Book Explores Mysteries Of White Tail Deer And James McMurtry Has Our Song Of The Week, This West Virginia Morning

On this West Virginia Morning, Erika Howsare is the author of The Age of Deer: Trouble and Kinship with Our Wild Neighbors, a book that takes some of the mystery out of the white tail deer that have lived on the edge of humanity for a very long time.

On this West Virginia Morning, few wild animals live as close to us as white tail deer. Graceful and majestic, they’re prized by hunters and hated by backyard gardeners. Deer are everywhere and misunderstood.

Erika Howsare is the author of The Age of Deer: Trouble and Kinship with Our Wild Neighbors, a book that takes some of the mystery out of these animals that have lived on the edge of humanity for a very long time.

Bill Lynch spoke with Howsare for Inside Appalachia.

Also, in this show, our Mountain Stage Song of the Week comes to us from James McMurtry and our 40th anniversary celebration. We listen to McMurtry’s performance of “Painting by Numbers,” which appears on his 1989 album Too Long In The Wasteland.

West Virginia Morning is a production of West Virginia Public Broadcasting which is solely responsible for its content.

Support for our news bureaus comes from Shepherd University.

Our Appalachia Health News project is made possible with support from Marshall Health.

West Virginia Morning is produced with help from Bill Lynch, Briana Heaney, Chris Schulz, Curtis Tate, Emily Rice, Eric Douglas, Jack Walker, Liz McCormick, and Randy Yohe.

Eric Douglas is our news director and producer.

Listen to West Virginia Morning weekdays at 7:43 a.m. on WVPB Radio or subscribe to the podcast and never miss an episode. #WVMorning

Willie Carver Wants To ‘Poke The Bear’ With His Book, Gay Poems For Red States

Willie Carver was Kentucky’s teacher of the year in 2021. Carver is openly gay. And not everybody was OK with a gay high school teacher. Carver said he — and his LGBTQ students — faced homophobia and were frequently harassed. And so in 2022, he resigned from the high school. Last summer, he released “Gay Poems for Red States.”

This conversation originally aired in the March 3, 2024 episode of Inside Appalachia.

Willie Carver was Kentucky’s teacher of the year in 2021. He taught English and French for 10 years at Montgomery County High School, where he also oversaw several student clubs.

Carver is openly gay. And not everybody was OK with a gay high school teacher. Carver said he — and his LGBTQ students — faced homophobia and were frequently harassed. And so in 2022, he resigned from the high school. 

Carver went to work at the University of Kentucky. Last summer, he released Gay Poems for Red States, which attracted a lot of praise and helped turn him into a much-followed, outspoken voice on social media. 

Inside Appalachia Producer Bill Lynch recently caught up with Carver.

The transcript below has been lightly edited for clarity.

Lynch: “Gay poems for Red States,” it’s a catchy title. But I would say right now the climate for LGBTQ people in Appalachia is difficult, especially if you’re trans. So it kind of feels like you were maybe kind of poking the bear a little bit?

Carver: I don’t want to just poke the bear. I want to rip the blanket off of it and knock the door off of its hibernation den and force it to see what it’s doing. 

A lot of what happens, and I say this as someone who is queer and Appalachian, is we want to create easy national categories for people who can’t be put into those things. And so I am just as much Appalachian as I am queer and to choose my queerness, as a general rule, in the United States is to move to a coastal city and then look down on the ignorant Red State people. And I think to choose my Appalachian-ness sometimes would be to see those “high falutin’” city folks as uninterested in my life. 

And this title was my way of saying, I reject both of those. I’m going to be exactly what I am. And I want you to recognize me doing it. I want both stereotypes to see me doing it, and question their role and why I’m having to poke two bears, really.

Lynch: You’ve lived outside of Appalachia. What was that like to be an Appalachian away and looking back in?

Carter: So, the funny thing is the first place I moved to outside of eastern Kentucky was France. I lived in Picardy, which is in the far north. There used to be a lot of coal mines. Those have shut down. So, now there’s a lot of poverty, regional accents, and traditional know-how that people sort of share with each other to get by. I was so at home. I was like, I might as well be in Appalachia. 

Then, I moved to the deep South and I learned that Appalachia is not the South. It is some version of it, some whatever metaphor people want to use to describe that relationship. But the humor of Appalachia doesn’t translate easily into the suburban south, at least. 

I think the free spirit, and the not taking stuff too seriously part of Appalachia doesn’t translate itself very well in the South. 

I lived in Vermont. It’s beautiful. It’s where I got married. I’ll always be grateful for that, but it was there that I really saw played out, with me being in the middle of it, this sort of ignorance about people from Appalachia, people from the South; people from rural places in the mouths of supposedly progressive people; people questioning my intelligence; people making these assumptions that I must have had to escape some horrific place. I must be so grateful because everything is better. 

I said something online that angered a lot of people. So, that must mean I must have said something close to a truth. 

Someone had questioned me and said, “Why would a queer person choose to live in Appalachia? I just don’t understand.” 

And I said, “Because it will be easier for me to convince Appalachians to treat me with dignity as an LGBTQ person than to convince coastal liberals to treat me as an Appalachian person with dignity.”

And I think, because we sort of collectively, as a country, group, Appalachian people into a political group, no one feels any guilt about the way they treat people with stereotypes. So, I learned living outside of Appalachia, how Appalachian I am and that the parts of me can’t be divided away for anyone’s benefit.

Lynch: This book comes out after everything that happened in 2022. So how far do you go back as far as poetry? Were you writing before then? Or did the catalysts of being “teacher of the year” in Kentucky and then leaving your job — which came first?

Carter: Poetry came way first. I was always interested in language, interested in how my family communicated ideas. I have been obsessed with linguistics my entire life. But I would hear the poetry and how people talked and wanted to replicate it, wanted to capture it. And in college, I had fantastic professors. I credit them with helping me learn to feel like I was a poet. 

Once I became a teacher, I basically wrote for my students, that was what it looked like. So, I wasn’t writing to publish, or anything like that. I really conceived of myself as a teacher — I go into the classroom, and whatever my students need, it’s for them, whatever I’m doing outside of the classroom is really going back to my classroom. 

So, I wasn’t thinking about writing. But then once I left the classroom, I felt this strong need to do what I’ve always been doing, which is help students. It’s almost like a parent, watching their kids and the parent is actively trying to take care of them, and then you’re sort of pulled away, and you’re like, how do I take care of them right? 

In this case, that meant reminding them how strong they are. And so poetry was a natural way to do that.

Lynch: I like some of your imagery and things you use. You come back to food a couple of times. I think about the cornmeal pancakes and even your description of gravy and beans and things like that. Were you aware that you were drawing from those particular things or did they just kind of turn up? 

Carter: I was not aware. One of the things I firmly believe about writing is, if you’re writing a collection, whether we’re talking poetry or short stories, I don’t think you should need to actively tease out a motif or figure it out. I think it’s going to show up, right? And whatever your brain or your heart or your soul or whatever is fixated on. And I think in writing this, I was very angry at the fact that my school was choosing silence when its students were in harm’s way. And I had actually gotten to write an angry letter to my superintendent about how furious I was and ended up writing that first poem. 

A lot of what was happening as I was writing was I would kind of wake up and there would be this young child inside of me wanting to write, and I would just let him write about whatever he wanted to write about. 

And what he wanted to write about was those times when he felt loved, those times when he felt safe in school and in Appalachia. 

And in Appalachia, food is love. So, that’s why food is just this recurring motif, because those were the times when I saw people taking care of me and people loving me. 

And I think, knowing that right now LGBTQ youth feel very alienated, feel very unloved, feel like they don’t have a place in Appalachia, feel like they don’t have a place in the classroom, as a general rule. And I wanted to — for lack of a better word — rebuke the educational system. I’m going to rebuke Appalachia, both of which I love, but both of which are failing children miserably right now, because they refuse to wrestle with something that makes them uncomfortable.

Lynch: Would you like to read something from your book?

Carter: Sure. Yeah. “Neck Bones.” 

It’s fun to watch kids or respond to this. When I go into high schools and grade schools, there’s usually just a few kids who know what a neck bone is. They get so excited to talk about it or don’t want to talk about it at all. I’ve not had a single in between for neck bones. 

(Reads poem)

Lynch: That was awesome.

Carter: Thank you.

Lynch: When did you write that? I mean, I’m sure you’ve drawn from your family imagery right there and your upbringing,

Carter: The way I write … Toni Morrison calls it the flood, but she says, you know, your memories, your emotions that live on your skin. And there will be moments in our lives when it floods back to you, and there’s not much you can do to prevent it. 

I’m a big gay Appalachian. So, I got a whole lifetime of feeling strong emotions. I’m not afraid of them. I’m comfortable letting them happen. So what I do when I write is whatever that feeling is, I just kind of let it be and wait for it to start articulating themself. And then, I follow that. 

But I think a lot of times people are afraid about what they might call sentimentality. It’s a complicated idea. Because if you don’t want the truth of what you’re talking about to be hidden behind something that’s so emotional, that people are going to feel some kind of way about it no matter what happens. 

I think if you center what you’re talking about in your skin, if you center it in the emotions, what you remember, then it’s going to come out in strange ways.

Remembering what it felt like to be loved, for example, meant I had to write about neck bones, because that was how it expressed itself. I mean, I was writing about cornmeal and water pancakes. So, that was how our love expressed itself. 

It meant tiny moments of my mom pushing back against whatever ideology, whether we’re talking about Mickey Mouse toys, or whether we’re talking about preachers telling us we’re all gonna burn in hell. Her small acts of defiance, those were things that stood out in my mind as moments of being loved.

Lynch: What’s your life been like since you left Montgomery County High School?

Carter: Really, really good. It was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. The truth is my presence, because of the way that people responded to me, which is not me, Willy Carver. It’s me, a person who dares be gay and not be ashamed of that. It meant that they were attacking, not just me, but my students. There were people doxing my former students, and those students were getting death threats, because they were LGBTQ. 

So, I had to leave because my presence made them unsafe. And what I’ve learned is, I now am a teacher in a classroom with no walls. I have been freed to talk about what I saw in the classroom and how we are harming these students or failing to save them in so many capacities. And that means writing a book, that means working at a Kentucky law project to provide free legal help to students who need support from some outside source. That means testifying before Congress about the needs of Black, brown and LGBTQ students and the ways that we’re failing them. That means getting to meet the president and talking to him about a specific student who needed his help and watching him actually respond to help that student. 

It’s funny. I used to say back when I was tired of whatever was being implemented in the classroom, that would require a bunch of outside documentation or work or an unnecessary thing for the teacher to do.

I used to say if ever I won the lottery, I would just go to a library and teach all day. But it would be just teaching. There wouldn’t be interruptions, and there wouldn’t be ball games, or there wouldn’t be having to fill out this in that form or whatever.

That was always my dream. I just want to teach. And now that I’m out of the classroom, that’s what I’m finally getting to do. I’m getting to actually teach. So, I’m grateful. And I’ve met a lot of beautiful Appalachians, and I’m seeing just how good people are. And I think that’s important when you’ve been seeing the ugly for a long time. 

Lynch: Do you ever miss being a high school teacher, being at a desk in front of kids?

Carver: Absolutely. I know that I’ve had a very lucky childhood. Even if there were moments of insecurity and poverty, I was loved by the people around me and supported by the people around me. And compared to other gay people, or trans people my age, I’m in the top 1 percent, because the vast majority of people I know, were thrown away by their families. 

And so I feel this compulsion because of that, to give back and help. And there is no easier way as a human being that you can know that you are contributing positively to the world, than to tell a young person that their life has worth and that their life has value, and that they deserve to realize their dreams, that they deserve to have whatever it is that they want in life, and that they’re capable. I miss that aspect a great deal and nothing’s gonna replace that. There is no way that you can impact a person’s life in the way that teachers can. But I’m finding other ways to teach and to help and I’m appreciative of that, too.

Lynch: Willy Carver, thank you so much.

Carver: Thank you so much, Bill.

Foxfire Book Showcases Appalachia Through Its Women

A recent Foxfire collection spotlights the lives of 21 Appalachian women, who capture the depth and breadth of life in the mountains. It collects oral histories from throughout Foxfire’s long history, beginning with early interview subjects in the ‘60s and ‘70s and continuing through today.

This story originally aired in the Jan. 7, 2024 episode of Inside Appalachia.

A recent Foxfire collection spotlights the lives of 21 Appalachian women, who capture the depth and breadth of life in the mountains.

The Foxfire Book of Appalachian Women: Stories of Landscape and Community in the Mountain South was published in 2023.

It collects oral histories from throughout Foxfire’s long history, beginning with early interview subjects in the ‘60s and ‘70s and continuing through today. 

Inside Appalachia Host Mason Adams spoke with Kami Ahrens, the book’s editor.

Courtesy

The transcript below has been lightly edited for length and clarity.

Adams: One of the things I love about this book is its attention to negative space. In the curation around these oral histories, there’s a lot of attention paid to who’s here and who’s not here. And then even within interviews, you’re paying attention, not only to what’s said, but to what’s unsaid. And to me, as a reader, I find that really powerful. Why is that such an important part of curating oral histories like this?

Ahrens: That was an important thing that I was considering when writing the book, because oral history is inherently biased. I had someone recently ask me, “how do you go do an oral history and leave your bias at home?” And, you don’t, because we always come with our own experiences. And naturally, conversations are going to be influenced by what you’re asking, but also by what you’re not asking, and by what people want to share and what people don’t want to share. And even though these women in this book, and in the Foxfire archives, do often make themselves very vulnerable, there are experiences that they don’t share.

And it’s also important to remember when dealing with the material from Foxfire, that the interviews were conducted by students who didn’t have a research agenda. So these are high school students who are going out to write magazine articles. And when you’re going to an interview with that in mind, you’re going with a very different set of questions than if someone who is a seasoned academic was going out to collect specific stories.

So it was important to me to make sure that the reader understood the context with which these interviews were collected, and how they have been curated, interpreted over time. And also the demographics of the region have changed drastically. And, you know, I can’t attest to the fact that we’ve all kept up with those changing demographics. But it’s important to note that this book should serve as a beginning, as a foundation, for starting conversations of your own. So it’s not meant to be the only book of Appalachian women, but an inspiration for people to begin conversations in their own communities and to further, deeper explore what Appalachia is.

Adams: Although you mentioned the book’s just a beginning, it does offer just an explosion of narrative and stories. I mean, I connect with these women as human beings who are, you know, galaxies of stories among themselves. And then, with their stories positioned next to one another, this sort of larger narrative emerges about change over time. Is that something you thought about as well — sort of the bigger story you’re telling with these particular women’s stories?

Ahrens: Yeah, absolutely. So this project came about just from my initial research of Foxfire. When I first came to work at the museum, my supervisor told me to just read everything that I could. And as I was reading, you know if you’re familiar with Foxfire books, there are personal stories kind of sprinkled throughout these other articles — on how to make log cabins, how to cook over an open fire. And each time I encountered these women’s stories, I was just, like, stopped in my tracks because of how much they shared.

And as you mentioned, all of the themes that they pull out about changing Appalachia are experiences in Appalachia. And I just saw the need for them to be together to tell a larger story. And so when I was trying to put this book together, I spoke briefly with a researcher looking for some advice on how to organize it, and she said to let the women speak to each other. And as I started arranging these narratives next to each other, I could see that there were these conversations happening between the women’s stories. And they were really fitting in as puzzle pieces to tell this, again, larger story of change over time and Appalachia.

Adams: I’d like to talk about a few of the women who were featured in the Foxfire Book of Appalachian Women. And maybe we should start with the first one: Margaret Burrell Norton. I grew up around Foxfire books, so I can’t speak to whether I’ve run across Margaret Norton before many times, or if she’s just so reminiscent of mountain women that I’ve known. But she feels very familiar to me. Can you tell us more about her?

Ahrens: Absolutely. And I’m sure you’ve read an article by her. She was in so many articles, both in the Foxfire magazine and Foxfire books, most notably, the planting by the signs article. Margaret contributed a lot to that article, and it was in the first Foxfire book. Margaret is probably really typical of what people think of a mountain woman. She was born and raised on Betty’s Creek, and she talks about how she basically just moved up the road when she got married, so she never really lived anywhere else her entire life. She, like a lot of people in Appalachia, traces her ancestry back through the land for hundreds of years. She was a practitioner of a lot of folk traditions and folk knowledge. And she tried to share that with the Foxfire students.

She talks about planning by the signs, which is a practice of using the signs of the zodiac to tell you when to do things, whether it’s planting or cutting your hair. She also shared information about folk songs, especially when it came to butter churning, and she was a weaver and a quilter. So she kind of sets the stage for what we think of as the Appalachian woman. Then, we kind of take the narrative from there by branching out and looking at diverse stories that are coexisting with people like Margaret in Appalachia.

Adams: Margaret’s followed by Beulah Perry, who again reminds me of mountain women that I’ve known — but I realize in reading it how much I don’t know. Tell me more about Beulah Perry, and why she follows in that second chapter.

Ahrens: On a practical level, the book is organized by date of interview, but Beulah makes a great follow chapter to Margaret, because her story shares so many of the same themes, the same activities. But Beulah’s Black, so she comes from a different background than Margaret, but yet she still found her way into Rabun County, Georgia.

Beulah was raised the children of sharecroppers in the South Carolina Piedmont. She has these memories that were inherited from her by her grandfather that he shared with her and her siblings when they were children about his experiences during slavery. So she gives us a window into a much different lifestyle. She talks in many ways about racial experiences without necessarily sharing her personal opinions. This is a chapter where examining the negative space is really important, because there are a lot of things that Beulah says, but there are a lot of things that she doesn’t say.

She just offers a really great alternative perspective and a different background to what life in the mountains was like. We really value Beulah for opening up to the Foxfire students in the ‘70s, which would have been quite a different experience than it would be today.

The Foxfire office in Rabun County, Georgia.

Credit: Lilly Knoepp

Adams: And as the book continues, it just, you read through all these different women. One of the great delights for me was when I got closer to the end, and there were women who were younger than me, who I don’t always associate with oral histories. So there’s folks like Sandra Macias Glitchowski, who immigrated from Ecuador and is much younger than me. I loved reading her story. 

Ahrens: Yeah, for many people Sandra was the unexpected one, but it was really important to me to make sure that there was the immigrant experience included in this book, because Rabun County, and many other areas in Appalachia, are seeing large numbers of Latino immigrants come into the region, specifically because of agricultural opportunities. Many of them are staying and building businesses, so it was important to include a Latino voice.

Sandra emigrated from Ecuador to Miami as a young child, and she basically raised herself. It wasn’t until she was married with children that she moved to Rabun County. She’s become a really important figure in our community, and especially among the Latino community. So she serves as kind of a contact for that community here, because they are in many ways a very closed community, both culturally and linguistically.

What was interesting when I sat down with Sandra was that her story echoes so many experiences and themes that come out. It’s really interesting to see those parallels so many decades apart, and certainly in different regions. There are shared experiences, no matter how diverse we think people are. And Sandra is young, she’s 35, 36? She really has a lot to share, and I think this goes to show that oral histories aren’t just sitting down with older people. While those certainly have value, we all have stories to share that can make a difference to people around us.

Adams: So then there’s Dakota Brown of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indian Wolf Clan, who I found really compelling — not only because of her youth, but she also is so in touch with the history and sense of self on the landscape. Can you tell us about Dakota Brown?

Ahrens: Dakota is incredible. She’s employed at the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, and she’s working really hard to bring back traditional values in our community and to help change the way that people see and speak about indigenous people. I’m really excited for the work that she has been doing with her team over at the museum. Dakota personally has really traditional values when it comes to her heritage as a Cherokee woman, and she’s really proud of that heritage.

What’s interesting about Dakota’s conversation is how much she talks about the way that other people interpret and understand native peoples. I’ll never forget, she told me that it’s nearly impossible to change the way that people think about you when they think that you don’t exist anymore. People have a tendency to, you know, understand that native peoples are gone. And they’re not — they’re very much present in many places throughout our country today. We tend to lump native culture into one group, and we see Native peoples as one. And that’s not true. A lot of the things that she talks about that are part of the tourist industry in Cherokee, North Carolina, come from western tribes, plains tribes. So like powwows, and headdresses, all of that — that doesn’t belong to traditional Cherokee culture.

So, working through those stereotypes to represent to a broader public, what your culture is, but also to help your own people understand that is a massive task. But if anybody is up to it, it’s definitely Dakota.

Adams: Those are just a few of the 21 women featured in this book. But, after we hear from 20 of the others, we end with Kaye Carver Collins. How did you choose Kaye to end the book?

Ahrens: I wasn’t positive that I was going to end with Kaye, but as soon as I started doing her interview, I just knew that it was the right ending point. During her interview, she pulled together a lot of themes that had been running through the book, and kind of brought everything full circle. Kaye also has a really longstanding history with Foxfire. I felt like that, in and of itself, was worthy of ending the book on that note. She as a child remembers her father, Buck Carver, who was a notorious moonshiner, being interviewed by Foxfire students.

Then as a teenager herself, she joined the Foxfire program, her and her twin sister. After she graduated high school, she started working for Foxfire and spent a lot of time working with Foxfire, editing Foxfire books, supporting local students. Then in recent years, she’s served both as a community board member and a board member, and now is on an advisory committee for the museum. And she just kind of pulls it all together. I think the way she ends her interview is a really great way to end the book as well.

Adams: There are 21 women featured in this book. But really, there’s 22, because you as the curator are in each of these pages, whether we see you or not. What was your experience? What wisdom have you taken away from your work with this book?

Ahrens: There’s so much to take away from it. But I think at its core, I took away a sense of resiliency and understanding — a long-term view of what’s most important to us in our lives, and how we can use that to shape our daily experiences with others. There’s so many hardships that people go through, that most people don’t even know about until you take the time to sit down and ask somebody. I think that opening up of yourself as a researcher or as an interviewer to other people’s stories, to other people’s experiences, and leaving your own concerns behind — I think that can shape you if you allow it, and can help you grow if you’re open to it.

I would say that’s probably the biggest lesson I’ve taken away, is to sit and to listen, to be open to what other people’s experiences help shape how I understand myself and my place, and how I can react and respond to others better to make them feel important and valued in difficult times.

Diabetes Care, First Responder Mental Health And A Haunted Boat, This West Virginia Week

On this West Virginia Week, we’ll hear about diabetes management and prevention. We’ll also hear about a mental health resource for first responders. We’ll hear from an author with roots in the southern coalfields. And because Halloween was this week, we’ll hear a story about a haunted boat. 

On this West Virginia Week, we’ll hear about diabetes management and prevention. We’ll also hear about a mental health resource for first responders. We’ll hear from an author with roots in the southern coalfields. And because Halloween was this week, we’ll hear a story about a haunted boat. 

Curtis Tate is our host this week. Our theme music is by Matt Jackfert.

West Virginia Week is a web-only podcast that explores the week’s biggest news in the Mountain State. It’s produced with help from Bill Lynch, Briana Heaney, Caroline MacGregor, Chris Schulz, Curtis Tate, Emily Rice, Eric Douglas, Liz McCormick, and Randy Yohe.

Learn more about West Virginia Week.

Tech Writer Cory Doctorow Talks The Internet In Appalachia

Science fiction and technology writer Corey Doctorow (Dr. O) presented this year’s McCreight Lecture in the Humanities at the University of Charleston. An award-winning author, he’s written novels and young adult fiction, as well as essays and nonfiction books about technology. Bill Lynch spoke with Doctorow in advance of his visit to Charleston.

This story originally aired in the Oct. 22, 2023 episode of Inside Appalachia.

Science fiction and technology writer Corey Doctorow (Dr. O) presented this year’s McCreight Lecture in the Humanities at the University of Charleston.

An award-winning author, he’s written novels and young adult fiction, as well as essays and nonfiction books about technology.

Bill Lynch spoke with Doctorow in advance of his visit to Charleston.

The transcript below has been lightly edited for clarity.

Cory Doctorow

Courtesy Jonathan Worth

Lynch: I guess the first question is, how do you see yourself? You see yourself strictly as, as a fiction writer? Or are you a lot more than that?

Doctorow: You know, I think that on the one hand, when I write fiction, it’s because, without wanting to be too grand, I’m trying to be an artist, right? I’m trying to make art. That’s what creative writing is. It’s an art form. 

And so the job of an artist is to make good art, right? It’s to make you feel things that you wouldn’t feel otherwise, to kind of go to new places, and so on. 

Now, part of the method for doing that is to also infuse it with the work that I do as an activist, in part because the use of real-world, important issues in fiction makes the fiction seem more important. And it makes the fiction, I think, actually more important, you know? 

It’s easy to forget just how weird fiction is, right? That we somehow are tricked into feeling empathy for imaginary people doing things that never happened, and caring about what happened there. 

It literally could not be less consequential, right? Like, there are no consequences to the things imaginary people do. It just comes with the territory there. 

So, one of the things that I think makes the art more urgent and more artistically satisfying is the infusion of the art with real world stuff. At the same time, so much of the stuff that I work on is so abstract and so difficult to wrap your head around, that one of the things that fiction can do is make it more immediate. 

As an activist, you know, I’m always looking for ways to make things that are important, but are a long way off, or are too complicated to readily grasp into things that feel very immediate and pressing. 

Certainly, that’s something that happens a lot in my fiction.

Lynch: What’s one thing you’d like just the average person to understand about technology?

Doctorow: That’s a good question. I guess it’s that the collapse of the internet that we have today, from the wild and woolly internet, where disintermediation seemed everywhere, people, we’re able to have lots of technological self-determination, and to the descent into the internet we have today, which Tom Eastman calls five giant websites filled with screenshots of text from the other four, was not driven by any kind of technological inevitability, right? 

It wasn’t like it had to be this way. 

Specific choices, policy choices, made by specific named individuals whose home addresses are not hard to find, and who live conveniently close to a supply of pitchforks and torches, that those specific policy choices were made, and they gave us the internet we have now. 

And it needn’t be this way forever, that we can have a better internet, that it’s a matter, not of the great forces of history, but of human agency,

Lynch: Places like Appalachia, particularly West Virginia, have seen a decline in population, as people, mostly young people, have left. Could technology, technological advances, a better internet – could that mitigate that?

Doctorow: Well, you know, Appalachia, like many other places, isn’t the Silicon Valley. It’s a place that both needs technology and isn’t getting the technology it needs. 

The lived experience of bros in a boardroom in Silicon Valley is so far off from the experience of people in Appalachia, or indeed in many other places in the world, including in Silicon Valley, if you’re not a rich tech, bro, it’s very important that we have the right and capability to modify the technology that we’re expected to use. 

I’m not saying “learn to code” is the thing that we should tell miners that have been put out of work by the energy transition or anything. But I am saying that if you don’t know how to adapt the technology that is acting on you. And if you don’t have the right to adapt the technology that is acting on you, that it will only act on you and that will you’ll never be able to act on it, that you’ll never be able to adapt it to your needs and to make it do what you need in order to live a prosperous and better life.

So, it’s very important that technological self-determination be a part of the story when we talk about how we’re going to use technology everywhere, but especially in places that are so far, both in terms of their lived experience and the geographical distance, from Silicon Valley as Appalachia.

Mysteries With A Message. A Conversation With Kent Krueger

Award-winning novelist Kent Krueger has written 23 books, including 19 in the popular Cork O’Conner mystery series. On Saturday, Krueger comes to Charleston for the West Virginia Book Festival. He spoke to Bill Lynch about his books, writing and his latest standalone novel, The River We Remember.

Award-winning novelist Kent Krueger has written 23 books, including 19 in the popular Cork O’Conner mystery series.

On Saturday, Krueger comes to Charleston for the West Virginia Book Festival. He spoke to Bill Lynch about his books, writing and his latest standalone novel, The River We Remember.

The transcript below has been lightly edited for clarity.

Lynch: One of the things that jumped out at me while I was looking at your biography, or actually your bibliography of the things you’ve written, is that you’re a man who can stick with one thing for quite a while. Cork O’Connor at 19 books? 

What’s the attraction to following one character for so long?

Krueger:  Well, you get to know the guy pretty well. And there’s a whole array of adjunct characters in this series that I have enjoyed exploring as well. 

You know, there are definitely advantages to writing a long running very popular mystery series. Every time I come up with a new book, it sells the back list. When I sit down to write a story in a Cork O’Connor series, I don’t have to reinvent the wheel. I already have a cast of characters that readers are familiar with. There’s a sense of place that they have come to embrace. There are certain elements that every reader expects in a Cork O’Connor novel. So, it’s a little easier for me to write one of my serious mysteries than the other standalones that I have become well known for.

Lynch: Also, you’re one of those writers who has kind of a regulated system. You get up at a very specific hour, write for a specific time. Was it difficult to find that discipline?

Krueger: No, actually, that’s how I have approached my work for 40 plus years now. 

I think if you’re an artist, I don’t care what your medium is, if you’re going to accomplish anything with your art, you have to approach it in a disciplined way. That particular process for me, getting up at six o’clock every morning, seven days a week and writing for several hours began many, many years ago when my wife entered law school, and I suddenly became the sole support of the family. I was the guy who had to, you know, keep a roof over our head and food on the table, but I wanted desperately to be a writer. 

We were living two blocks from this iconic cafe in St. Paul, a place called the St. Clair Broiler that opened its doors at six o’clock every morning, seven days a week. 

So, I pitched this idea to my wife. I said, ‘Diane, if you’re willing to get the kids up and dressed and fed and off to school, first thing, so I can go write, I swear to you, when I come home, at the end of the day, I’m going to be the best husband, the best father you can possibly imagine. 

She bought it. 

So, there I was at six o’clock every morning at the Broiler door, waiting for the coffee shop to open, waiting there with my pen and notebook in hand because this was long before they had laptops.

They would sit me in the booth – booth number four. Always, they saved it for me. And I would write from 6 a.m. till 7:15 a.m., and then I would pay for my coffee, catch a bus out front that would take me to work. And I followed that routine for years and years and years, until I sold my first novel which allowed me to jump ship and become a writer full-time.

Lynch: You still write by longhand or do you use a laptop these days?

Krueger: I wrote my first 10, probably 10, novels longhand. And if you write longhand, there is a step that involves transcribing the longhand, that very messy longhand stuff, into a word processing program of some kind. 

I was behind deadline. I thought, you know, if I could skip that transcription step, maybe I could actually meet deadline, which was a scary proposition for me because writing longhand was a part of the magic. It was like the idea came from my head and passed through my heart, down my arm, through the pen and onto the page. And I was actually very concerned that if I monkeyed with the magic, maybe it wouldn’t happen. But I went ahead and gave it a try.

It worked. 

Lynch: You have a new standalone kind of book out – The River We Remember?

Krueger: Yeah, it is set in the summer of 1958, in southern Minnesota in an area I call Black Earth County. 

It opens on Memorial Day 1958. One the county’s leading citizens, a man named Jimmy Quinn, is found floating in the Alabaster River, which flows through town – dead from a shotgun blast and nearly naked. 

It really is a true mystery and the question at the heart of this story is, “who killed Jimmy Quinn and why?”

But it’s really about a whole lot more. Would you like to hear that part of it? 

Lynch: I would. I’d be delighted.

Krueger: In the early 1940s, my father graduated from high school, enlisted in the military service and marched off to fight in World War II in Europe.

He was just a kid, you know. He was 18 years old. He came back several years later, a man deeply wounded in body and in spirit by what the war had done to him. 

I recognize now that he was probably suffering from PTSD, but you know, nobody talked about that back then. 

You know, when I was a kid, I pestered my father for war stories, “Kill any Germans?”

He absolutely refused to talk about the war. 

He was very like the fathers of my friends, guys who, like my dad, had fought in World War II or the Korean War. They all went away kids, you know, some not even old enough to shave yet, and they came back men deeply wounded by the horrors that they had seen and the horrors they’d been part of.  

All my life, I’ve wondered how could anybody heal, and that’s really what The River We Remember is about. It’s about how to heal.

Lynch: Kent, thanks a lot. 

Krueger: It’s been a pleasure. Thanks for having me.

——

Krueger will appear Saturday, Oct. 21 at the West Virginia Book Festival in Charleston.

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