Home and the rain has been falling hard off and on for days, with some sucker holes of blue sky sweeping through.  There are a few leaves on the cherry tree and there is only one red plastic chair out on the point but it blew over days ago.  I’m still using the outdoor shower in the morning and it is wonderful standing in the widening cone of warm water surrounded by the sky of rain falling through the grey-green world.

I have been home reading crime novels I picked up on my travels.  I have loved learning about the dark world of crime in southern Italy in Black Souls, and the wonderfully comic and mysterious world of Laos in Don’t Eat Me.  I also bought an unabridged Leaves of Grass which was illustrated by Rockwell Kent which is lovely.  Now I’m reading Commonwealth by Ann Patchett for a book club that I’ve been invited to in California at Thanksgiving, the Patchett is a nice change of place after Black Souls and I have to admit for the first few pages of her novel I was waiting for a vendetta beheading… that never came.  So I just relaxed into a brilliant and civilized story. 


 During the days looking out on the water I’ve been thinking about how much I love Rockwell Kent’s art, particularly his illustrations he supplies to literature.  He always seems to raise up the text and never just makes a cartoon of it.  Kent was an artist who came to Alaska in 1918 and seemed to be infected by wilderness.  Like Melville he had a very light hand on the thread of wonder.  He never tried to truss up the subject of “wilderness” and and throw it in his luggage to take home.  He knew the thread would break.  Kent became famous for among, other things the art work he supplied for several portfolio editions of Moby Dick , also his book put together from his diary of his year living on Fox Island at the mouth of Resurrection Bay with his young son.  The book was entitled Wilderness and he also put together a classic Christmas story of their only Christmas together there on the island. That book is almost as resonant as A Child’s Christmas in Wales for most Alaskans.  It’s a beautiful book that truly evokes life living rough in maritime Alaska.

 Kent is sometimes compared to Whitman and Melville for their experience of a kind of spiritual and sensual ecstasy while confronting the wild forces of nature.  I read an essay once by Robert Bly talking about the two poles of American poetry being represented by Walt Whitman’s vigor and Emily Dickinson’s reticence, something between the ecstatic “Yawp” of Whitman and the “gnomic scholarship” of Dickinson, as Emily Dickinson signed all her personal letters in later years as “Your Gnome,” or “Your Scholar.”

 There is a world of sensuality that lies between these two poles. In his own work, Kent threw himself into the storm.  He lavished himself in the wild and the sensual, like Melville, like Whitman, but when he applied his work to these other artists work, he did not illustrate, he simply alluded to their own passions for to illustrate would have been too much. Think of Whitman’s Song of Myself where he reaches near ecstasy as he celebrates the human body, or Melville where he describes the whalemen flensing then bucketing the spermaceti from melon of the great Sperm Whale. These are sensual declarations.  Then take a look on the end papers of Rockwell Kent’s edition of Wilderness. See the figure of the naked man flying above the sea as the compass rose, and notice his shadow emerging from the shore.  He most likely drew this image a hundred years ago as men died by the thousands in muddy trenches in France. Here was the dawning of the age that gave birth to existentialism and the death of hope… but to Rockwell Kent here it was, the man in ecstasy, to add any more would have run afoul of the law, surely in 1922 when the book was published. The free man, in perfect living ecstasy.

 American art has always had a tug of war going between the head and the heart; between the mind and the body. Which one directs us, and where does the compass swing true?  I suppose this is what keeps the artist busy.

 As winter comes, I have chores ahead.  I will need to do my editor’s revisions on What Is Time To A Pig. I have been waiting for those, and I am beginning to write the next Cecil book.  I have been thinking a lot about how to balance out my head and my heart.

 I remember sitting on a bed in a hotel once talking to a friend during a writers conference,  I remember saying that writing well should be both as easy and as hard as maintaining a close friendship.  There needs to be a rock steady commitment to the principle of the friendship and at the same time there needs to be restraint… a freedom for the friends to grow and change. In writing it is a commitment to the story and a light touch to let the story change and grow.

 In America… some stories break your heart.  Colonialism.  Slavery. Industrial Capitalism,  Numbing materialism,  Some of these plot twists have no good outcomes.  Some stories just break your heart and cause us to go back, and back and back to old ones that overwork old tropes so that old friends start to disappoint.  Some old stories are just too sad.  And some new stories are built on things yet unfounded in these tentative times.

This is why we must keep looking for the new and the hopeful… or stop trying.  This is why courage remains the most important tool in a writer’s kit.  Courage to look unflinchingly.  Melville clearly had it to write his masterpiece that went unappreciated his entire life: a long complex story where the allegory goes unexplained.  No one ever explains what the White Whale really represents.  That’s what makes that book so perfect.  It is something that is emotionally so true, and intellectually so illusive.  Rockwell Kent had courage as well not to give in to the plain or the literal.  Figures floated above the landscape like magic, just as I imagine his heart must have felt.

 As the rain continues to fall, I keep making notes. I miss my old friends, but I can’t ask too much of them.  The rain continues to fall and I look for the new under the old slick leaves and in the new books that pile up on my bedside, and the old books that I can always read more carefully.

 Love, and friendship… must replenish the spirit.  But so too…I must have faith that in the dark night that seems completely empty of stars, or of rescue, there must be that next new idea which must surely come. 


Crows land

and dance on the yellow grass

while I kiss your neck

at the sink.





La Familia, The Palouse

I am mesmerized by the Palouse country of southeastern Washington and western Idaho. The winter wheat fields’ stretch for miles and read like the hips of reclining figures to the eye.  Some of the lines are chocolate brown of the fertile soil and some are golden with the straw of the old wheat stalks. In mid summer they will be green waves. There are great rounds of hay and alfalfa with their monstrous irrigation pivot systems running on wheels defining the landscape into great circles from the air.  Corporate farming has made it a lonely country now.  Very few homes with the traditional cotton woods and lilac trees around the kitchen windows, those places have either fallen to a shambles of grey boards to become the home of bees or have been bulldozed to make way for pole and metal structures for servicing giant machines.  The little working towns are dusty and the ones that hang on are homes to part stores and mechanics.  The water towers rarely have graffiti from the local football team, for those kids ride the bus to the larger towns now, where the Banks have their headquarters and the truck dealerships share a corner with the John Deere representatives. The biggest towns are Pullman and Moscow and both are University Towns, which used to be big Ag, schools and still have programs but fewer and  fewer people need apply,  now they need to repair the computers and machines that determine what big farming is all about.


I won’t get into if this is a good way to go.  I’m not smart enough in how to feed a planet or if we should be feeding a planet or helping a planet feed itself. I just know that I have a romantic and a philosophical kinship with the notion that people working together on farms where they live for generations impart a certain stewardship and responsibility to both the land and the larger community of their customers and the smaller community of their neighbors.  But I also know that those small farmers often had hellishly hard lives and did not engender generous or literate values upon their families at times and places in the past.  Read a discussion between Wendell Barry and Mary Clearman Blew to get both sides of the supposed pastoral life.


What do I know? I come from a steep-sided rain forest?  This flat dry country is exotic and beautiful to me.  I love driving through it.  I love the brick buildings of its towns and the husky portions and the burgers they put on the plates.  I’m just grateful to be here.

The reading in Seattle was fun.  Lots of family came and definitely outnumbered the unsuspecting customers who wandered in out of curiosity to see me.  An older couple from Alaska had a great time, and acted like an Amen chorus, saying “That’s right… that’s just right!” aloud as I read particular lines describing home, which I quite enjoyed. (I’ve always wanted to be a preacher about Alaska)  Two women who I knew as quite a small child came.  Ann Randlett and I were friends when I was about six years old.  I spent many hours at her house next door when we lived in Woodway Park north of Seattle.  She brought Chris Wright who came from a big family of girls and the Wrights were close friends of our family.  At the reading I introduced her to my sister as “Chrissie Wright” and my sister Martha gasped in wonderment.  Chris said,  “No one has called me Chrissy for probably forty years, and her eyes teared up a bit saying that her father had passed away in the last year or so, and thinking of her old life sometimes made her cry.  She turned to me.  “No… I like it.  I like that you called me Chrissie.” 

 Family has a hold on us. Always and in unexpected ways.

 We broke up early and I went to my sister’s house.  Their children were home for a rare visit.  Their son and his long time girl friend both accomplished artists in New York and Paris, their daughter pursuing her Ph.D. in biology at Oregon State. They were all home. We had a lovely time talking about painting, ecology and poetry, my sister and her husband were happy, with that warm feeling I remember from long ago when my four siblings came home from their colleges at Christmas and my father ran the dinner table as if it were a symposium.  Except this feeling was all love, loose and funny where anything could be said.  My father was much more formal and often wanted to make sure he was getting his money’s worth.  Or so it seems now, and I might not being fair.  I know he loved having us home and certainly our mother did. 

 But the night after my reading I was honored to be in my sister’s house with her smart children wrapped in that feeling of familial love.  Pride. Honest accomplishment.  Again, I’m lucky to be driving across hundreds of miles of lonely country to give a reading where who knows who might show up or not.  I’m lucky to have their love to travel with me.  This is the support a writer needs to give them courage, from a actual family… or a family of choice… this intimacy, this love of long meandering conversations of different disciplines… this does more for creativity than the McCarthur Foundation.  I’m sure of it.

In golden stubble

one male pheasant beats his wings

then glides… silently.




Postcard From The Train

I’m on the train from Portland to Seattle, bumping along through the farmland and the industrial backyards of the wetlands and river valleys of the soggy northwest coast. We past my old stomping grounds in Centralia where I did the research for Death And The Language Of Happiness, and I strained to see the bridge that replaced the one where they hung John Wesley Everest the unlucky member of the I.W.W. who got caught up in the riot of 1919.  Last time Jan and I were there we cleaned his grave.  Railroad rides always feel like glimpses backstage to me. 

 The reading at Powell’s bookstore last night went well.  There was a nice crowd of about twenty five people who seemed to enjoy themselves.  I read from the mystery and we had a good discussion then I closed with an essay that included a good quote from William Stafford who was both the poet Laureate of the United States and the PL of Oregon, he lived only a few miles from the store where we were.  If anyone could be called a “favorite son” it would be Stafford. We had a fine time and I left feeling bolstered.  Then went to dinner with some good friends and ate at a joint called The Woodsman, and ate the best pork chop that has ever touched my lips.  I ate with Chris Bernard who used to be a reporter in Sitka and is the author of “Chasing Alaska” his friend who is also a writer and my old friends Jody and Willa who have recently moved to Portland.  Willa loves everything about Portland, and Jody is adjusting after twenty fifty some years in the south and the east coast.  Jody is solidly blue collar but an autodidact and incredibly well read.  He doesn’t take to trends or fads.  He also is not one for political group think.  We had a fine time talking about Portland, about the artist in residence at the dump where he goes, and when he worked at the hardware store in Portland about helping a customer who wanted food for his pet ant.  In the singular.  One pet ant. 

 I enjoy Portland.  I like the various neighborhoods, and the music scene seems lively and diverse.  I like the people with all their community problem-solving energy.  New Yorkers have always loved to make fun of life on the west coast, all the way back to Fred Allen, through Woody Allen and his Las Angeles phobia.  Now Portlandia likes to make its stereotypes, which is fine.  I like it weird though.  If not there… in Portland, where then?  And besides, where else could I get a brined and wood smoked slow cooked pork chop with perfectly cooked pork and beans with a delectable cornbread biscuit, served without an ounce of irony?  Perfect, I’m telling you.

 Tonight, I will be in Seattle with my family and tomorrow night will do a reading at Third Place Books in Ravenna.  Then I’m off to Moscow Idaho…  I will take my time to drive through that beautiful wheat country.  Maybe I’ll stop and get a bottle of wine in Walla Walla and pull off somewhere in the Palouse and write another short note. 

Along a slow stream

a muddy pony stands still

as the train blasts by.



My First Stop: I Can't Make You Like Me.

I’m in Phoenix and it’s a hundred and ten degrees today.  It’s the day after the Poison Pen Mystery Readers and Writers Conference, I’m staying in a swanky resort with eight swimming pools.  I walked around and looked at three of them and I almost melted.  I leaned over and put my hand in the water and that too felt hot and sour with chlorine. I didn’t go swimming but came back to my air conditioned room, and listened to a Tom Cruise movie.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to this kind of conference.  It’s a gathering of about two dozen writers, with one big name writer to head the bill, and about ninety readers and people interested in writing their own books who pay to attend.  Some come to meet their favorite writers and some come to pitch their books to the editors who also attend.

The programing at this conference was set up mostly by Barbara Peters who runs Poison Pen Press who is a powerful force in the Mystery Literature world, she is a publisher, editor, and legendary bookstore owner and reader of everything.  She knows everyone and is friends with almost all of them. She is smart and apparently ageless.  It’s kind of unnerving.  This was a very pleasant and low key conference.  The people were friendly and relaxed.  At some of the bigger and busier conferences, like Bouchercon next week,  fans have less time and they sometimes need to rush around to get books signed and find their authors on a kind of tense scavenger hunt, but this gathering was more relaxed and we had good conversation about books and authors.

There were great authors there.  Some of them I had read and knew well.  Ian Rankin from Scotland gave a fine talk about Scottish Crime fiction, Dana Stabennow, and I spoke about Alaska and Alaskan readers.  James Sallis, interviewed Rankin and his band entertained us.  I love his poetry and his early crime books.  He teaches here in Phoenix.  There was Francine Mathews who writes lovely books about Jane Austin, and now books about Nantucket.

Then I also met authors new to me: Stephen Mack Jones whose first book August Snow is causing a stir.  He writes about Detroit and it was the one book I bought.  Reavis Z. Wortham, is a rancher from Texas wears the boots and has the hat and the mustache to go with them, but he has a great sense of humor and tells a good story and made me eager to read his books.  Mette Ivie Harrison, is another Soho writer who writes about a Mormon woman who both keeps to her faith but keeps running into the strict practices of the LDS church.  Her Mormon mother is an amateur sleuth and just the contradictions she brought up on her panels drew a ton of interest to her books.  When we went out to dinner, of course I told my usual crass jokes, and of course I apologized when I wasn't’ really sorry and of course she said that she would “pray for my soul” with a good dose of irony… or was that irony?

While I do have a good time at these gatherings and I always learn things, I always have to learn the same thing over and over again each time I go out.  The thing I always have to learn is,  “I can't make you like me.”  That is… I just have to relax and be myself.  When I’m around popular writers, I always feel they are better read than I am more talented more successful, I become extremely insecure and self-conscience and self-conciseness is the enemy of clarity. Worse it sounds whiney and ungrateful to an audience member who sees me as incredibly lucky to be up on a panel or having books published in the first place.  What do I have to feel insecure about?  I’ve made it.  The thing is I haven’t.  But that’s okay. I’m in a good spot in my life.  It doesn’t matter anyway…fame isn’t mine.  Fame belongs to someone else.  The only thing that I own are my words.  This is the mantra I have to tell myself before each public appearance.  Like Popeye,  “I am what I am, and that’s all that I am.”  Which sounds simple… but sometimes… who I am is an insecure mess, and that’s the truth and to be otherwise feels like being an arrogant phony. 

But I must resist.  Because I can’t make anyone like me, so I just have to remember to eat my spinach before I go to these things.

My friends help me always. Dana helps me always.  She is strong and always supportive.  My book seller friends, Ashia in Sitka, and Carole Price at Book People, always help me.  My brother Richard Nelson, always has my back,  and now here in Phoenix I’ve learned that I have a family at Soho Press.  Juliet Grames and Paul Oliver and all the incredible writers are truly in it for the love of the words, which really are the only things we own. 

Tomorrow I will meet Jan in Florida.  She is the strongest nourishment I need,  she transforms me. 

I am so lucky. I can’t wait for the next stop in Florida.


Hot morning

  sun searing the bright green lawn

.and light blue pool.



Leaving Home For A Book Tour

Rain today.  When I took my shower outside this morning, leaves fell from the alders all around me, and young crows made a ruckus above my head then flitted from branch to branch.  The mist was so thick I could not see the small island so near shore we can walk to it at low tide. 

I am getting ready for a long trip to promote the new book.  First I’m going to Arizona and then Florida to mystery conference. Jan will meet me in Florida because she has some time and she wants to drive with me to Del Ray where I will do a reading then she has to fly home to Alaska because she has a research trip in Prince William Sound.  For years she has been working with the humpback whales in the sound and sampling the small fish they are feeding on, to continue studying the impact of the oil spill and the health of the forage fish of the ecosystem. 

I will fly back to the pacific northwest where I will read in Portland, Seattle, Moscow Idaho, and Ilwaco, then back down to Tacoma for The Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association conference.  (You can find details on my events page)

I look forward to seeing my friends on these trips: Dana Stabenow, and Jim Sallis in particular. I look forward to the good conversations I will have.  There is almost nothing I love more than meeting writers and sitting around gabbing.  I also love meeting people who actually read my books, other than my friends and family.  It seems like a miracle to me to get off a jet plane in some crazy place like Arizona and meet someone who knows Cecil Younger and Todd. Sometimes it is odd when a fan talks with me as if they really know me too even though we have never met. (“John, what in the hell were you doing when you killed Todd’s dog in your second book? I almost came up to Alaska to slap you around!”)  But still, I love it.  I love meeting readers no matter where or when. 

But the older I get the more I hate leaving home.

There is such self-indulgence in my new writing life since I retired from crime.  In the last two years, I’ve written four books of poetry, a book of non-fiction, one completed and published novel and a draft of another.  I have a lovely writing space that looks out on a cherry tree I planted years ago and out to the ocean.  I have a few dear friends who call me periodically to help me move heavy things for them.  My wife, works hard with her students who love her and help her with all her adventures.  On Sundays, I play music in a café with some buddies, which I have done for some twenty years, and it is the most fun, I have all week.  I’m probably the least accomplished musician, I play mandolin and slide guitar.  We play swing music and blues, some folk music and some old jazz. We all listen to each other and no one shows off or wants to leave town to be a rock star.  We are all happy exactly where we are, doing what we do, which I’ve come to see is a blessing. 

I will travel around for a month in the lower 48 then I come home and will make trips out during the month of October for my Alaska tour.  I will be back and forth from home for that and that will be good.  I expect the weather in October will mess with flights so I will take ferries whenever possible, but the ferry schedule in and out of Sitka is not great these days. 

One of our best friends I will worry about is Nancy Ricketts.  Nancy is 93.  She lives in the Pioneers Home in town.  She took a fall the other day and her stomach doesn’t feel great.  She is not eating well.  She hates talking about her health.  Nancy likes to talk about substantial things.  She likes to talk about music, or science, books she has read or things she has learned in her long life.  Jan edited a book about Nancy’s father the great biologist and collector Ed Ricketts, who was made famous by John Steinbeck.  Nancy loves to talk about the things she remembers about her dad. She believes she inherited a great deal of his spirit, curiosity and adventure. I think that is true. Today she is staying in the infirmary at the Home.  I asked her if she was worried that her stomach problems were cancer.  She said,  “No, I’m not worried about that, I just want to know what is wrong, if it is cancer then I will just have another set of decision to make.  What room to be in and what to expect.  I’m still so lucky right now.  None of that really matters, I’ve been planning on dying soon anyway.”

Nancy is very lovely, when I last visited she was working on hemming a nice pair of pants.  She has a great sense of color and always wears cloths that look good on her and her hair is cut in a way that frames her face beautifully.  She is thin now, when she has pain and sits in her big chair under her reading light she reminds me of a Siamese cat, we will be talking about Gregorian Chants or the effects of music on her mood, she will stop and stretch towards the light with her eyes shut, cat-like; shudder a bit and then settle back.  When we visit her she becomes grumpy if we talk too much about her health.  She usually wants out of her room no matter how frail she feels. This weekend we drove out the road in the rain, we drove until we saw a small fawn scampering up the road ahead of us. We drove up a narrow road where we could see the mountains disappear into the clouds. We listened to sacred music then we turned around and I changed to Dixieland music for the bumpy jaunt downhill. 

We went back to her room and I lay on her floor.  I read aloud from a new book called This Land Is Your Land by Mike Lannoo, which is about the early history of Field Biology.  Lannoo is a friend of all of ours and he has written about Nancy’s dad.  I read aloud as Jan and Nancy sat back and listened.  Periodically both the opinionated women would chime in with comments or corrections.  “That’s not quite correct!” Nancy would pipe up, when I read something about what house they had first lived in...ever the editor. 

Soon she wanted to sleep, so we got up to go.  “He is such a good writer.” She said, always wanting to end with kindness, “and I had a wonderful time today,”  she said as we gathered our things.  “You be careful on your trip,” she said to me.  “I will” I said, “I will come see you first thing when I come home.”

Nancy shrugged her shoulders and smiled at me like a coquette,  “Who knows, where I’ll be?”  I kissed her and said goodbye, somehow not sad, but deeply moved, and calm in a way I had not felt before. 


Crows in the alders,

and a fawn sprints down the road

without its mother.



My Process And What Is Time To A Pig?

It's a beautiful summer day in Sitka, Alaska. The fireweed is better than six feet tall in our wild garden and the berries are ripe and soft on their stems.  Warm wind is carrying the smell of dry grass through our windows and I all most expect to see horses grazing on our lawn but alas there are no ponies to be seen. 


I finished the first draft of my next novel this week and I have sent it out to two readers for a first look.  My plan is to publish a Cecil book one year and a Cold Storage book the next and keep going that way for a bit. See how my readers like that.  The new Book is called What Is Time To A Pig? which is the punch line to a very fine joke. I wrote this draft longer than it will end up, as I usually do in a first draft, so I can trim the fat as I rework it.  The Cold Storage books are different than the Cecil books in several important ways.  First, they have different points of view.  Cecil books are first person from Cecil’s point of view and are pretty realistic. “I went to the store and walked up to the pig and I wondered what the heck the pig was thinking about just then…” CS books are third person and sometimes magical “He, she, it goes to the store and walks up to the pig, and the pig was thinking about what to have for dinner. ” Cold Storage books I tend to think are more like fairy tales, or screwball comedies.  Cecil books are more like a wise cracking detective story gone a little nutty. I don’t really know. I just write them.  I don’t like to characterize them. 


Anyway.  I research the book, but I usually start with a title.  This is bass akwards from what most writers do.  Most writers start with a plot they can pitch to an editor or a movie producer.  Not me…. and maybe that’s why I’m sitting in my yard here in Alaska and not in Los Angeles.  I start with a joke, or sometimes a scrap of poetry or something I read in someone’s notebook.  “The Curious eat themselves” was something that the poet Theodore Roethke had written in his notebook and had always stuck in my head as something interesting to think about and when Juris Jurjevic from Soho Press asked me if I had my second mystery done yet, and I told him “Ah… no… it needs some work…” meaning I hadn’t started it because I was told to tell Soho that the Woman Who Married A Bear was the first book in a series but I never thought anyone was going to buy the first one, so when Juris asked me “what is the title of the second book?”  I totally pulled out of my butt: “The Curious Eat Themselves”.


So, yes, I start with titles.  Then I make a list of places I want my characters to go.  Then I make a list of characters who could inhabit these places.  Then I come up with the plot that takes them to these places, which fits the poetry that was set ringing when I was struck by the title.  Like I said, other people don’t work this way.


Once I had to change a title, because the art department apparently got the giggles with the title I had chosen from one of my favorite haiku by Issa:



  on a naked horse

through the summer rain.


The novel was called “Naked On A Naked Horse.  The cover Artists apparently got giddy just thinking about it and my editor at Bantam made me change it.  I drove around one weekend with friends who had read the manuscript and we came up with Cold Water Burning.  Which I thought worked out a lot better than my first thought which was Fuck Off And Die, which my friends thought was immature and not helpful for the original problem with the Art Department.


Once I have title, place, characters, plot, lots of time spent staring out the window and making lists and reading and researching all of the above.  I start writing.  Rough draft discipline is number of words a day.  Usually a thousand words a day five days a week.  No cheating.  No storing up in a bank.  Five grand minimum.  No max. Then I get to about eighty thousand I wrap it up unless I have a much grander vision.  The Big Both Ways was meant to be longer.  There, I wanted to write a journey book.  Once the draft is done I let it sit and let people read it and then go back to it and then the discipline is number of hours a day. Usually three hours minimum. No cheating.  Once I start fixing things I’ve already fixed twice OR instead of fixing things I start changing things so I begin to essentially write a whole new book on top of the book I began.  I stop and let my real editor read it.  Then I work with them and follow their advice to the letter.  Unless one of us goes crazy or has a break down that is irreconcilable.  Which has never happened.  Once I get my editors revisions, I work on it until they tell me I’m done. Then there are usually two rounds of line edits after that; catching typos, and spacing issues, formatting, and proper names.  I am dyslexic and most often I hire private editors here at home or close buy to help me to find mistakes, which I am quite literally blind to. Then there are book design and jacket copy, blurbs, which I am allowed to have a voice in, and I'm honored to do that here at Soho.


I have to say that I love the people I work with at Soho Press.  That's it. I'm going to say it now, in case I never get any awards, they are the best. 


I was lucky to correspond with the great poet William Stafford before he died, he told me “An editor is a friend who makes sure only your best writing makes it out into the world.” When he first told me that I felt that editors were the people who sent rejection letters, but now I have come to believe these words of friendship. 


With each novel, I set myself a new goal, some new thing I want to try. This is what makes writing interesting.  I can’t bear writing the same thing over and over.  When I was a kid I loathed doing workbook homework where the teacher could just look up the answers in the book she kept locked in her desk.  I felt, what’s the point of this?  Why not just hand out that answer book to everyone and let us read that one and case closed.  No more suffering at home at night! Writing to a formula seems like doing that kind of homework to me.  It feels like the worst kind of homework, and I just won’t do it.


When I give a new manuscript to a reader for the first time, all I want to know is,  “Am I crazy?”  That’s it.  I will get more editing down the way,  I just want to know if the new twist or new technique is coming across without too much distraction. Is my hallucination real at all to you? So, it's not really, am I crazy... it's more, does this craziness come across vividly, and in an interesting way?  

My insanity is a given. We should all know that by now.  

In a little more than a year, if all goes well you should be able to read the well worked over version of this manuscript which, today at least, is called What Is Time To A Pig?

Here is hoping anyway. 


Warm evening: our yard.

   Wind brings in the smell of grass

and I hear horse bells.