Am I One Now?
Today I found out Powell's has a blog, and that they do interviews with authors. That's fun enough already. I do love a good author interview. Something about feeling like I'm not weird, or like I'm not struggling for nothing. Or just that I enjoy hearing other people talk about a thing they love, which I also love.
They posted this photo on their Instagram, a shot of Chuck Klosterman's writing space. I spent a handful of minutes looking through the posts and saw some great stuff, read some recommendations, found interesting advice.
The best thing I found is probably the interview with Richard Russo, who's out and about promoting Everybody's Fool, his newest book.
I've read Mohawk and Empire Falls, and have three, I think, of his others waiting on me. I've read a few interviews with him and watched some too, and he's always seemed levelheaded and knowledgeable, plus humble, which is big in my book.
He was asked when he knew he was a writer.
Am I one now? Even at 66, 25 years into a writing career that’s lasted longer than I could have hoped, I’m not entirely comfortable making the claim. Dickens, Austen, Chekhov, Twain, Cather, Fitzgerald… now they were writers. - Richard Russo
He said even more, but I think that very first sentence is the most important. To me, anyway. And yep, the pictures. They give me comfort, in ways I'm not entirely sure I understand. Should these places other writers work make me jealous? They almost never do. They seem more like places I could inhabit, not like locations I'm working toward, or something I lust after. More like a dream.