I am thrilled to share that I will have an essay in the New York Times on Sunday, June 20 in the Modern Love column. I am really proud of all the work I put into this essay and I’m grateful to Dan Jones and everyone at Modern Love. This essay is, essentially, the introduction to the book I want to write next. Next steps will be to find representation and then a publisher. I will update on progress soon.
Gratitude on Publication Eve
Like any lover of books, I have lots of memories of reading my favorites. From the kids books my parents shared like Swimmy and Make Way for Ducklings, to the books I read in my teens by Leon Uris or James Michener, to books I read in college like Terry Tempest Williams' Refuge, and in the years afterward to pretty much everything Jim Harrison wrote... these memories of reading certain books have become part of me. I remember in particular being in my 20s and devouring everything Rick Bass had written. I admired his writing and wished I could be like him--wished I could write and publish books. Now, it's the evening before publication day for my second book, The Ground Beneath Us, and I want to give thanks.
It can be too easy to forget what a blessing it is to have what we have. In this case, too easy to forget how amazing it is that tomorrow a book that I have written will be published and distributed around the country by a major NY publishing house. Too easy to get wrapped up in what critics have said about the book (or, perhaps worse, haven't said), too easy to wonder if this book will do as well as the first book. And this isn't even to mention how easy it is to see all the things the new book isn't--all the magical scenes and transitions and stories and conclusions that didn't get written. Too easy to forget the one most amazing fact:
Tomorrow, my second book will be published.
This afternoon, I did my first radio interview for this new book, The Ground Beneath Us, with a station in Wyoming. And the interviewer talked about how much he liked the book, how it made him see the world in a new way. And as he was telling me this, I just thought "thank you for reading my book." It still amazes me--and I think it always will--when people said, "I read your book and...(usually something nice)." You read my book? Thank you so very much. I hope you liked it. I hope you liked as much as I liked those books I read as a kid and a teenager, those books I read just out of college and in the years since. I will never take for granted the blessing of having a stranger tell me that they read my book and that it touched them in some way.
Tomorrow, my second book will be published.
Today, the interviewer in Wyoming asked if I hoped my books would have a political impact. And yes, I want my books to change the world. Or, at least, to help change the world. But in addition to that, I just want my books to add some beauty and kindness to the life of anyone who reads them. I'd like anyone who reads The End of Night or The Ground Beneath Us to set the book down and feel grateful for having read. As I am grateful tonight as I think about tomorrow and think of everyone who has helped me bring this book into the world. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
The Ground Beneath Us
It has been more than seven months since I've posted. I've been waiting to announce the new book. Since my last post at the end of January when I turned in the initial draft I have done two major revisions of the new book, and while there are still some loose ends to tie I am happy to report that we have a cover and a publication date: March 21, 2017!
I can't wait to share this new book. More soon!
Closer to The Ground
I am happy to report that I completed the initial draft for the new book last week. Since then, I've been revising and revising (and revising and revising), cutting it from 130,000 words down to about 100,000 before sending it off to my editor next week. After he reads it and makes his usual insightful comments, I'll go back to revising. Between sending it off and hearing from him, I'm planning a few days in New Mexico with a good novel. I'm excited about the new book, but there's still a long way to go before it reaches publishable form.
The last trip for book research took me down to Colombia, to Bogota (above) and then up to the small city of Santa Marta. It was a fantastic trip, one that--when I spent time with the indigenous Colombians trying so hard to preserve their native ground--brought me nearly to tears.
This story from the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta will be the next to last chapter in the new book.
The last chapter has me in Virginia. On a rainy day I walked down the street to the local park and took off my shoes. The fallen leaves clung to my wet feet, and I lay down on the grass for a while looking up at bare tree limbs against a gray sky. I left my shoes off as I walked back to my house, until my heels got tired of hammering against the concrete. You don't realize how hard streets are until your soft bare body comes in contact.
I'll end the book in Minnesota. Here's a photo I took as I came in over the lakes earlier this fall, downtown Minneapolis in the upper left, a big moon in the upper right. I'll head up north to the cabin where Luna's buried and tell her I've had a good journey, that I've been a lot of places over the past year, and now, I'm home.
Into the Ground
Hello from a rainy autumn night in Harrisonburg. I went walking in the woods at dusk and saw no one, several times standing with eyes closed trying to filter out the Interstate 81 noise and just hear the ancient sound of steady rain hitting leaves and limbs. All things considered, it was incredibly beautiful. Otherwise, I've been inside all day writing the new book.
I am happy to report that I have drafted the first third of the book, writing about my experiences in New York, Mexico City, London, Gettysburg, and Yosemite. I've also written about 8000 words on my visit to Treblinka in Poland. This I found quite difficult to write because it's hard to say anything that seems to match the history of this ground where 900,000 people were murdered. I'm now about to write my chapter on soils. When I told my class the other day that I was thinking about how to write 20,000 words on soil I definitely saw some stunned faces.
The first week of September I was lucky enough to return to London to give a talk, and while I was there I visited a site where the new Crossrail tunnel is being constructed underneath the city. This new tunnel, which will take a train from one end of the city to the other, is an unbelievable bit of engineering. They're having to find their way through (and under) pipes, subways, wires--you name it--sometimes passing within a foot or two of already existing spaces. I was there to talk with archaeologists who are reveling in the opportunity to learn more about the ground under this amazing city, including graveyards underneath one of the city's busiest streets. One guy I talked with told me they'd found the skeleton of a woman holding a plate, which they figure must have been her most prized possession--she's been lying undisturbed for 300 years just feet below the living feet walking the street above her.
Here's an action shot:
There is so much work to be done on the new book, but it feels wonderful to be in the drafting stage. I mean, it USUALLY feels wonderful. Sometimes it feels agonizing, or stressful. And sometimes it all feels as though it's going to collapse. But right now, I'm feeling lucky to have the work I do, trying to create something beautiful to give back to the world.
Alaska
A few weeks ago, before I drove from Minnesota to Virginia in 21 hours and started teaching again and flew to London to give a conference talk and do research and then flew back to Minneapolis for Dave's 50th Birthday party and then drove up to northern Minnesota to be at the lake for a night and then flew back to Virginia to get back to teaching...I went to Alaska. Yes, it's been a bit hectic for me the past few weeks, but I wanted to share some photos from the trip. I was hoping to gain a story or two for the new book, and I wasn't disappointed.
I can't wait to write in the book about being on the tundra. The colors of the plants and berries, and the spongy feel--it's like nothing I've experienced before. By the way--this photo above--this is what was at our feet. You look down and you see this.
I have an old friend from my New Mexico years named Shane. He lives in western Alaska in a town of 6,000--which is the biggest town for hundreds of miles--in the middle of the Yukon Delta Wildlife Refuge. When Shane moved there 13 years ago, he knew nothing about hunting and fishing. But he's learned a lot, and he was kind enough to take us along.
We caught some salmon.
We shot some ducks.
And when I say "we," of course I mean Shane. Being in western Alaska means being in a subsistence culture, a culture that depends on the natural world to supply its food. I had a hard time watching the salmon flop around, spitting blood, until they died at our feet. And watching the ducks fall from the sky... really hard. But good. It's good to experience this, because obviously I--as we all do--kill every day to live. I just don't pull the trigger like Shane does.
We also went to Denali National Park. We were lucky to see the mountain clear all morning, as well as plenty of moose and half a dozen grizzlies.
The grizzlies did not scare me.
And now comes the fun part, where I get to write about this trip for the new book. The ground in Alaska, whether the western tundra or the central Denali area, is unlike any I've ever walked. And that is good. That's what I wanted.
I'm pretty much done with the research for the new book. My initial draft is due January 15, and let's just say I have quite a bit of writing to do between now and then. A lot of hard work. And in the final few weeks, it will be a mad rush of long winter days where I'll do nothing else for 16 hours except try to create a book worth reading.
I am lucky.
Visions of Fragments (of ground)
A big theme in the new book will be vision. What do we see when we look down? I begin the book with the fact that we spend 90% of our time inside, and when we do go outside and look down so many of us see concrete, pavement, or asphalt. We are literally separated from the natural ground, and there are physical, psychological, and even spiritual costs to this separation (all of which I will explore!)
But this literal separation is also symbolic of our separation from so many other grounds. For example, where does our food, water, and energy come from? How much do we know about what happened--and what is happening--to grounds that, because they are out of our sight they are also not in our thinking? For the new book I've tried to find fascinating grounds that maybe we aren't thinking of, or haven't been to, or have forgotten. Here are a few more.
I recently decided to take a few days and drive from Minneapolis up to the Bakken oil fields of western North Dakota. This is where oil and gas exploration has completely taken over. If you don't believe it, just google "Bakken at night" and you'll see the view from space of the flaring gas wells lighting up the sky as brightly as the nearest cities (Minneapolis, Chicago). But to see it on the ground is something crazy. Here's a good example, where I was taking a movie of a fracking station when two of the gazillion trucks on the highways here drove by.
The feeling I'd had in April in southeastern Ohio of being in an occupied country returned. I'll be writing about the way our thirst for oil and gas is having a tremendous effect on the grounds, so much so that places like the Bakken are increasingly referred to as "sacrifice zones." We are simply sacrificing the ground here--destroying it--in order to have energy.
I also took time in North Dakota to visit the Knife River Indian Villages. I am fascinated by the story of the painter George Catlin who in 1832 sailed up the Missouri river on his quest to paint the land and Indians before they were destroyed. Here are examples of his work:
And here is an aerial shot of the village site:
I've also been back out west to spend some time Yosemite, walking in John Muir's footsteps. One place I hadn't been to before is Hetch Hetchy valley. Hetch Hetchy (or "Fetch Tetchy" as my spellcheck would have it) is in Yosemite National Park... but the valley itself is dammed and filled with drinking water for San Francisco. Muir lost his fight to protect the valley in 1912, near the end of his life. Especially after spending time in the glory of Yosemite Valley, it's a shock to see this other valley filled with water. We are foolish if we think such things can't happen again.
Another issue I'll be writing about in the new book is habitat fragmentation. This is a big problem with oil and gas development, and an issue I don't think many of us understand. Simply put, many species need unbroken habitat to survive. They cannot adjust when we come in and destroy some of the habitat--put a road through, create a drill pad, clearcut some of the forest. They need habitat that is whole. Unfortunately, and in so many ways, our world is becoming increasingly fragmented.
I'm always shocked when I see clearcuts from the air.
I'll be spending much of the next six weeks in northern Minnesota gathering and sorting the research I've done over the past several months. Then, in August, it's off to Alaska! Stay tuned.
Visiting Hell(s)
Here is a model of the Nazi death camp at Treblinka, Poland. Two weeks ago I visited the site, driving for several hours from Warsaw to what is still a remote part of the country, an area of sand and pines, very small towns, and the ghosts of more than 800,000 people murdered. I went because I want to write about hell in my new book and I can think of no better place. In the model here you see the train cars lined up in front of the Nazi's fake train station. The Jews and others were unloaded here, divided into groups of men and women/children, and rushed to the left and into the two barracks where they were told to strip. (I should add that anyone too ill or old to walk was immediately sent to the "aid station" to the right--see the red cross flag--where they were immediately shot.) Once the people had stripped naked, they were rushed out the back doors of the barracks and onto "the road to heaven" which you can see curving through the trees, emerging directly into the large gas chamber. They were murdered there, and their bodies were dumped in the enormous pits near the gas chambers.
The crazy thing about Treblinka today is that there is almost nothing there. A small museum holds the model above, along with some photographs, but there are no buildings, no barracks, no gas chambers, not even train tracks. When the Nazis realized they were losing the war, they did their best to destroy the site. So, there are memorials as you see above, with shards of rock standing from concrete ground listing the names of towns from which victims came. But there is also a lot of the empty ground like in the bottom of the photo. Treblinka is still mostly just a clearing in the forest, as it was in 1942-1943.
When the Nazis realized they would be discovered, they decided to exhume all the buried corpses and burn them on a pyre day and night. Here is the memorial to that particular aspect of Treblinka. I found my imagination really struggled to picture what had happened here. Without the aid of buildings or re-created scenes, I found when I asked my mind to imagine that hundreds of thousands of people had been buried here, and their corpses burned on this fire, my mind just didn't know what to do. But in a way, I liked that. I liked that I had to work to imagine what had taken place here. Two weeks later I am still digesting the visit, and I look forward to writing about it for The Ground Around Us (or whatever the new book is called!).
I then went to Auschwitz-Birkenau. Here there are many buildings to help us imagine what happened. There are piles of suitcases and children's shoes, the displays of children's clothing, the piles of hair brushes, pot and pans, eyeglasses. And there are the photographs of those murdered, like these of a 13-year-old Polish girl with tears in her eyes.
A short distance away stands the death camp of Birkenau. And here you get to see the gas chambers where so many thousands were gassed. You see their ruins, as the SS dynamited them in haste before retreating. You see the walkway that so many took into the room where they undressed before being gassed.
And here is the selection area where some of those unloaded from cattle cars were selected for work (to be worked to death) and the rest selected to die immediately in the gas chambers. This was at the end of my time in Birkenau, as a thunderstorm was beginning to throw heavy rain, and at the exact moment I took this photo a giant bolt of lightning exploded overhead. Thus, this strange strip of light captured by iPhone 6 technology.
Ever since I wrote the proposal for the new book, I have been looking forward to visiting these places that were hell on earth. Now, having been there, I look forward to writing about my experience. Whether there are buildings there to help you imagine, or not, I think it's impossible to understand what it was really like on these grounds 70+ years ago. But it's good to try.