Sexy nature?
People aren't always sure what kind of writer I am.
When my novel Swimming Sweet Arrow came out in 2000, a reviewer called me the Anaïs Nin of northern Minnesota. Another reviewer said the book was like The Story of O transplanted to Pennsylvania Dutch country. Those were the compliments. Less complimentary were some of my coworkers (I won't call them colleagues), who called me a pornographer — and that was before I got anything published in Playboy.
To them, I was one kind of writer.
But to people who read my nature column in the local paper up here, I'm another kind of writer. Around my town I'm known as the "bird and bee lady," and people always want to tell me something about wildflowers or hummingbirds. When they pick up Swimming Sweet Arrow, they probably think they're going to read about swimming, and then they find all the graphic sex. It's a surprise.
So — I write about relationships, women's (and men's) bodies, and sex. I write about power, obsession, and pleasure. But I also write about frogs and flowers.
Let me throw in a little more confusion: I live in northern Minnesota but I still have dreams about the NYC subways. I know how to keep the pipes from freezing when it's 40 below, but I've also been to the Picasso Chateau. I wear $30 jeans every single day of my life, but I also like pricey french perfume — Muscs Koublai Khan by Serge Lutens.
That's something living in the country has taught me: things don't always do what you expect. Bald eagles can glide on water, owls hunt in the day, and crows definitely talk. And it is possible to wear sexy underwear when it's below zero — you just wear it with your Sorel boots.
Here's the art I have hanging in my bathroom: three risqué, tinted postcards from earlier times. It represents who I am as much as my earlier post about chickadees.
When my novel Swimming Sweet Arrow came out in 2000, a reviewer called me the Anaïs Nin of northern Minnesota. Another reviewer said the book was like The Story of O transplanted to Pennsylvania Dutch country. Those were the compliments. Less complimentary were some of my coworkers (I won't call them colleagues), who called me a pornographer — and that was before I got anything published in Playboy.
To them, I was one kind of writer.
But to people who read my nature column in the local paper up here, I'm another kind of writer. Around my town I'm known as the "bird and bee lady," and people always want to tell me something about wildflowers or hummingbirds. When they pick up Swimming Sweet Arrow, they probably think they're going to read about swimming, and then they find all the graphic sex. It's a surprise.
So — I write about relationships, women's (and men's) bodies, and sex. I write about power, obsession, and pleasure. But I also write about frogs and flowers.
Let me throw in a little more confusion: I live in northern Minnesota but I still have dreams about the NYC subways. I know how to keep the pipes from freezing when it's 40 below, but I've also been to the Picasso Chateau. I wear $30 jeans every single day of my life, but I also like pricey french perfume — Muscs Koublai Khan by Serge Lutens.
That's something living in the country has taught me: things don't always do what you expect. Bald eagles can glide on water, owls hunt in the day, and crows definitely talk. And it is possible to wear sexy underwear when it's below zero — you just wear it with your Sorel boots.
Here's the art I have hanging in my bathroom: three risqué, tinted postcards from earlier times. It represents who I am as much as my earlier post about chickadees.
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