Frank's blog

The American West is dying. You can feel it in the air. The open range is being fenced. The wild is being cataloged, mapped, and sold to the highest bidder. But before the sun sets on the frontier for good, it’s going to take one last bite. That’s the world Frank Fiore builds. It’s not a postcard. It’s not a John Wayne movie where the hero rides off into a perfect sunset. It’s gritty. It’s bloody. And it’s exactly what adventure novels should be. In The Hunting Party, Fiore d

The frontier is dead. That’s what the history books tell you. They say the wild was tamed by 1890. They say the fences went up, the railroads moved in, and the grit was washed away by progress. They’re wrong. The frontier didn’t die. It just moved into the shadows. It retreated into the places where the law couldn’t reach and the mountains didn’t care about your "civilization." If you’re tired of "literary" westerns that spend fifty pages describing a sunset and zero pages ma

The American West isn't a place. It's a funeral. By the late 1880s, the frontier was gasping its last breath. The buffalo were gone. The gold was mostly dug. The legends were being packaged into dime novels for city folk who wouldn’t know a Winchester from a walking stick. Most writers get this era wrong. They give you sunset silhouettes and noble cowboys. They give you boredom disguised as "literary pacing." Frank Fiore isn’t "most writers." In his latest work, The Hunting P

Forget the "Cozy Cowboy." Forget the pristine, postcard version of the American West. The frontier wasn't a vacation. It was a meat grinder. It was a place where dreams went to die and only the ruthless survived. Most adventure novels get this wrong. They give you a hero who never breaks a sweat and a villain who twirls a mustache. Boring. Frank Fiore doesn't do boring. In his latest work, Hunting Party, Fiore takes you to Yellowstone in the 1890s. The frontier is closing. Th