Gwen Florio | Blog

Big book love under the Big Sky

August 28, 2018 Leave a Comment

Pretty sure I’ve posted along these lines before, but it bears repeating: Very little can beat the fun of readings and book-signings in small-town libraries.

I’ve had three in the last week, on the shore of Flathead Lake in Polson, in downtown Stevensville, and a couple of blocks off the main drag in Superior, and each was wonderful in its own way.

At the largest, North Lake County Public Library in Polson (population, about 5,000), several members of a short-story book club showed up and asked the pointed questions I knew to expect after attending one of their meetings earlier this year. These folks meet weekly, and are working their way through a short-story anthology. They don’t mess around, and their queries about craft were sharp and insightful.

At the North Valley Public Library in Stevensville (pop., about 2,000), a librarian rendered me temporarily speechless by saying my writing reminded her of James Lee Burke’s. (Cue fainting.) And fellow writer Ralaine Fagone had some great advice on how to better use my author’s page on Facebook, which generally mystifies me. Luckily, Fagone had it figured out, and generously shared her knowledge.

And the wonderful folks at the Mineral County Public Library in Superior (pop. 826) provide a cake with an image of a visiting author’s book, thereby ruining any claims we might try to stake as starving artists. They also moved the reading outdoors to take advantage of a bright and breezy end-of-summer day, making the occasion even more festive.

In each place, there were great discussions about books, and in each, I left feeling as though I’d made new friends.

I’ve heard people complain about small audiences at readings, but I’ve found those to be some of my best experiences, as the reading nearly always turns into an intimate, in-depth discussion, one that leaves me in awe of my great good fortune to be part of the passionate reading community that is rural Montana.

RIP to reader Mary Vanek

August 9, 2018 4 Comments

I never had the pleasure of meeting Mary Vanek – but I know it would have been a pleasure indeed, and that I’m the poorer for the lack.

I first heard from Mary in 2014, after the publication of my second novel, Dakota. At the time, she was a postulant at St. Placid’s Priory, a Benedictine monastery in Washington state. She introduced herself as an Amarillo, Texas, native who’d gotten her MFA from the University of Montana’s highly regarded creative writing program. Hers was one of those notes that sends a new, uncertain author’s heart soaring. The voice in my novels, she generously wrote, “hit every Texas nerve I have and left them vibrating” – and she added that she was recommending my books to her fellow postulants.

My first reaction was: Yikes! The idea of a religious community reading Dakota, which was about human trafficking in the Baaken oilfields, reawakened long-dormant Catholic school sensibilities. But I got over the initial embarrassment and so began a wonderfully rewarding correspondence.

Mary’s creative writing chops showed in every email. Her Christmas note last year began thusly:

The wind has finally laid low after an all-night blow. One of my feral cats – an older tom – has an injured front paw, but he’s so wild, I can’t get near him, and it’s making me nuts. So I’m praying hard to St. Francis and Our Lady Undoer of Knots that he heal. Great thing about being Catholic – as I always tell my friends and clients – is that we’re fully accessorized. We’ve got a saint for anything, any malady, or hope (usually based on a deeply embedded holy person of pagan persuasion or a place that’s been holy to local people for time out of mind) you can come up with. Us recovering addicts have everybody from St. Augustine of Hippo to St. Maximillian Kolbe to Blessed Matt Talbot (an Irish drunk who died sober in 1925 who was found to have bound his body in chains and ropes as penance for his earlier life as a drunk).

She always apologized for the length of her emails; I always wished they were longer.

I was glad I’d sent her an advance copy of my most recent novel, Silent Hearts. We’d discussed the progress (or lack thereof) of the manuscript over the years and she shared my joy in its long-awaited publication.

Her last note to me, on Valentine’s Day, touched as always on the weather (a mutual obsession) and Catholicism, even though by then she’d left the monastery and was back in Amarillo.

We’re having one of those weird weather days – 73 degrees and wind, wind, wind. A somewhat welcome change from below 32 and wind, wind, wind. … So, Ash Wednesday on Valentine’s Day. A conundrum for observant Catholics as today is a day of both fast (only one solid meal) and abstinence (no meat). Definitely no candy.

She asked after my partner, who’d just had quadruple bypass surgery, and told me she’d sought prayers on his behalf from the sisters of St. Placid. At which point I relaxed, knowing he’d be fine.

And then, three days ago, a thoughtful note from a member of Mary’s writing group arrived, letting me know that Mary had died. The air went out of the room.

It seemed impossible that such a vibrant, intrepid spirit was gone. She’s not, of course. I imagine her swirling about on those wild Texas winds, taking a delighted and descriptive interest in everything she sees. But I’m so sad we’ll never meet in person.

And I hope every writer is fortunate enough to have such a perceptive, generous, responsive reader. It’s the ultimate honor.

Rest in peace, Mary. And eternal thanks.

Happy book birthday, Silent Hearts

July 23, 2018 2 Comments

“A tasty read,” says Fiona

Awhile back, I wrote here that “the pub date for Silent Hearts is still six interminable months out.”

And now, a blink of an eye later, it’s here.

Publishing is a long, long game. Two years, in this case, from the offer on the manuscript to a book on the shelves. Four years from when I embarked on what I vowed would be my last, best attempt at rewriting said manuscript. Fifteen from when I first started putting words on the page about two women, one Pakistani, one American, who ended up as Farida and Liv in the final version.

The manuscript languished untouched for some of those years. Others, I attacked it mercilessly, probably cutting the equivalent of another whole book over the years. Titles came and went, so many that one of my fiction goals is to someday see a book published with my own title – which may be even more difficult than getting a book published at all.

I’ve made this point too many times before, so I won’t belabor it here. But I’ve seen so many wonderful writers give up after just a few rejections, which means so many good books that the world will never see. That makes me sad.

But today is not a day for sadness. The joint launch party for Silent Hearts – and for Melissa Stephenson’s memoir, “Driven: A White-Knuckled Ride to Heartbreak and Back” – is tomorrow night. I hear there will be cake. If that’s not cause for celebration, I don’t know what is.

Outline(ish), progress(ish)

June 14, 2018 Leave a Comment

Here’s the Book Seven progress report I sent my agent:

Horrible first draft – done

Holes (many, gaping) – identified

Outline (to address said holes) – roughed out

Rewrite – commenced. Happy writer!

So, as noted before, I do things backward: I write a draft first, then I make an outline by summarizing each chapter on an index card and lying the cards out in order. Then I shuffle them – and add new ones – until I come up with a structure that makes sense. Something about the physicality of it helps. At least, I hope it does.

As my wonderfully wise agent promised, the draft wasn’t nearly so horrible as it felt while I was writing it. Some chapters, especially as I figured out what the book was about, actually were not half bad. Now, to fill in those holes. That’s the happy writer part – knowing what needs to be done, having tripped over it in the stumbling-around process of the first draft.

Efficient? Not remotely.

But fun, in an effed-up kinda way.

Buried Treasure

May 28, 2018 Leave a Comment

As in, very deeply buried. This weekend, the disaster that is my desk got to be too much even for me, so I hauled some file boxes into my office and began an excavation, purging old files, making room for new ones.

Deep within the old ones, I found one labeled “Agent Queries.”

“This should be good,” I thought. And it was, but not in the way I thought. I figured I’d get a belly laugh out of it, dating to the days when I was sending out my first manuscript, a book that (rightly) never found a publisher, and exists today only in a single cannibalized chapter that I rewrote and put into my third novel, Disgraced. These days, I’m embarrassed to think that I even sent it out.

But. But. Flipping through the file reminded me that Wind River, as I called that fumbling first novel, got a “very enthusiastic” first reading from a terrific agency, and made it to another round before being rejected with the standard “we are simply not enthusiastic enough.”

How had I forgotten this? I must have been over the moon when getting that first note, and probably hardly slept at all during the three weeks before the final rejection.

And there was a very encouraging note from another agent, praising specific parts and comparing one section to the writing of Rick Bass (!). At the time, I was probably crushed (except for the Rick Bass part); now I see that sort of feedback as rare and valuable.

There was a letter from a respected literary magazine, rejecting a story, but again with specifics as to why, and asking that I resubmit after a rewrite. Did I do so? The files are a jumble, and I can’t find a second rejection. But I sure hope I did. Anyway, several years later, after extensive rewriting, that same story was published in a different magazine (and republished in two anthologies), won me at least two residencies and was nominated for a Pushcart.

My point? All during the years I felt so hopeless (and still do on about every third day), I was actually getting wonderful encouragement that I was on the right path. Wind River was roundly rejected in 2005; it would be another eight years before I published my first novel. But I’ve had one published nearly every year since, and two this year.

I’m belatedly but deeply grateful to the agents and editors who took the time to write such thoughtful notes, giving me just enough of a push to keep at it. If you’ve just started collecting rejections, hang onto the good ones and take their advice to heart. They mean you’re on to something.

Runaway manuscript

May 8, 2018 Leave a Comment

When I was a kid, I had a horse with a mouth like iron who, toward the end of a ride, would work at the bit until he got it between his teeth and then head for the barn at a full gallop, hoping to scrape me off under the overhang.

I perfected the emergency dismount, leaping from his back at the last minute and rolling away from his hooves. Once, I wasn’t quick enough and he clipped my head with his hoof, resulting in a bump that persists to this day.

Which has what to do with writing? For one thing, there’s a horse in the WIP, much as there was in my first novel. This one is the most minor of characters, but he’s satisfyingly ornery and I’m fond of him.

More to the point, as the first draft lurches toward its conclusion, it reaches a point that I’ve come to recognize. After floundering through tens of thousands of words, suddenly the book’s path becomes clear and it takes off, streaking toward The End, and all I can do is hang on and hope I don’t end up with another bump on my head.

After so many months of utter mystification—where the hell is this thing heading, anyway?—it’s gratifying to suddenly have some clarity, even though it means so much (so very much) will have to change in the rewrite.

Which is my favorite part. I just need to get to the barn.

Literary Libations

April 23, 2018 Leave a Comment

Sometimes I pick cocktails the same way I used to bet on racehorses—based on a cool name.

Take the Anton Chigurh at Missoula’s Plonk. At soon as I saw that name, I had to have it. Cormac McCarthy is one of my favorite writers, and Chigurh (from NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN) is one of literature’s most nightmare-inducing villains. The drink—featuring tequila and mezcal—was like a shot from the bolt gun the Chigurh employed on his victims. I was a happy camper.

A few days later, I came across The Lolita at the Old Post Pub. With Quicksilver, St. Germaine, Champagne, and a splash of soda, it seemed a little too sweet to be worth ordering, despite LOLITA being another favorite—and Humbert Humbert another memorable villain.

I’m apt to grab a bottle of Steele’s Writer’s Block wine when I see it on a store shelf, so it can sit on my own shelf as a talisman against same. And the aptly named Writer’s Tears whiskey gives a nod both to the stereotype of real writers drinking their whiskey neat (none of those fancy cocktails, thank you)—and also to what happens if they imbibe too much.

That said, literary-themed cocktail recipes abound, from the Margarita Atwood, from Merrily Grashin’s WOMEN’S LIBATION!, to the Tequila Mockingbird.

Me, I only get to drink these things once in awhile. Otherwise, my writer’s tears would be the real thing, not Irish whiskey. But if you’re inclined to put off achieving your daily word count by Googling around for recipes as I just did, there are plenty to peruse and save for the day when you’ve got something to celebrate. Cheers.

RMFW WOTY—What’s it mean?

April 12, 2018 Leave a Comment

It means Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers’ Writer of the Year award, and I—along with Curtis Craddock and Mandy Mikulencak—am a finalist. Which means I’m gobsmacked.

First, a bit about Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. It’s just what it sounds like, a group devoted to fostering fiction writing in the Rocky Mountain region. You pay minimal dues and you get maximum benefits: access to classes and workshops, both in-person and online, an info-packed newsletter, all sorts of promotional opportunities, and above all, fellowship with hundreds of other people who share the special madness that is writing.

There’s an annual conference, Colorado Gold, where years ago I was invited to join a critique group whose members are simply the best—the best!—and one of whom, Kate Moretti, is a keynote speaker at this year’s conference. (Quick promo: She and I will be doing a “conversation” at Tattered Cover’s LoDo store on Wednesday, Sept. 5, at 7 p.m., the night before the conference.)

As for the WOTY nomination, hard to say anything beyond gobsmacked. Some of the writers I most admire—I pinch myself to count them as mentors and friends—have been named WOTY.

One of the coolest things about RMFW is the iWOTY award, for Independent Writer of the Year. This year’s finalists are Sue Duff, Corinne O’Flynn (a longtime Colorado Gold organizer who’s answered way too many of my stupid questions), and Bernadette Marie.

Honored to be in this company!

Feb. 2018 – A twofer in two weeks

February 22, 2018 Leave a Comment

The coolest thing is happening in a couple of weeks.

NightOfTheFlood On March 5, Down and Out Books releases THE NIGHT OF THE FLOOD, a novel in stories, conceived by J.J. Hensley and edited by E.A. Aymar and Sarah M. Chen. (You can read a great interview with them here.)

A number of us who write for The Thrill Begins, International Thriller Writers’ online magazine for aspiring and debut authors, and a few other writers collaborated on this collection that – from my viewpoint at least – came together astonishingly seamlessly. But don’t take my word for it. Lee Child – yes, of the Jack Reacher series – calls it “a brave concept, brilliantly executed.”

That’s probably because Ed and Sarah did all of the hard work. It was a fun project and I can’t wait to see it in print.

Then, just three days later, my fifth Lola Wicks novel, UNDER THE SHADOWS (Midnight Ink) comes out. This one takes Lola to Utah, Salt Lake City specifically. She’s spent so much time in the wilds of West that I thought it would be fun to put her back in a city for awhile. Lola being Lola, she’s grouchy about it.

I’m celebrating by reading Laura Lippman’s SUNBURN and listening to Tom Sweterlitsch’s THE GONE WORLD, both highly anticipated and each delivering in spades. Life is sweet when you’re drunk on good books.

Some Sentences, January 2018 – Hamilton as inspiration

January 24, 2018 Leave a Comment

I’ve written before about liking to write to music. From the way-back machine, Nirvana Unplugged is a favorite. Even way-er back, Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. I listened to the Navajo Nation’s KTNN while I was writing Reservations. Aimee Mann’s The Forgotten Arm was the soundtrack to a book that (deservedly) never got published – I’ll try not to hold that against her.

I also listen to music that inspires, and lately, Hamilton – pretty sure I’m the last person to jump on this particular bandwagon – fits the bill.

I can’t listen to it while writing; it’s too distracting. But it’s great for gearing up to write, or for when I’m stuck. I just plug in the earbuds and go for a walk as Lin-Manuel Miranda as Alexander Hamilton declares, “I’m not throwing away my [beat] shot.”

No, sir, I am not. I am going to march back to that laptop and pound out that novel.

Another favorite: When Aaron Burr asks Hamilton, “Why do you write like you’re running out of time? Write day and night like you’re running out of time?”

Because writing is the most important thing?

Anyhow, because everything in the world lives on the internet, I found a necklace that there instructs me to “Write like you’re running out of time.”

Words to live, er, write by.

Blog

Big book love under the Big Sky

RIP to reader Mary Vanek

Happy book birthday, Silent Hearts

Outline(ish), progress(ish)

Buried Treasure

Runaway manuscript

Literary Libations

RMFW WOTY—What’s it mean?

Feb. 2018 – A twofer in two weeks

Some Sentences, January 2018 – Hamilton as inspiration

Newsletter

A month of whiplash

Thankful for new adventures

The rewards of working without a net

Until next time, Seattle

Seattle, City of Books

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Looking inward

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