D. Vincent DeLorenzo shares the personal and creative genesis of his novella Sand and Silence, revealing how landscapes of war and memory shaped its quiet, powerful narrative. Together with Clara Wren, he explores the art of saying less, writing into questions, and letting readers find meaning in the spaces between words.
Chapter 1
Clara Wren
Alright, let’s go back to the start. Vincent, what was the first spark, the image that convinced you Sand and Silence was a story you needed to write?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Heat shimmer out on the horizon—yeah, that’s what started it. I just saw this, uh, figure in a desert, kind of walking with nothing to prove. I actually scribbled it as a line in a margin somewhere. At that point, I didn’t even know if he was a soldier, or, I dunno, maybe a father or a pilgrim. The only things I knew were that he was carrying something he couldn’t just drop, and the land was honest. No, it wouldn’t flatter him. It forces you to be honest, too, after a while.
Clara Wren
That’s such a still, dignified image. Your stories, they keep circling aftermath—consequence, the quiet after the loud. Why do you always find yourself coming back there?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Because, I think—the moments after the noise, that’s where you get, um, real truth out of people. The loudness, the action, all of it settles, and you’re left with what actually matters. Sand and Silence, for me, lives in that hangover, that ache after. I keep trying to write that moment, where memory’s just heavy and you’re waiting for breath to return before you can even speak honestly again.
Clara Wren
But a novella’s so lean, right? There’s always the risk of drowning the story in research or detail. How did you navigate that tension—getting things right but not weighing it down?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Honestly? Research everything, yeah, but don’t keep all of it. I checked details, but then chopped out the bulk. It’s not about skipping research—it’s making sure what’s left has room to breathe. I kinda think truth gets… heavier when you leave space around it, instead of crowding everything with explanation. I never start with an answer; it’s always a question I’m writing towards. This time it was: “What do you hold onto when the world tells you to drop your past?”
Clara Wren
That feels like a lantern moment—a guiding question, not a tidy answer. Was there a particular craft move that changed the tone—something you did consistently throughout?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Negative space. Scenes finish just a breath too soon—a little early. Most times, it’s like, the camera holds in the hallway, and you, the reader, you have to step over the threshold and finish the moment yourself. I wanted the audience to really feel like the last lines were theirs to write, too.
Chapter 2
Clara Wren
Let’s hear some of that in action. Would you read us a bit?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Sure thing. [Soft inhale] By noon the air was a kiln. The road unwound like thread through a loom of light, and he kept to the shoulder where the gravel still remembered night. In his pack, a letter without an address breathed against a canteen, warm as a small animal. He had tried to speak the words out loud, but the desert disliked speeches. It preferred inventory. So he counted instead: six fence posts to the next shadow, forty steps across the wash, one breath held to cross the memory that always waited by the culvert. He was not lost, not exactly. The map was inside him, though some of it was torn. A truck passed, then another. Dust climbed his legs to the knee and settled there like ash. When the wind changed, he could smell rain that wasn’t coming. He smiled anyway. Something was listening, even if it had no mouth.
Clara Wren
That’s—yeah, that’s so textured. The heat, the dust, the way just counting fence posts says so much about what he’s carrying. All that restraint, but you feel everything buzzing underneath. Where did those details come from, Vincent? Any real-life threads you pulled through?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Yeah, actually. The counting thing comes from a deployment—I mean, not dramatic, just the mind trying to create order, counting fence posts or steps between shadows to make sense of distance. And I used to write these letters home with nowhere to send them, just, uh, stuffing them in my bag like some weird talisman. That act, it’s small, but it ends up revealing all the stuff you’re not saying out loud. The rest is just, well, writing into that kind of rhythm.
Chapter 3
Clara Wren
Let’s talk about that word in your title: silence. It’s right there, out front. What does “silence” mean for you in the book?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Yeah, so, most folks think silence is just, like, nothingness. But to me it’s about attention—it’s the pause that lets truth show itself, the space where you actually see each other. I wanted to write for that shift, where just sitting long enough lets something essential in the room change temperature. Silence is, uh, invitation, you know?
Clara Wren
You’ve said before you try to leave things unsaid in your scenes—kind of inviting the reader to cross that last doorway. For readers who want to notice that, or for writers who want to use it—how can silence be part of building a story?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
You leave out the expected furniture, metaphorically. Like, if you chop the easy explanations, then suddenly there’s room for readers to find their own meaning. It’s riskier for sure—someone might feel a little off-balance, but that discovery belongs to them, and that’s the only way it sticks. The trick is, leave out the sermon, keep the honest action.
Clara Wren
And for writers who are afraid they’ll cut too much, starve the scene, how do you know what to keep?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Solid nouns, lived textures—stuff readers can actually see or touch. One real action. Then get out before you start making speeches. If it’s true, the reader’ll feel it. You don’t have to shout it from the hilltops.
Clara Wren
Alright, quick Q&A—one line answers. What sentence fought back the hardest?
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
“The desert disliked speeches. It preferred inventory.” Weirdly enough, it kind of taught me how to count instead of just filling space with explanation.
Clara Wren
What detail did you cut that you still think about?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
A whole, perfect page—technical stuff about heat injuries. It was, well, right, but it didn’t belong in this book.
Clara Wren
A line you hope readers underline?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
“Something was listening, even if it had no mouth.”
Clara Wren
If Sand and Silence pointed on a compass?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
West, but not for the geography—for the light at that hour.
Clara Wren
If it were a colour?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
That colour somewhere between brass and dusk. There’s probably no paint swatch for it.
Clara Wren
Before we close, what’s one tiny thing listeners—writers or readers—should carry with them from all this?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
Writers: write toward the question you can’t answer in a hurry. Let questions breathe. And for readers—look for what’s missing. Sometimes, the furniture that got pulled out? That’s how you know what the house is really about.
Clara Wren
A question for everyone to carry into the week?
D. Vincent Delorenzo
What’s the one thing you’re still carrying that deserves a page?
Clara Wren
If today’s conversation lit something up for you, give us a follow or leave a review—it helps more than you might think. Next week’s episode is for writers: “Writing Truth—Balancing Fact and Fiction.” And you’ll find links to Vincent’s books and articles in the show notes.
D. Vincent Delorenzo
This was The Writer’s Lantern, with me, D. Vincent DeLorenzo and the excellent Clara Wren. Thanks for sharing the firelight—and for keeping the lantern lit. Catch you all next time.
Clara Wren
See you soon, Vincent. Take care, everybody!