None of this would have ever been read, let alone seen, if it weren’t for Jarret Middleton, who introduced me to my editor, Harry Kirchner. Jarret is one of those rare kinds of artists who is as talented as he is generous; I’m lucky to call him a friend. As for Harry, it is not hyperbole to say he changed my life. He took this book in its early form to Counterpoint and fought hard for it. Throughout the editing process he was selfless and confident and patient when often I was not. He was my cornerman through all these rounds, and he could always stop the bleeding. An elated thank you to Dan Smetanka for all the guidance, and to Rachel Fershleiser, Alisha Gorder, Katie Boland, Wah-Ming Chang, and everyone at Counterpoint for their tireless efforts.
I want to thank Glen Chamberlain for convincing me to write all those years ago, and for her grace and love in all the years since. For all the evenings talking craft and books and relationships and good whiskey, for being a mentor, friend, mystic, and savior. You mean the world to me. Thank you also to Tom Barrett, her husband, who makes the best old-fashioned, who tried his best to teach me to rope.
I want to thank Jonathan Evison, Molly Gloss, Peter Geye, Joshua Mohr, Urban Waite, Sarah Gerard, Shann Ray, Tod Goldberg, and Ivy Pochoda for their early reads and support—your kindness is a fire on a cold day.
Thanks to Jenny Schumacher who asked a question no one had ever asked me. Thanks to Leif Haugen who taught me how to hitchhike and how to pick out a good book. Thank you to my dear grandmother, Norma, for giving me the Smith Corona typewriter I still use every day. Thanks to Andrew Hedrick for being the best bud a guy could ask for, and to Rialin Flores for listening to me read aloud work destined for the bonfire. Thanks to Cosmo Langsfeld, a brother in many ways, for always calling me out on my shit. Thanks to Abram Anderson and Abbie VanDonge for their encouragement and for reading an early draft, and especially to Abbie, who was the first person to quote me back to myself. Thanks to Doug and Suzanne Bizer for reading an early draft and especially to DB for properly pronouncing Detroit and to Suzanne for putting up with DB. God bless her.
Thank you, Mom and Dad, for letting me talk endlessly about writing and books and God-knows-what else, and for doing so happily, unwaveringly. Your love is like a kind of sea one could never reach the bottom of. To my brother, Jon, who wanted to hear a spooky story, which started the boulder rolling.
All my love to my boys, Tøren and Anders. Thanks for letting Daddy go out to the studio each morning. You two melt my heart. To Roddy, thanks, old boy, for letting the kids try to ride you like a horse.
And finally, unequivocally, to Madeline: my water during a drought, my sun after a storm.