Take notes. Truly great literature is written by outsiders—the unorthodox and the nonconformist. When their careers are destroyed before they begin, we all lose. Writers privately tell us that they are concerned about the inevitable literary pablum of the coming decade. It’s already here. 

I live in a village in Appalachia. In the summer I am in the treehouse. I can see cerulean blue miles and miles of the Blue Ridge. Another country. Note the we, there is no we. I drive a dirt bike (the only way to get up here). My connection is a phone.

I have a horse fence, a barbed wire fence, and a tall concertina fence. All posted. I built Numerous Signs: “No Trespassing. No hunting. No developers. We have shot guns (we don’t).”  A cherry bomb firecracker is louder than a shotgun. Home buyers and developers run. Developers have ruined your country. “Shoot To Kill.” We don’t shoot anything. No one on this mountain reads the New York Times. There are folks who live here with dirt floors. In Manhattan, you cannot imagine an entire house with dirt floors. It’s inconceivable. We got the big snakes. Do not shoot them in the toilet. No more toilet. Shine as clear as a five in the morning waterfall.

I know folks who live in their truck up on cinder blocks. Middle of the deep woods. Imaginative housing. Water when it rains. So take your moral judgements, erase the tape. You’all love to compare what you paid for your houses. We talk about how little we paid. I paid nothing. Gig economy. I’m a card counter, and everyone knows it. I advertise it. I don’t participate much. If I did, they would shoot me. Around here, folks leave their shotguns on the table at the door. My presence is intimidating enough. So how big is your big house. I’ll take my treehouse any day.