Enough traveling! I just returned from Florida (think boiling water hot outside and meat locker cold in restaurants and stores). Time to get back to work, and what better spur than the dinner party for a room full of amazingly good and successful crime fiction writers that I attended the night before I left town?
There were best-selling authors there, and several who have multiple series they have labored over for decades, and a couple of newly published like myself, and more than one who had been languishing after brilliant starts but have recently been picked up by new editors.
The talk was as varied as the people, but all about their work in one way or another: the editor from hell, the book event that didn’t happen, the surprise bump in sales that put them in the top 50 on the NYTimes list, the need to travel to some delightful spot for research or a lament about their shortsightedness in choosing a protagonist who works only in seamy corners of dark cities….I listened and realized once again that the writer’s life is not the way it looks to outsiders. Every book is as hard to write as the one before it. The uncertainties, the exposure to possible failure, the battering to one’s ego when the editor or the public doesn’t respond the way one would like, or the thrill when they do – it’s a bit of a roller coaster and disposes us to cling to each other at protected moments like this.
What hit me most clearly as I nibbled roasted veggies and chocolate-covered strawberries with my colleagues was the same thing that always warms my heart. It’s a tight community, and as far as I can tell every person in that room genuinely wished every other person success. People shared strategies, commiserated on lack of sales, and bolstered each others’ confidence all evening long.


