"Yes, and..." On writing thrillers and collaborating

“Yes, and…” On collaborating and writing thrillers “The Woman in the Park” & “Lacie’s Secrets” with producer Teresa Sorkin and published by Beaufort Books.

I love questions. And I am usually the one asking them. It’s just my nature. I am curious and have always wanted to figure things out, why people do what they do, what makes them tick, and how things are done. So when I am asked a question, I usually have to take time to really think about it. When people ask about the writing collaboration in creating our thrillers The Woman in the Park and Lacie’s Secrets with Teresa Sorkin, I have to laugh a little.

When I was a kid, I hated having to collaborate. At school, I dreaded the group projects where you had to “find someone to work with.” If I could, I would just do them myself. I’m independent, I like quick solutions, less discussion, and more doing. As a child, my family and I moved every few years, and so I found myself in a new country, not knowing the language, the local ways, or the rules. Born in Sweden to two adventurous parents, I went to nursery school in Nigeria, elementary school in Austria, middle school in Italy, and high school at a French school back in Sweden. As a first grader in a new country and confronted with a language I didn’t speak, I had to find other ways to understand what was going on, picking up on body language, and visual, energetic clues.

When I was ten years old, I got my first sweet taste of the theater when I was cast as the lead in a school play in Rome. I experienced the spell of the stage, the thrill of getting a laugh or a tear from the audience, and, most of all, the warm embrace of the community created in the theater. I discovered that collaborating can be exhilarating and can add up to so much more than each individual. Magic can blossom from a creative coming together with a common purpose. And that’s what I try to keep in mind – the goal of creating a story that can be shared.

Stories often emerge out of curiosity and a wish to understand others. Our psychological thriller The Woman in the Park was born from an interesting character, a woman in a park we both had seen independently, and had piqued our interest. She was elegant and always alone, seemingly talking to herself, lost in her own world. We took aspects of that character, planted the seed of our story, and let it grow. We added more characters, worked through the story and its arcs, and took turns writing and editing.

Together, we discussed scene organization and character development, and then let the writing take over, giving each other space to create.

Our second collaborative thriller, Lacie’s Secrets, grew out of a “What if?” scenario, fantasizing an actual situation – a holiday week at an isolated villa with a group of friends where something goes horribly wrong – and letting our imaginations wander. In the actual creation, the excitement came from seeing where the story and the characters lead us. Lacie’s Secrets has been described as a “riveting thriller” reminiscent of classic suspense novels (by Publishers Weekly), and Big Little Lies meets The Haunting of Hill House at a seaside estate in Maine.

Collaborating takes openness in communication, active listening, and constant compromise. While muddling through the messy forest of details, collaboration requires keeping the goal of the story in mind, finding creative solutions, and abiding by the golden rule of improvisation – “Yes, and…”

Lacie’s Secrets and The Woman in the Park are published by Beaufort Books. www.tullanh.com

Att vara äldre än min pappa - Essay in Modern Loss

Jag har aldrig slutat sörja allt han gått misste om. Men när jag själv blev äldre än vad min pappa var då han dog, ändrades något i mig.

När jag var 17 år gammal dog min pappa Bo helt oväntat. På ett ögonblick var familjens klippa borta. Jag gick fortfarande på gymnasiet men en del av mig fick växa upp på en gång. Från den stunden förstod jag att livet var ömtåligt och kunde förändras utan förvarning. Under de första åren kunde jag knappt prata om min pappa och inte ens närma mig tanken på honom utan att vara rädd för att förlora fotfästet. Jag blev på samma gång ung och gammal.

Pappa växte upp i Gävle, gick på Tekniska Högskolan i Stockholm och som diplomat för FN tog han oss runt världen. Bo var fascinerad av kunskap och var snäll och karismatisk. Han lärde oss systrar historia och fysik, hur man byter däck och dansar vals. På bergstoppen delade han ut nötter och choklad från sin ryggsäck innan han tog oss nerför berget på små skogsstigar, och vi spelade squash tillsammans så jag blev bäst i hela gymnasiet. Alltid morgonpigg, väckte han mig med frukost på sängen så jag skulle hinna till skolan i tid. Jag kan fortfarande se honom framför mig på den smala bron på Nigerias landsbygd där han förhandlade med två motstående stamhövdingar som vägrade backa och därmed blockerade trafiken i flera mil. En timme av pappas vänliga men envisa tålamod lyckades övervinna generationers motsättningar och vi kunde alla fortsatte vår resa.

Helt oförutsägbart och okontrollerat har saker som påminner mig om min pappa fått mig till tårar eller arg på livet. En stressig morgon rusning tyckte jag mig se honom på tågstationen i Stockholm, eller som den gången då jag såg en leende pappa äta lunch med sin dotter på en restaurang i Chinatown eller den ekande tomma platsen på mitt oktoberbröllop i Florens. Jag har aldrig slutat sörja allt han gått misste om i mitt liv och allt jag upplevt utan honom.

När jag närmade mig 47, åldern då han gick bort, undrade jag om saknaden alltid skulle göra så ont. Skulle jag fortsätta att trycka undan alla minnen av honom? Men en dag då min son Max, då elva år, entusiastiskt berättade om Bermudatriangeln hörde jag plötsligt min pappas röst. Jag mindes boken han hade gett mig om världens mysterier, boken som uppmuntrade mig att lösa gåtor och lägga pussel och som till slut inspirerade mig att arbeta som detektiv. Jag betraktade min yngre son Leos breda axlar och det busiga glittret i hans ögon, och även där kände jag igen min pappa och jag mindes våra egna små skämt.

Jag insåg att Bo lever inom dem utan att de vet om det. Eller så kanske de gör det ändå, eftersom jag har pratat så mycket om honom? Och jag vill tro att han också lever vidare i mig och med mig. Kanske är det dags för mig att leva mitt liv till fullo såsom han levde sitt liv till fullo, trots att han inte kan vara här och dela det med oss.

Jag är nu äldre än vad min far var när han dog. Jag sörjer fortfarande att mina barn aldrig fick träffa sin morfar (kan man kalla honom morfar trots att han egentligen inte var det?) Men när vi nu är uppe i skidliften vet jag att han är med oss, i den lilla vildingen i mig och min lille Leo då vi kastar oss nerför berget med samma livslust som pappa en gång gjorde. Mitt behov av att lösa konflikter och uppnå frid inom familjen gör mig till min fars dotter, fredsmäklaren på bron i Nigeria. När mitt sinne blir mörkt och jag plötsligt känner tyngden av all världens bördor på mina axlar, även då känner jag honom i mig.

Jag skulle så gärna vilja ringa till honom och be om hans råd, men istället lyssnar jag på den lilla rösten inom mig själv, kvinnan som förlorade sin pappa alltför ung. Jag känner efter alla år tacksamhet för det oväntat vackra som föddes ur den ofattbara sorgen och det har gett mig ett nytt perspektiv. Jag har fått syn på vad som verkligen räknas i livet och kärleken som lever vidare genom tid och rum.

Tullan Holmqvist är författare, detektiv och skådespelare, författare till thriller roman och film The Woman in the Park, manus, berättelser och med i kommande filmer Before El Finā and Chiaroscuri. www.tullanh.com

Modern Loss Essay

What It Feels Like to Be Older Than My Father

Essay in “Modern Loss” on my father Bo.

https://modernloss.com/what-it-feels-like-to-be-older-than-my-father/

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When I was 17, my father Bo died unexpectedly. In an instant, gone was the rock of our family. I was still in high school, but part of me had to grow up immediately. From then on, I knew that life was fragile, that it could end without warning.

During those early years, I could barely speak about my father, the fear of falling apart protecting my fragile heart. I was young and old at the same time.

My father grew up in northern Sweden and brought us around the world as a diplomat for the United Nations. Bo loved learning and was kind and charismatic. He taught me history and physics, how to change a tire and to dance the waltz. At the mountain top, he shared nuts and chocolate from his backpack before leading us down ski trails through the woods, and he trained me in squash until I became my high school champion. Always up early, he brought tea to my room to wake me up so I’d make it to school on time. I can still envision him on a narrow bridge in rural Nigeria, negotiating with two opposing tribal chiefs who refused to back down, blocking traffic for miles. After an hour of my father’s patient diplomatic persistence, he managed to get the chiefs to overcome generations of strife and we continued on our journey.

Tullan in Nigeria with her dad, Bo Holmqvist, in 1973

Tullan in Nigeria with her dad, Bo Holmqvist, in 1973

After he died, reminders of my dad have continually had me in tears or angry with life, both unpredictably and uncontrollably. During one mad Monday-morning rush, I thought I saw him at the train station in Stockholm, or when I saw a happy father-daughter duo eating lunch in a Chinatown restaurant or that empty seat at my October wedding in Florence. I have never stopped crying for all that he missed and all that I have lived without him.

As I approached 47, the age at which my father died, I worried about whether the pain would ever go away. Would I keep his memory at bay forever? But one day, I looked at my son Max, 11 at the time, enthusiastically telling me about the Bermuda Triangle with bright eyes, and I suddenly heard my dad. I remembered the book he had given me on unresolved mysteries, which fed my fascination for solving puzzles and ultimately inspired me to work as an investigator. I looked at my younger son Leo’s sturdy build and mischievous sense of fun, and there too I saw my father and remembered the jokes we shared.

I realized that Bo lives within them without them knowing. Or perhaps they do, since I’ve spoken to them so much about him? And I like to think he also lives in me and with me. Maybe it is time for me to live my life fully, as he had, even though he can’t be here.

Today, I’m older than my father was when he died. I still cry that my boys never got to meet him (do I call him grandpa even though he never really was a grandpa?) But now, when I’m ascending a mountain on the skilift, I know he is there with me, in that hidden daredevil both inside me and my little son Leo, ready to fly down the slopes together. In my need to solve conflicts and find common ground within the family, I am my father’s daughter, the peacemaker on the bridge in Nigeria. And when my darker moods settle, feeling the burdens of the world that need fixing, I recognize him there, too.

I would love to be able to pick up the phone and ask for his advice, but instead I listen to the quiet voice within me, the woman who has grown from the child who lost her dad too young. I feel gratitude for the unexpected beauty born out of the unpredictable pain. I have a new perspective on what really matters in this life and the love that continues through time and space.

Read this piece in Swedish here.

Tullan Holmqvist is a writer, investigator and actor, author of thriller The Woman in the Park, screenplays, stories and in upcoming films Before El Finā and Chiaroscuri. 

Caring For My Mom In Her Final Days

Essay from “Moms Don’t Have Time to Write”

The sadness was more than I could handle at times, but it was a gift to be able to say goodbye to her.

https://medium.com/moms-dont-have-time-to-write/caring-for-my-mom-in-her-final-days-1d7dce5ec83e

In my magical Mom’s garden

In my magical Mom’s garden

“It’s time. You should come.” My older sister’s voice, usually so comforting and full of life, was dark and quiet. I knew immediately what that meant. Every time the phone had rung in the preceding weeks, I had dreaded picking it up. I did not want to hear what I knew she was going to say. My beloved and magical mom was dying.

My mom was the profound center of our family. She gave me courage when I didn’t have it and light when I was too dark. When I was twenty-one, she insisted I travel around the world with my first boyfriend. I was hesitant to do so, but she gave me the nudge to go on what ended up being an adventure of a lifetime. She was fun and wise and made me feel so loved. She was my home.

When the call came to my Manhattan apartment on a warm Saturday morning in May, night descended upon me. I immediately booked a flight for later that day. I packed a few things, tightly hugged my two little boys, and collapsed into my husband’s arms crying. “I don’t think I can do this,” I whispered to him. How could I possibly say goodbye to my mom, my guiding light, my home?

He told me that I would survive this. I had never been away from my two sons, not even for one night, but there was no question that I should go. I had to be by my mom’s side, both for her sake and for mine.

Originally from Sweden, I grew up around the world, living in Nigeria, Austria, Italy, and France. I changed homes, schools, and friends many times over, but I had always had my parents and two sisters. Together we were home wherever we were.

I learned to appreciate feeling at home in more than one place and enjoyed having friends scattered around the world instead of along the same street. I saw the beauty of diversity and new experiences. It was comforting knowing that we are all more alike than different.

When I was seventeen, my dad unexpectedly died. One day he was there and the next he was gone. It was a heartbreaking loss, and my life from then on was shaken and shaped by his death. I learned to see every day as a gift to hold my loved ones close.

I talked a lot about loss and death with my mom; she even wrote a book about grief called Embracing Life Again. My mom was the steadfast light that I returned to and relied on. And now it was her turn. I had the terrible feeling that I had been here before.

I arrived at my mom’s house in Florence and walked into her garden. Surrounded by tall cypress trees and an enormous cedar of Lebanon, I smelled the delicate perfume of blooming pink roses, took a deep breath, and knew I would somehow find the courage to be here now.

My older sister walked ahead of me into my mom’s bedroom while my younger sister, having just arrived from London, sat by her bedside. This was not the reunion we wanted.

My mom was curled up on the bed with her eyes closed. I leaned over and held her frail body, feeling her bony shoulders. She opened her eyes and looked at us. Love filled the room.

Over the next few days, my mom regained some strength. She was able to sit up and go outside in the sunshine and eat a little. She asked for ice cream and champagne. “We might as well enjoy the last moments together,” she said. We talked, cried, and even laughed. Her mind was completely lucid.

At night I slept by her bed on her pull-out chair, comforting her when she was anxious and giving her water to drink or a towel for her forehead when she needed it. Being there felt right; there was so much love, and I felt so at home that I could have stayed there forever. I missed my kids, but I knew they were fine. This was something I needed to do.

Over the next few weeks, I made difficult visits and calls with my mom, listening to her dearest friends share their love and their grief as she said goodbye to them. My sadness was more than I could handle at times, but I was amazed at the light and courage that was born out of the pain and suffering.

I wanted to be strong for Mom, holding her hand through her last days. By holding her, she held me. Her body started giving up though her mind was clear and mostly unwavering. Her love and light were even stronger.

I was able to go back to New York for a day to pick up my two boys, and together with my sisters and our kids, we gathered around my mom’s bed. We surrounded her with love and she surrounded us as she took her final breaths. In the midst of our immensely painful grief, it was a gift to be with her to say goodbye.

For the first months after my mom passed, I completely lost my bearings. It was as if the earth was unstable beneath me or I had moved to a foreign land. I cried every day for what was and what will never be. I had a hard time doing anything beyond the basics of taking care of my kids.

I still miss my mom and cry at the smallest reminder. My heart was broken by her death, but it also broke open and filled with her enormous love. I am in awe of the miraculous cycle of life, grateful for her and for the pure love that really matters in this life.

Tullan Holmqvist is an investigator, writer, actor, and author of the psychological thriller novel and screenplay The Woman in the Park (with producer Teresa Sorkin). Holmqvist’s work as a private investigator has included global fraud investigations, financial due diligence, and art cases. She has a master’s degree in political science from the University of Florence, Italy, and literature and language degrees from universities in France and Italy. She has studied screenwriting and acting at New York University, Boston University, and HB Studios. Originally from Sweden, Holmqvist lives in New York with her husband and two sons. www.tullanh.com

Writing and Parenting essay - MEdium

WRITING AND PARENTING LESSONS FROM A PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR BY TULLAN HOLMQVIST

https://medium.com/moms-dont-have-time-to-write/writing-and-parenting-lessons-from-a-private-investigator-e4e5db6bf352

Interviewing techniques that work on government officials and nine-year-olds alike

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Becoming a mom was a giant leap into the unknown for me, a bit like finding my way in a new country. But life invites us to embrace every moment, even the difficult ones, as an opportunity to learn and grow. As Leonardo da Vinci wrote: “Learning is the only thing the mind never exhausts, never fears, and never regrets.”

Although my children, now 9 and 13, are no longer toddlers, I am still grappling with this ever-changing role as a parent. Through continuous trial and error in writing, work, and raising children, I look to incorporate the different aspects of my life instead of separating them. This is how I’ve managed to glean so much from life’s lessons in the midst of the chaotic beauty of being a mom.

In my work as a private investigator and writer, I must be alert and present in order to focus and figure out complex puzzles, ranging from international fraud cases, lost art, and executive background searches. I have taken some of the strategies I use in my work (and teach in a seminar called “Think Like an Investigator”) and adapted them for broader use for writers, moms, and everything in between.

Here are a few tricks and tips that I’ve learned along the way:

Listen

My children teach me so much about life, love, and being present. I listen carefully to them. I listen to words, body language, but also more subtle cues. I encourage them to listen to their own inner voices. I am still working on listening to mine. I sometimes feel like a gardener tending to the most precious plants so that they can bloom.

Ask Questions

A good question is often more important than a good answer. Life is more interesting that way. When my kids were in the “Why? Why? Why?” phase, I would often ask them in response: “Well, why do you think that dogs run around each other in that funny way?” or “What do you think Darth Vader really wants?” They often realize they don’t need an answer, they just needed to figure out a way to think about the question. Curiosity inspires good writing.

Play

My kids and I play a game called “What Happened Here?” when we see something unusual. It is a playful version of the scenarios that I use in my work when I need to figure out what could have happened in a fraud case, or where a lost painting might have disappeared to. It’s also helpful for mapping the next plot point in a story.

Mirror

This is an interviewing technique that works as well on my nine-year-old as it does on high-level government officials (and my husband). Listen carefully, and when the other person is finished, repeat their last few words back to them. They will often magically open up and keep talking afterward. It is used in both FBI negotiations and psychotherapy. The key is to be genuinely interested.

Change Tactics

When my kids are sad or have a meltdown, I try to swiftly change tactics or the mood of the room. Sometimes breaking out in a silly song and dance will get them out of their negative spiral. Sometimes just being there quietly, allowing them time to stomp it out, works better. In my work, I use more subtle changes like a shift in tone, energy, or placing a character in a new situation.

Change Scenery

Similar to changing tactics, another interviewing technique is to move the questioning to some place new. Often the best question-and-answer sessions are not seated across from each other in the interrogation room, but walking side by side on the way to school, or in the kitchen, or at bedtime. Kids (and adults) open up when they feel comfortable. Sometimes just switching rooms or going outside for a quick run around in the park will completely alter my kids’ mood. Mine too. A quick scene change is especially helpful if you’re stuck on a piece of writing.

Alone Time

Meditate, run, read a book, or just sit. I still have to fight hard to steal a few minutes here and there to do something just for myself, but I am always happier when I do. I need it. And everyone around me benefits too.

Head to the Park

I love trees and flowing water. As a Swede, I grew up being outside in nature as much as possible. Living in Manhattan, Central Park has been a safe haven, where I can be with my kids, connect with mother earth, and other human beings. There is a sense of solidarity having a child in tow and strolling through the park. I often swap stories with other moms. It satisfies a primal need to connect with others.


The Beauty of Trees

The Beauty of Trees - August

Trees are magical to me. I met this 700-year old olive tree in August and it felt like revisiting with a wise old friend. One of the oldest olive trees in Tuscany, Italy, still bearing beautiful green olives, its long and strong branches and knots remind me of my grandma’s wise hands. I can’t hold her hands anymore but I sit with this tree and speak with her. I feel the wisdom of mother earth and I am humbled.

Trees are endlessly fascinating to me. I just learned that when an olive branch is cut, the same size root dies under the ground, just as connected as we all are. Trees communicate under the earth, helping each other, sharing nutrients to a sick tree and giving life to the young, Fruit trees like peaches and apricots mostly bear fruit for a decade or two and the tree often dies while olives can live for centuries in this area.

Imagining that this tree was already a couple of centuries old when Leonardo da Vinci may have passed by this very tree. We could be using the same olive oil, conversing in the same country living room. So comforting and wider perspective. Grateful for the gifts of our earth.

One of my favorite books - The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben

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Nature & Home

Nature brings me home. June 2020.

Back to what is important and good. Summer smells bring me back to when I was young. I grew up in Sweden half of my childhood (the other half living in Nigeria, Austria, Italy and France and traveling all over the world with my family) and I loved to wander in the woods with my maternal grandmother, mormor Ingrid.

She showed me the beauty of the wild, the sacredness of mother earth and taught me that this wild rose brings rosehip (to make into the sweet and healthy nyponsoppa to drink hot in the winter), where to find blueberries and lingonberries (to make into jams and saft to drink in the summer), what wild greens are nettles (to make into a green soup with boiled eggs in the spring) and which mushrooms are edible (preferably the yellow chantarelles in the autumn).

A small rosebush in the middle of New York at the height of Corona virus lockdown brought my grandma back for just a moment. She walks with me yet I miss her so.

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