Louis L’Amour's Son Beau Discusses His Father’s Legacy And Expanding The Western Genre

We sat down with Beau L’Amour — writer, producer, and the literary steward of his legendary father, Louis L’Amour. From audio dramas and graphic novels to film adaptations and hopes for future productions, Beau offers a candid look at the joys and challenges of carrying forward a legacy as vast as the American frontier. We talk about why his father’s stories are so difficult to adapt, how Taylor Sheridan has reinvigorated the western on screen, and why the genre’s future may lie in overlooked eras like the Mexican War or Cold War. Whether you’re a lifelong Louis L’Amour fan or a newcomer to the West, this conversation reminds us that the trail ahead is still full of promise.

Transcript

(This interview has been edited for length and clarity.)

Cowboys & Indians: What is your earliest memory of your father's writing? 

Beau L'Amour: Dad worked at home, so he was always around. He was pretty accessible for short periods of time. If you were to look at the introduction to two books, Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasures Volumes One and Two, both of those go into what living with my dad was like. Somehow, we were trained so that we would come to the doorway of his office and sort of stand there and wait for him to take a break. And then he was very willing to spend a few minutes with us. Pretty soon he'd say, “I got to get back to work.” He was always accessible, but he wasn't the kind of dad who was out coaching little league or anything like that.

You also must recognize that he built up a lot of fame in the last 10 to 15 years of his life. When I was a kid, we lived in a little house in West Hollywood. He wasn't a superstar in the publishing business or anything like that, but he was a known author. We had a middle-class life until the middle of the 1970s. And just as a lot of the western genre was declining, my dad was kind of in his acceleration period. So it was an interesting childhood beyond just the fact that my parents were interesting people. They had a lot of very kind of fascinating friends. So, it was a slightly Bohemian household, probably not what your typical western fan of Louis L’Amour would think. West Hollywood, California was a very kind of goofy beatnik-y part of Los Angeles. 

C&I: Your dad was always traveling to many of the places he wanted to see and that he would use in his stories. Can you talk a little bit about the trips that you took with your family?

L'Amour: Before my sister and I were born, before my dad got married, he traveled quite a bit whenever he could figure out how to do it. He didn't drive, so that meant hobo, catching a bus, or conning a friend into taking him somewhere. When he got married, he and my mom drove all over the west for five or six years before I was born. And then when my sister and I came along, there was a period where there wasn't so much of that. As soon as we could be trusted to sit in the car for a while and not make them absolutely go out of their minds, we all hit the road again. Looking out the back of the car and watching the white lines disappear into the distance is a childhood memory.

C&I: Was there a lot of talking on these road trips? I'm sure your dad was a pretty good storyteller in his own right.

L'Amour: On these long car trips, my dad would read aloud to all of us. Sometimes it was a book he was reading, sometimes it was his book. He liked it because it trained him to read well aloud, which sometimes he had to do when he was public speaking. And of course, reading over the noise of the car was a little bit of a exercise. It was wonderful. 

C&I: Did your dad ever talk about what his inspiration was to write westerns, and at what point in his career he realized, ‘okay, this is where my focus needs to go?’

L'Amour: Before World War II, he wrote mostly crime and high-adventure fiction. I believe he wrote one western short story in that period. Right at the end of the war, he was waiting for his number to come up to be demobilized home and he banged out a few stories. Interestingly, he wrote two or three westerns while he was still stationed in France. When he got home, he went to a New Year's Eve party in New York City with an editor, Leo Margulies, that he had worked with before the war. Margulies told him, ‘We think that some of the stuff that you've been working on is fading in popularity, and we have a very good feeling about westerns.’

I think the whole country was cluing in on this. My dad was kind of unconsciously cluing in on it. Even in France, the kind of high-adventure action not as popular as it was before the war when the world was a very exotic place. But my dad, who had been a merchant seaman, had gotten out into the world and wrote stories about it. But by the end of World War II, everybody was sick of it. People had seen their friends die in New Guinea and North Africa and the western was a way of having an adventure story, but one that took place at home and in the past and didn't cause outbreaks of PTSD. And one of the reasons that westerns were so very popular from even the 1930s on into the early sixties, was that they were the cheapest adventure genre story you could make into a movie because you could shoot them in Burbank.

C&I: Was your dad ever surprised by the outpouring of success in the seventies and eighties?

L'Amour: I think he was just very, very happy to have incredible luck. 

The bookstores were all categorized by genre. And so, he didn't really have the opportunity to break out and do other things, although he tried. But when that didn't work, he went back into writing westerns. Finally, after he had written a dozen or so western novels by 1958 or 1960, he was well-established enough to break out of writing westerns and into all different genres. It just so happened that it was the exact moment that the publishing industry decided that they were going to focus virtually all their marketing on genre fiction. So, if you were a writer who was known for genre, suddenly the publishers really didn't want you to stop writing.

By the time my sister and I were born, he had a bigger family to support, so he couldn't take so many risks as he had in the past. We had a comfortable middle-class lifestyle if he wrote three to four novels a year, but that was a big workload to support that lifestyle, so he started taking the western genre and stretching it.  There are all kinds of parameters that sort of define the center of the western genre, and fans like that, but they also want new material all the time. They want things to be new and exciting, but they are very used to this certain pond that they like to swim in. And my dad started sort of stretching it. What that meant was writing a 19th-century western that was also a contemporary 1960s mystery story. It might mean including foreign travel or a European safari. It might also mean stretching things to the point where you were dealing with something that was almost science fiction or horror. And so he made the western into something that was more than it had been. It was more comfortable to him to tell a wider range of stories. 

Just as he kind of hit his stride doing that, two things happened: we had the bicentennial, which spurred a lot of bicentennial-oriented writing. Suddenly, people were interested in the early frontier and the colonial period. And you had the end of the commercialization of the counterculture or hippie period where a lot of new age ideas were filtering out into the zeitgeist of the whole country, and all kinds of categories were getting expanded.

All of those things hit at the same time as a lot of the traditional writers started falling off in popularity. Dad was kind of in the lead, but he pushed into doing different stuff and it worked out unimaginably well.

C&I: Can you talk to us about what your dad’s process was like in terms of research? And was there always travel involved?

L'Amour: Dad very rarely did research on books that he was writing. He did general research all the time to inspire himself, and he had a great memory. So that was useful in whatever he was writing. A lot of the travel was for inspiration and just to be able to feel the sort of country that he was writing about, even if he didn't actually travel to the exact place that was writing about, although a lot of the places that he wrote about were places that he had lived and worked when he was a young man. He liked to get his historical details right, but I wouldn't say that the stories are incredibly researched or accurate. What my dad was very, very good at doing was knowing what not to write. He was kind of a genius at not writing things that would get him in trouble. And this was totally unconscious. I mean, he would come up to a particular detail that maybe he needed to know all about, and he had this unbelievable ability to just [write around it]. 

And then the great talent that writers in my dad's period have is bringing the audience in as a partner to the imaginary experience. They could say just a few things that activated your memory or imagination of a place that makes you a participant, that makes you a co-creator. It’s an enormous talent, almost like you're turning the 26-character code of the English language into the code of a video game. It's a very impressive talent that I think people have lost. 

He read research all the time. Every once in a while, he'd [encounter] something in a book where he felt obligated to dodge backwards and say, ‘Okay, I need to find a reference for that. I really want to make sure I've got it right.’ But he had to write three or four books a year and when you're doing that, you can't do James Mitchner style research on every single detail.

Dad was probably the last American writer to meet an awful lot of these characters that really did exist in the American Western period in the second half of the 19th century. When he was a teenager working as an itinerant laborer all over the United States, he met a lot of these people. When he was bailing hay in the Pecos Valley of New Mexico, he worked with five people that knew Billy the Kid and he worked for Devena Maxwell, who had inadvertently sent Billy to his death the night that Pat Garrett shot him. And he knew Bill Tillman, who was a western in the 1880s or 1890s, and ended up dying on the job in the 1920s in an oil boom town. So he had had a personal connection to that era that I think certainly nobody since has had, and only a few who were older writers in his time period still had.

C&I: What parts of his work do you really see that come forward? Is it capturing the essence of that period, or the way people spoke? 

L'Amour: One of the things that he seemed to do is write for an audience of people like that. So, the younger people that are alive today that have some of those qualities enjoy his work. So it's almost like he was writing for that audience, strangely enough. If you look at the basic lives of the people, if you look at the way they express themselves, if you look at the way they look at the world, I think it comes out.

C&I: You’ve managed your dad's literary estate and became a champion for his legacy. Was that something you had talked to him about before he passed? 

L'Amour: It was not something that was planned. There were things in his business that frustrated me. I was unhappy at a particular period in the 1980s with a certain amount of the cover art. I had gone to art school and knew what I was talking about, so I got involved more with the art department at Bantam Books, which is now Random House. I had been involved in a couple of movie projects. Then, in the mid-eighties, Bantam came to Dad and wanted to start an audio publishing program, which had just gone commercial. They came to my dad as they did with an awful lot of things because they got the opportunity to test out something new against a fan base that would probably appreciate it. So, they could try stuff and wouldn't fail miserably because everything Louis L’Amour was relatively successful. He had New York Times bestsellers, but he didn't have bestsellers like some of the leading authors at the time. What he had was this very solid, evergreen fan base that's still with us.

They wanted to start small and inexpensive, so they wanted to do short stories, and he wasn't so happy with that. He said, ‘I don't know that my short stories are my best work, and I would really want to give the audience a little more production value than some of the short stories.’ Then the decision was made, partly by him, to do radio-drama style audiobooks. We got the first couple of them, and he wasn't very happy with it. He said, ‘I don't think these actors are very good,’ and he told me, ‘You've been working in the movie business. Go to New York and find out what's wrong.’ So I went to New York and the actors were excellent. Most of them were performing on Broadway every night. It was top talent, everything else was working out fairly well. But what was going on was the publisher and the guys who were producing them were transcribing the short stories. They were literally taking the short stories word for word and putting them into drama. And prose is not drama. The two don't work well together. If you wrote drama dialogue in a novel, it would be incredibly boring because you have to say every single step for an actor to adjust his or her performance so they can hit the right point of the scene. When you're writing prose, you just jump there. If you're writing prose, it's almost like this is the best of the dialogue that was in this scene, not all of it.

And so, we had to kind of bring things back to a more theatrical adaptation of the stories. I was in charge of adapting the stories to dramatic form. When my dad passed away, we had been basing our business on those three or four titles he produced every year. By that time, it had gotten down to maybe two or three rather than three or four, and the books were longer, but we'd had that new book. It was always ‘the new book, the new book, the new book.’ And although we were able to keep releasing a new book a year for a very, very long time after my dad passed away, we didn't know that right away. And so my initial approach was, ‘I have to design this business around the entire catalog.’ That's kind of how it started and it just evolved from there.

C&I: Louis L’Amour novels have never been ghostwritten like other western authors who have passed away. Why is that?

L'Amour: It's not something that we said we would never do or found unethical. Dad had written a lot of stuff and there was still quite a bit of it that hadn't come out [at the time of his death]. So, there really wasn't a need to do that. We could project our business into the future far enough so that we didn't really ever feel the need to do it. I'm sure we could have made more money, but when you hire a ghost writer, you end up giving them a lot of the money. And so I don't know how much more it really would've given us. We're not actually talking about creating new stories, but just making as much of what's there as marketable as possible, then I have been that person. So I have rewritten things. I am just now finishing the second No Traveler Returns, which was a novel that came out about six years ago. But these are not stories that Louis had nothing to do  —  these are stories that dad worked on and didn't finish, and I have found a way to bring them to market.

C&I: The estate has produced a number of different products, too. I remember Louis L’Amour Magazine and the calendars. How have you guys tried to make those decisions? 

L'Amour: You just got to keep your ear to the ground, and you also have to realize what's going on. There used to be a big market for large print books, but with iPads and the Kindle, there's no large print book market any longer. There was a time when there were an enormous number of books sitting in warehouses that were printed with an old cover price. The publisher was sort of like, ‘Oh gosh, we've got all these books that have the wrong price on them and we're going to have to sell them for this lower price.” I said, “Let's give these to the military because they are young and stuck in some other country. If I give them a book, maybe they'll buy 50.” You have to stay on top of that. I mean, a few years ago I was not necessarily, I was hard at work. I wasn't necessarily out there doing podcasts

All the time, and now I'm doing podcasts like crazy because that's where the action is. It used to be if you wanted to market on Facebook, you could control all the parameters as you researched that market. You not only were working your own advertising and promoting your own advertising, but you were also learning about who your people were and where they were. I think Facebook let people do that. They observed a million people doing it, who was doing it, who was doing it wrong, then they crunched the numbers on what they had learned from everyone doing it, built their own algorithm and took those tools away from you. And so we took advantage of that as long as we could. But a lot of it is just at this moment it feels like there's fewer options than there have been in quite a while, maybe fewer options than ever. But I don't expect that to last. Something will break and will be wherever that void is. We're going to just pour ourselves down that particular channel.

C&I: Where do you feel the western genre stands at the moment and where have you seen it shift the most?

L'Amour: First of all, let's look at what a Western is. In my opinion, the fundamental element of a Western is the friction between civilization and the wilderness. If you look at a movie like The Searchers, you see that dynamic. You have the Native Americans, you have the landscape, and you have Ethan Edwards — the character John Wayne plays — who is not an exemplary human being. Yes, he's brave and strong and all those things. But a lot of people who are brave and strong — the kind of guy who wades into live steam during a disaster at a power plant — generally isn’t the accountant. He’s usually the welder or someone rougher around the edges, maybe even an outlaw biker. That kind of person has a raspy personality and says, “Screw it, I know this is going to hurt,” and does it anyway.

So you have that type of settler, and then you have the more civilized settlers — the farmers and ranchers, like Ethan Edwards’ family — who arrived later. Their daughter, his niece, is kidnapped — or not really kidnapped, but she ends up with an Indian band, and he goes to “save” her.

So there you’ve got five layers all going at once. That’s what makes The Searchers so interesting. And I think the Western is always about that — this clash between levels of civilization. You could even say a story in another genre is a Western if it involves that same civilization-versus-wilderness conflict. There are a few other hallmarks of the genre. I don’t have them all in mind at the moment, except one that came from my directing teacher in school, Alexander Mackendrick. I used to think he was wrong, but he was right in a narrow way. He used to say, “The Western is a love story between men.” What he meant was that a lot of Westerns are about men with strong personalities learning to respect one another.

Another example is Red River, another John Wayne movie. That story is about two strong men from different generations with different worldviews who start off not liking each other but eventually come to say, “This guy’s okay.” You project that all the way to the end of the spectrum and you get Brokeback Mountain. There’s a spectrum. And you could say that Brokeback Mountain had to be made, because it defined one end of that spectrum.

Luckily, the Western has finally broken free of the Civil War to 1900 timeframe. It’s finally reached a point where it can accept science fiction. It’s now a fully fleshed-out genre. The problem is that it was mined so thoroughly during my dad’s era that it’s become a set of clichés, and it’s really, really hard to get people to think outside of those.

I’ve learned this working on motion picture projects for — God — 35 years. If you’re making a film set in that classic 1865–1900 Western period, it’s really hard to get screenwriters, producers, and studios to think creatively or responsibly about it. But if you pitch something that takes place earlier — like Jeremiah Johnson — suddenly they’re like, “Oh, we need to research this. We need to get this right.” And it’s not even that hard.

So if I were talking to up-and-coming Western writers or creators, I’d say: get out of the traditional Western time period. If you want inspiration, the most dramatic era you could explore is the Mexican War.

That period is fascinating. It brings an international and intercultural dimension to the Western. It becomes a story about power politics. Every historical figure who played a role in the post–Civil War West was, at the time of the Mexican War, a young man — or woman — involved in it. The war didn’t last long, but it happened in three theaters: Texas, California, and Veracruz — each with its own dynamic. The U.S. invaded through Veracruz, marched inland, took Mexico City, and then gave back half of what it had conquered, keeping the northern portion.

And if you study that era, you see wild stuff. Aaron Burr, for instance, after killing Alexander Hamilton, was essentially on the run — even while serving as Vice President. He had a warrant out for his arrest and would sneak into the White House to meet with President Jefferson. He tried to provoke instability west of the Mississippi, in what would become the Louisiana Purchase, hoping to force the U.S. to send in troops so he could hijack that force and create his own country.

My dad wrote a fictionalized version of that story in Rivers West. And it shows that “Manifest Destiny” wasn’t just about stretching the country to the Pacific — it was also about national security. We simply didn’t know who was out there.

The U.S. almost fought a war with Great Britain over Oregon during the 1830s. There’s so much unmined material. And as we’ve seen with Taylor Sheridan’s 1923, there’s also a compelling West in the 20th century. That’s the West my dad lived in and, to a certain extent, wrote about in his Yondering stories.

So yeah, there’s a lot to explore. Just get away from the cattle drives and you’ll be okay.

C&I: What once filled the Walmart bookshelves where your dad and all these other great traditional western writers has now shifted to streaming services. Why do you think that we've seen a resurgence of the western genre on film and television, but also the shift from more traditional media to streaming and TV shows?

L'Amour: The shift to streaming is really a technical, business-side issue in the film industry. And you saw something very similar happen in the book business. When publishing moved into the digital space — Kindle publishing, for example — people thought, “This is great. No more inventory issues.” And that’s a big deal, because excess inventory is what kills the publishing business. It’s all about spending money to print more books than you can sell.

Back in the day — up through the 1990s — even paperbacks were expensive enough to mail that when a bookstore didn’t sell them, they didn’t send the whole book back to the publisher. They just ripped the cover off to prove they had it, sent boxes of those covers back, and were reimbursed. The book business has always been a 100% return business. So, managing inventory and preventing piracy were huge concerns.

I think the film industry thought streaming would help solve similar problems — control video inventory, reduce piracy, and tighten up all kinds of inefficiencies. And initially, the model looked like it had room for maybe two or three major streaming services — not twenty. I’m not even sure how many there are now, but it’s too many.

And here’s where I take issue with the mindset in both publishing and film. People look at markets as pie charts — like there’s 100% of the market and no room to grow. I think that’s a terribly unhealthy way to think about it. But the truth about streaming is that, in many ways, it really is a pie chart. There are only so many eyeballs to go around, and every time you add a new streaming service, you’re just dividing the same attention span further. That’s become a real problem.

Nobody really knows how to make money with streaming. Everybody’s gone there, everybody’s spending huge amounts of money, and audiences have been trained to expect these extravagant productions. But again — nobody really knows how to turn a consistent profit. That’s why you’re now seeing platforms adding advertising and experimenting with new revenue models. It’s a tough business. Honestly, I’m glad I don’t have to deal with it directly.

It’s only healthy. The traditional Western stagnated the genre. I love traditional Westerns, and I’d love to see new things done in that space, but it became very difficult to do anything truly new.

So in that sense, the shift to film and television kind of breaks things open. Are we seeing more Westerns? Yes — a few. But does the movie business love Westerns and see a lot of potential there? I don’t think so. I don’t think we’re in the middle of a Western boom — I think we’re in a Taylor Sheridan boom.

And Sheridan is an incredibly creative guy — an incredibly productive guy, like my father. He writes like a maniac. He kind of snuck up on the genre. He did the Sicario movies, which are sort of modern Westerns. He did Hell or High Water. He worked his way toward this space, and I don’t think anyone saw it coming. Those were excellent, excellent films. And then Yellowstone — which is kind of a high-gloss soap opera — got all kinds of eyeballs.

Now it feels like this movement is happening, and it’s spread out. There are other Western series popping up. Of course, I don’t think there’s been a five-year period on television without at least one Western series, but it’s rare to have more than one at a time that’s really extraordinary. It happens in little spurts, and then it fades again for a while.

So right now, it’s going pretty well. Obviously, we’ve gotten some traction recently with other projects too, and I just think we all need to thank Mr. Sheridan and appreciate what he’s done.

That said, if you really look at it, he’s made very few — I wouldn’t even call them “traditional” — but let’s say 19th-centuryWesterns. Maybe 1883 and Bass Reeves, and that might be it. He’s exploring other time periods as well, and he’s showing just how healthy that can be for the genre.

C&I: There was a time where so many of your dad's stories were being adapted for film or television, made famous by actors like Sam Elliott or Tom Selleck. Can you talk for a second about what that experience was like and then works that we have in progress and maybe some that you've always itched to get on the big screen?

L'Amour: There have been several periods — obviously in the 1950s and '60s — when a number of my dad’s stories were adapted into films. But the truth is, my dad is extremely difficult to adapt for the screen.

Somehow, there are these almost unconscious traps in his work that seem to lead filmmakers off in the wrong direction or keep them from fully understanding how the stories function. I’m always amazed by it because I feel like I’m not subject to that. I knew my dad, and I worked with him on a lot of projects, so I understand the rhythm and structure of what he was doing.

One example: there’s a project called The Empty Land that was purchased but never made. I was one of the producers when it was first acquired, and I begged the team, “Please, don’t attach any cast until we get the script right.” We were talking to top-tier screenwriters, and I kept saying, “Let’s just get the story right — this one is tough.”

But then you hear the same thing you always hear: “Just shoot the book.” And that’s a mistake. This particular book doesn’t have a central villain. The antagonist isn’t a person — it’s an out-of-control situation. And movies don’t like that. They want a clear, personified bad guy.

The story is about taming a boomtown. There are two central characters: one is a marshal sent to restore order, and the other is a city councilman. My dad really wrote it as a buddy film. These two men want the same outcome, but they have vastly different methods and visions of how to get there. The councilman sees himself putting down roots and living in the town forever. The marshal is more like, “I’ll do what I have to, stop the violence — no matter who I have to hurt — and then I’m gone.”

So you’ve got these two strong personalities with competing worldviews. Not a classic good guy vs. bad guy dynamic — more like “buddy antagonists.” Yes, there are a few bad guys in the town, but none that dominate the story.

I kept stressing this in meetings. And still, they cast a typical “Western star” in the marshal role. I kept saying, “Look, you need someone for the councilman role who isn’t typecast. Someone intense, but not in a stereotypical way. Someone like James Woods or Ray Liotta — guys who often played hard-edged characters but could bring depth and idealism to this role.” You need balance and contrast for the dynamic to work.

We went through two Academy Award-winning screenwriters on that project, and we still never got a script that captured it. Others worked on it after I left as well, but nothing really materialized.

That’s the kind of challenge you run into when adapting my dad’s work. There’s a code in his writing, and if you veer off it, the story just stops working.

Now, we’ve got Flint, which is hopefully going into production soon. I’m optimistic. I’ve spoken with both the director and the star — Ryan and Josh — and they’re both really great guys. I’m hoping that project moves forward and sparks more adaptations.

The one I’d most like to see happen, though, is Last of the Breed. I have partial control of the rights, but another studio also holds a stake. That story has always been framed as “Rambo in the snow,” and I think that’s completely wrong.

Last of the Breed is a Cold War thriller. An American pilot is shot down over the Soviet Union — but this particular pilot is Native American. When he escapes, he begins an odyssey across Siberia, following the ancient migration path of the Athabaskan people who crossed the Bering Strait into Alaska. He’s literally retracing the journey of his ancestors.

It needs to be a miniseries, or something with room to breathe. The story isn’t just about the chase — it’s a character piece. You have to dig into his background. For those unfamiliar, the novel was written in the 1980s. My dad completed it just before he died, and not long after, the Cold War ended — so the project lost momentum. But the inspiration for the story was the Gary Powers incident, when Powers was shot down in 1960.

I’ve always believed it should be set in that period — right at the height of the Cold War. That way, you get a character who was born in the 1920s, whose grandfather could have fought at Little Bighorn. You gain all this rich, layered history.

His mother was Anglo, his father was Lakota. He exists in two worlds. And as he escapes across Russia, you realize: the kind of person who can walk out of Siberia is not a gentle person. This is someone who’s lived a tough life — like the guy I mentioned earlier who walks into a live steam pipe to save a power plant.

This character deserves a serious, nuanced portrayal — not an action caricature. Last of the Breed is a great story. I still believe in it. I keep hoping it gets made.

C&I: What is it that keeps you motivated to keep this your dad's legacy alive for the next generation?

L'Amour: The thing that keeps me going is preserving my dad’s legacy and carrying it forward to the next generation — and the fact that it allows me to have a lot of fun.

I’ve had the chance to produce audio dramas. A couple of the ones we did — The Diamond of Jeru and Son of a Wanted Man — were incredible experiences. I got to produce them almost like movies, except with extremely in-depth audio mixing. It was a wonderful opportunity to work with actors, and I wrote both scripts. They were extraordinary projects because it felt like making a film — but without the budgetary restrictions. If you say something is there, it’s there. You don’t have to spend a hundred thousand dollars to move a film crew three hours to a different location.

And then there’s the graphic novel we did, which was also a fantastic creative experience. We had this incredible dream team — an amazing artist and co-writer. Charles Santino worked on the book with me, and he’s just an incredible talent. My friend Paul handled a lot of the post-production on the art, and everything just synced up beautifully. Catherine Nolan co-wrote that project with me as well.

So, it’s been a terrific opportunity to explore different creative avenues. Honestly, it’s almost like a vacation sometimes. Of course, sometimes it’s not — but when it is, it’s a joy.