixed with the routine of the island: that’s where I understood how repair—physical, slow, humble—could become its own story and kind of redemption, not just a subplot. Let me read a section from the book to give a example.
D. Vincent Delorenzo
The hull was sealed, the lines re-rigged, and the rudder no longer groaned. It would float again, this boat. He rubbed his hand along the rail, the wood warm from the sun. In another life, maybe this was enough. Not glory, not redemption. Just a thing made right by his own hands. Offshore, the breeze picked up and the tide began to shift. He watched the current move beneath the surface, gentle and invisible until it reached the shallows. A new season would arrive soon. Rain, or storms, or calm. Behind him, the island carried on—roosters calling, radios humming, the slow rhythm of morning. And in front of him: the sea, open and waiting. He did not know where he was going. But he had something that could carry him there
D. Vincent Delorenzo
It’s a tricky balance. I try to give readers a few true signals—where the sun is, what the tide’s doing, maybe a fixed landmark—but then let the actual destination remain open. So the mystery is earned, not just withheld for no reason.
Clara Wren
There’s a grace to that—not overplaying your hand, just letting the image land and trusting the reader. Before we wrap, any single takeaway you want to leave everyone with?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
If the image carries the opinion, you don’t need to explain. Let objects, let weather, finish the paragraph for you. Leave some space and trust the page.
Clara Wren
So good. Next time we’re diving into For Writers, all about line-editing—finding, what do you call it, mercy and momentum, yeah?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Exactly. And show notes’ll have all the links: to the book, my newsletter, a couple other dockside reads. Thanks for sitting at the lantern with us again.
Clara Wren
If you got something from this, follow The Writer’s Lantern, leave a review if you can—it helps more folks find their way here. Alright, Vincent, it’s been lovely as ever.
D. Vincent Delorenzo
You too, Clara—until next time.
Clara Wren
Keep the lantern lit. See ya, everyone.