Ladies and gentlemen of the crime community, we take great pleasure in introducing Mr David Heska Wanbli Weiden. Please give David a warm welcome.
— Leigh
 |
author David Heska Wanbli Weiden
photo by Aslan Chalom |
David Heska Wanbli Weiden
I am delighted to join the SleuthSayers roster! It’s a pleasure to join writers
whom I’ve known for some time and others that I’ve yet to meet. In this
introductory post, I thought I’d share some thoughts on publishing and
marketing a debut novel (spoiler alert: during a pandemic!) and also on finding
space to write one’s second novel, although I hasten to add that no one should
take any advice from me on this topic, given that it’s been five (!) years
since my debut was published. I am happy to report that the sequel, Wisdom Corner, is forthcoming in 2026, and I also have an edited anthology forthcoming from Akashic Books titled Native Noir.
By way of background, my debut novel, Winter Counts, was published by
Ecco/HarperCollins. It’s the tale of Virgil Wounded Horse, a vigilante on the
Rosebud Indian Reservation in South Dakota. I’m an enrolled citizen of the
Rosebud Sioux Tribe (known as the Sicangu Lakota nation in our language), and
so it’s no surprise that I set the novel there. I wasn’t raised on the
reservation, but I spent a great deal of time there growing up, as my mother
was born there and our family still has a presence on the rez. Indeed, I “own”
three small parcels of land on the reservation, although that land is held in
trust by the federal government and is leased to white ranchers, who pay rent for
the use of the land (the princely sum I receive ranges from 75 cents to several dollars per annum.)
I wrote and revised Winter Counts in the period from 2017-2019 and was
extremely fortunate to secure representation from a literary agent, the
wonderful Michelle Brower, in 2018. On submission, we were lucky to have a
number of Big Five imprints interested in the manuscript, and Ecco offered a
two-book deal, which we accepted. Publication was set for August 2020, and I excitedly
attended to all of the details of publication: copyediting, proofreading, cover
design, audio book creation, etc.
And then the global pandemic happened.
The Covid-19 years now seem very far away, but it is difficult to understate the
impact the virus had on the publishing world in the early stages. My entire
book tour was canceled as was every planned event, including a live book launch
in my hometown of Denver. Indeed, every brick-and-mortar bookstore in the
country had closed, which did not bode well for hand sales of the novel by
booksellers. Naturally, I was devastated, as it seemed like all of my hard work
was going down the drain. But, people were dying, and I was of course grateful
that no one in my family was affected (although I did contract the virus, just
weeks before the first vaccine was released) and I mourned for those lost,
including a former classmate. The impact of Covid-19 was catastrophic for
citizens of my reservation, as there were few opportunities to quarantine on Indigenous
lands and many Native nations did not have the resources to purchase medical
masks before federal funds began to be distributed. (Jumping ahead of the story
a bit: after my novel was released, private book clubs began to ask me to join
them virtually; I never charged a fee, but I did request that they donate to
the Rosebud Sioux Tribe Covid fund, and I was gratified to raise a fair amount
of money for my people to purchase masks and other items.)
For
those of us with books published in the first wave of the pandemic, there were
no templates on how to move forward. Given that the usual model of in-person
book promotion was not possible, I made the decision that I’d utilize every
option offered to discuss the novel. And indeed, that’s exactly what I did. In
the year after the book was released, I engaged in nearly two hundred events: virtual
bookstore readings, podcasts, virtual festival appearances, radio broadcasts,
meetings with private book clubs, print interviews, television appearances, and
even an Instagram takeover of the HarperCollins account. I also wrote several
dozen blog posts and articles, including an op-ed for the New York Times.
I was grateful for these opportunities to talk about the novel and the issues in
the book, and my initial awkwardness with video appearances lessened to some
degree. Happily, I believe that my work paid off, as the novel was able to
attract significant attention in the press as well as dozens of positive and
rave reviews. Sales were excellent, and the book made a few bestseller lists as
well as receiving twelve awards in the U.S. and England.
The
point here is that book promotion and marketing apparently changed as a result
of the pandemic years, and this change may be permanent. I’ve spoken to veteran
authors who told me that they never participated in any virtual events before
the pandemic, but that these appearances are now standard for them. To be sure,
there are some authors who have such a national presence that they can eschew
these virtual gatherings, but for most of us, Zoom events are now the norm. For
example, about one hundred private book clubs adopted and discussed Winter Counts, and I made a virtual appearance for about half of those. It’s
always a pleasure to speak with these enthusiastic readers, but these meetings
take time and energy, of course.
And
that brings me to the issue of writing the second novel. I’ll confess that I’ve
sometimes felt like a slacker when I observed folks in my writer friend group
publishing novels every couple of years (or even more frequently!) But I know
that each of us has a different process and different circumstances. Like most,
I’ve maintained a day job as well as family responsibilities. Raising
teenagers—at least in my house—ensures a steady stream of issues that demand
immediate attention. In addition, many of us maintain side jobs and passion
projects. In my case, I’ve made it a priority to give back to the Native
American and writing communities, engaging in fundraising, mentoring, and various
forms of professional service. But these activities also take significant time
and attention.
This
brings me to the practical advice on finishing a second book, although I’ll
repeat my caveat that I’m not sure I’m the person to advise on this. For me,
the most intense bursts of creativity have occurred when I’ve been in
attendance at artists’ residencies. I’ve had the exceptional good fortune to be
in residence twice at MacDowell, Ucross, and Ragdale, as well as once at the
Vermont Studio Center and once as Artist in Residence at Brown University. For
those who aren’t aware, these residencies are spaces for artists to work,
uninterrupted, in the presence of other creatives. At MacDowell, located in the
woods of New Hampshire, each artist is given a cabin or studio in which to work
by themselves; lunches are silently dropped off at the front door. In the evenings,
a communal meal allows for discussion of work projects and other topics. In
2018, I wrote the final chapters of Winter Counts in two weeks in an
intense period of focused creativity in the Garland studio at MacDowell. In the
last several years, I’ve worked on Wisdom Corner at other residencies
with similar results.
For
those struggling to find time in which to write while juggling family and other
responsibilities, artists’ residencies can be a godsend. Many of these
residencies charge no fees and some even provide travel stipends. For the best-known
residencies, admission is competitive while others are less so. But, despite
the benefits of these residencies, I’ve found that there are vanishingly few
crime or genre writers at these spaces. It’s tempting to infer that there may
be a bias by the judges against genre writers and in favor of literary fiction
authors. I can’t definitively answer that question, but I can share at least
one data point. For the last two years, I was a judge for a well-known
residency (I’m not allowed to say which one), and, in that time period, there
were exactly zero crime writers who applied for admission. Perhaps this was
just an anomaly, but my sense is that crime and genre writers are either
unaware of these residencies or believe that these spaces are not for them. This
is most certainly not true! I urge crime and genre writers to apply to these
residencies as well as other conferences, festivals, and events. I’ll briefly
note that many general writing conferences—such as Tin House, Bread Loaf, and
Sewanee—are also frequently overlooked by genre writers.
I’ll
end these thoughts by noting that the landscape of publishing has certainly
changed in the last decade for a variety of reasons. Not only the
transformations wrought by the pandemic, but the consolidation of publishing as
certain presses and imprints have merged or shut down. Many more changes are
certainly coming given the economic uncertainty we face. In light of this, it’s
in our interest as genre writers to remain aware of these challenges and adapt
as necessary. To this end, I’m heartened by the formation of communities such
as Crime Writers of Color, Queer Crime Writers, and others. These groups have tirelessly
worked to open up spaces for writers previously marginalized from mainstream
publishing, a positive development in our ever-changing industry.
