It’s a hypothesis, anyway. In order to make it a theory, I have to run a test. So, in the late afternoon I tell my dad I love him, I’m heading out. I drive my mother’s old car east, away from the light and the railroad tracks, far out into the desert. I leave the road and go as far as the Toyota’s tires will take me before they fail, settling for good in the soft grip of the dirt. The headlights I leave on and the keys I throw thirty feet into an enormous heap of tumbleweeds. I remove my shirt and shoes, and sit. Far off, the sun falls — slowly at first, and then as quickly as a dropped coin — behind the San Gabriel Mountains. This is death country, and I am either going to survive it or not. Under the bleeding sky, I wait for the antelope, the pronghorn, the god of staying and the god of leaving, to show me what kind of man I am.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
How can I thank enough:
Clark Blaise and Bharati Mukherjee, my mentors and friends and greatest advocates, for all the brilliance and confidence over the years.
Rick Moody, an unerring adviser, and Robert and Peg Boyers for introducing us at their wonderful New York State Writers Institute.
Scott Covell, for teaching literature with humor and enthusiasm and high expectations, and for assigning books written by the living, which gave me the courage to try.
The Helen Zell Writers’ Program at the University of Michigan, which changed everything for me, and the program’s namesake, Helen Zell, for the financial and creative freedom granted by her extreme generosity and dedication to the arts.
The faculty and staff who looked out for me at Michigan, especially Peter Ho Davies, Eileen Pollack, Doug Trevor, Michael Byers, Sugi Ganeshananthan, Keith Taylor, Andrea Beauchamp, and the legendary Nicholas Delbanco.
All the writers I lucked my way into befriending including my mythically great cohort at Michigan, but especially Brit Bennett, fellow country mouse, for help on this book at every stage.
My earliest reader and closest comrade, Ezra Carlsen.
Jenna Meacham, a true artist and friend, and the unstoppable Suzy Chandler, both of whom stuck with me through the awkward phases.
Jenni Ferrari-Adler, my agent and trusted guide, for seeing through the haze before I could, and for motivating me to move forward.
Everyone at Picador, especially Anna DeVries, hyper-sagacious editor and deus ex machina of my life, who turned a book I was proud of into a book of which I’m prouder; Elizabeth Bruce, synonymous in my mind with good news, for working so hard to smooth the publication process; Stephen Morrison, kind and inspired publisher, for providing safe passage for this book and so many others into the world.
My family, for enough to fill another few books.
Mairead Small Staid, who came into my life like an RKO outta nowhere, for making this book and its author so much better.
And all my fellow desert kids, especially Bob Kniepkamp, Anthony Galura, and Nick Reuter, for being there.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHRIS McCORMICK was raised in the Antelope Valley. He earned his B.A. at the University of California, Berkeley, and his M.F.A. at the University of Michigan, where he was the recipient of two Hopwood Awards. You can sign up for email updates here.