The Silence Behind Sand and Silence

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.

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.

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?