I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately, trying to ignore a slew of rejection, along with the expectations of well-meaning friends, and stay focused on the WIP. Sometimes it seems to me that when it comes to writing, as in no other field, there’s a bizarre assumption on the part of non-writers (and unfortunately some writers) of instant, stratospheric success.
“When’s your book going to be a movie?” “Is your book on the New York Times bestseller list?” And, my favorite, “You must be making a lot of money now.” Thank God Oprah’s not doing her show anymore, which featured her book club. Fellow authors have told me that, back in the day, the No. 1 question was, “When are you going to be on Oprah?” Cue screaming.
Think about this for a minute. When was the last time you asked a lawyer, in all seriousness, “When are you going to argue a cause before the U.S. Supreme Court?” Or the owner of small café, “When can I see you on Celebrity Chef?” Or wondered aloud to your neighborhood garage band when you expect to see their Rolling Stone cover?
I think what makes this so galling is the assumption that somehow, writing is easy, that it doesn’t take the same sweat equity as, oh, every other demanding job out there. As coach Jimmy Dugan, Tom Hanks’ character in A League of Their Own, lectures catcher Dottie Hinson (Geena Davis) when she tries to walk away from baseball: “It’s supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard, everybody would do it.” [Read more…]
Deep Winter seems like the right thing to be reading as the heat wave continues. Last year, I countered the summer doldrums by finishing work on my own Dakota, set during a subzero North Dakota winter . But I goofed this year, finding myself at work on Arizona, which takes place during a desert summer, with days even hotter than those plaguing Montana right now. Must. Plan. Better. 
But the highlight was the fact that the reading was a joint production with my father, Tony Florio, a wildlife biologist. Earlier in the day, the state of Delaware named the wildlife refuge where we grew up in his honor. It’s now the 
All of us have backgrounds in journalism, although two of us now write fiction, too. But by the nature of the group, most of the work is nonfiction. We submit pieces in progress, about 6,000 words, ahead of time and spend the weekend critiquing them. Oh, and there’s some power eating and drinking and—this being Montana—hiking and fishing, too.
The novel, Edward Adrift, is Billings, Mont., writer 
In The Last American Highway: A Journey Through Time Down U.S. Route 83, 
You get to answer questions, thereby opening yourself to that awkward moment when your mind goes blank. Case in point: At a reading in Philadelphia earlier this year, someone asked me to share my favorite women mystery authors. I have some. Many, in fact. But could I remember a single one at that moment? Nope. I stuttered and stammered and generally looked like an illiterate idiot.
My day started with the utterly distracting news that Montana is a finalist in the 
For much of the morning, the Writer Dance of Joy replaced real work. Nell and her buddy Finn were unimpressed. Sometimes I think dogs exist to bring writers down to earth.