Going ‘Forty Acres Deep’ for farmer mental health | Local Reads
On its surface, Michael Perry’s latest book, “Forty Acres Deep,” appears unintimidating. You pick up the slim, 119-page novella—deceptively light. Thumb the pages that ripple by quick—seems doable, probably even in a single sitting. You already know Perry is a masterful storyteller, so you fork over your $12.95 and settle in.
And then things slow way, way down. Not because of any problem with pacing — Perry is as precise as ever in his signature prose — but because it hurts to read. Because he puts you right there. You feel it as deep as the snow and despair he’s describing, whether you’re a farmer or not.
“If you see yourself in these pages, don’t go it alone,” Perry warns in the book’s opening pages, which also include trigger warnings for references to suicide and infant death, and a note about a full list of resources in the books final pages. “Skip to the back and call for help,” he writes.
“Forty Acres Deep” is the 18th book from Perry, who’s published everything from New York Times Bestsellers with HarperCollins to essay collections with the Wisconsin Historical Society Press to bundles of his past newspaper columns under his own outfit, Sneezing Cow Publishing. He’s written novels, plays, memoirs and young adult books, and has two more books on the way. He flexes his storytelling muscle through just about every medium available to him, including live humor stage performances, the nationally syndicated “Tent Show Radio,” and as a singer-songwriter for his long-time band, the Long Beds. Through it all, he draws on his personal experiences as a nurse, EMT, husband, father and farmer.
Because of its serious tone and content, many have called “Forty Acres Deep” a departure for the self-described humorist. But Perry’s humor always hits so squarely because we recognize the ache at its core — particularly when it comes to the complex rural characters he lives among and writes about. In that sense, despite this being a work of fiction, Perry is telling just as much brutal truth — if not more — as he does in any of his nonfiction work.
“I often say that pretty much from my second book onward I’ve been either repeating myself or contradicting myself. So yep, I’ve been writing this story a lot of ways,” Perry told me recently. “But this time I wanted it to be pure as a flame off distilled alcohol.”
When did you first start to feel this story coming on and what did you do?
Small family farms have been disappearing for over a century now, but things really accelerated when I was still a kid helping milk the cows in the 1980s. And as a lifelong resident of rural Wisconsin I’ve always been in contact with that decline, or those navigating it. But the plot trigger was a few winters ago when I was desperately trying to keep my pole barns from collapsing under the weight of accumulating snow. I was cursing and sweating in the middle of the night when it struck me that if my building collapsed, I was just a doofus writer with a shedful of junk. My neighbors — true farmers — were fighting for their livelihood. That winter a lot of them lost buildings, cattle, and in some cases, their own lives.
You’re known for saying the things maybe some folks don’t know how to say, and you’ve clearly done that here for a very specific community. But this story also resonates with anyone who’s gotten in so deep they just keep digging because they can’t see any way out. When Harold came to you, who did he represent? Who were you trying to speak for and what were you trying to say? Or was it not that conscious?
I was trying to work at two levels, one being the straightforward story of the struggle to survive suffered by legions of small family farmers — and in the process portray them as more than one-dimensional. I was also trying to convey something I think so many of us feel; that the loud and callous and “move fast, break things” crowd is winning, and that thoughtfulness, reflection and hard-earned fundamental skills may collapse beneath the weight of it all. On a slightly lighter note, I also stood in my pole barn one day, surveyed the ridiculous accumulation and imagined how nice it would be to just bulldoze the whole works into a hole and start clean. Like Marie Kondo with a D9 Cat.
Was there anything about writing this book that made you uncomfortable in a way you aren’t usually?
I worried about coming off as some self-appointed spokesperson. My fiction isn’t gonna fix diddly. And it’d be disingenuous to pretend I’m not trying to pay my own bills here. But maybe this little story can convey the hurt — the needs — of those who’ve lived it. I’ve received a couple of “DISAPPOINTED — never going to buy your books again” notes because of Harold’s cussing. I’m usually sensitive to that. I’m pretty old-fashioned in that regard. But in this case, there’s a reason I call it “hard-earned” profanity. Anyone disturbed by Harold’s language has never smelt the breath of the beast crushing folks like him — and I’ve witnessed that in real life. In real people.
Most writers kind of pick a lane (columnist, essayist, novelist, poet, songwriter, journalist, etc.) but you’ve published successfully and consistently across all of these genres for decades. What does writing mean to you, and how do you know how to best tell a particular story when it sparks?
I’ve worn this phrase out, but for me writing is like carving concrete with a spoon. It never comes easily, and it never comes prettily. But once I realized working with words gave me the same thrill as high school football, hammer-down pickup trucks and goofy puppy love, I shifted into stubborn persistence mode and started writing two things: Whatever moved me, and whatever paid the bills. I admire and have benefited profoundly from my academically-prepared friends and mentors, but I believe I benefited equally from my ignorance of artistic “lanes,” as I just waded in and went at it. Didn’t know enough to be self-conscious. Sometimes to tragicomic effect, but more often to effect.
What sorts of truth do you think you can say with fiction that you maybe can’t with your essays?
In my nonfiction, I am honest about human nature. In my fiction, I am ruthless.
What has the response of your community been, particularly the farmers that might see themselves in your work?
Powerfully, quietly, overwhelming. I had a talk with a feed mill operator the other day that shook me to the core. The things he’s witnessed. Customers he’s lost. And he’s young. So many emails, letters (just got a two-pager yesterday), and comments. I’ve been asked to speak at some ag mental health events. It’s perversely interesting that we self-published this book because “regular” publishers didn’t think the readers were out there. That people wouldn’t “connect.” I’m not mad or snarky about that. Those publishers just don’t live where I live.
You’ve written a point-of-view character that I can’t help but think shares some of your personality traits. Does it bother you that readers might infer things about your life from a fictional story? (I mean, we readers do that all the time anyway, but there are some things in this book that seem pretty familiar.)
It’s a given. I had the same thing with “The Jesus Cow.” It’s okay. Of course I’m drawing on my own well-worn tropes and experiences. What I said a couple questions ago? About being ruthless? There are plenty of passages in “Forty Acres Deep” where I’m being ruthless with myself via Harold.
How long have you been trying to say something about farmer mental health?
It’d be self-serving to say I was approaching it that formally. It’s more an evolution. I mean, way back in “Population 485” I was writing about critical incident stress debriefing; in “Montaigne in Barn Boots” I wrote about loggers having panic attacks. You could say all of my work is tied to putting our roughneck selves in touch with our emotional selves in hopes of something healthier. It’s just never been planned, or overt.
Forty Acres Deep is actually a 2021 song from Michael Perry and the Long Beds. Which came first, the story or the song? And has this happened to you before, that your songwriting and your paper-writing get tangled up?
I started writing that song maybe a decade ago, long before I conceived the novella. It was around 12 verses long. My bandleader, personal pilot, good friend and co-writer Evan Middlesworth made me hack it back, which upped the octane. The song’s details are different, but it’s built on the same desperate themes as the book. Every good book title I came up with was already taken, and “forty acres deep” delivered a literal and figurative punch to the gut. So I worked the phrase “forty acres deep” into the manuscript and went with it. I think the book and song work as companion pieces. Same pain, different eyes. There are definite overlaps with my lyrics and my prose, exhibit A being the name of my band, which is drawn from the book “Truck,” which is about a 1951 “long bed” International Harvester pickup. Here’s an old post that digs deeper: sneezingcow.com/2010/06/13/between-the-books-and-the-music/
Why novella and not full-on novel? Did it start as a short story that snowballed (ha) into a novella? Or is this just how it came out and it is what it is?
Busted! I figured this would be a short story. Couple thousand words. Then it just kept getting longer. But I wanted to keep it clean and tight. Hit-and-run. Novella length seemed perfect for that. Several readers and reviewers have said they’d like to see the book expanded into a novel — the before and after. And my agent said she could sell that novel. We’ll see. But I got two other books I gotta finish first.
What has nobody asked you yet about this book? Anything you prepared yourself for that hasn’t happened, or were surprised by that did?
I don’t have a great answer, so instead I’m going to take the opportunity to acknowledge the novelist Nickolas Butler, who years ago gave me a copy of “The Blue Fox,” a novella by Sjón. The physical proportions of that book, the feel of it, the theme, the tone of it … I remember thinking I want to write a book like this one day. So a tip of the cap to Nick.
You’ve taken a real hybrid approach to your publishing that I deeply admire. Some of your books are big New York publishing contracts and some are essentially self-published. Obviously the industry has changed, too, in the years you’ve been hustling. What have you learned about making a living as a writer, about fitting into (or not) existing genres/molds/storytelling mediums, and, maybe more to the point, how to best reach the mass of readers you’ve cultivated over the years?
Everything I do, whatever the medium, whatever the trend, whatever the lane, never happens until I hide out and herd the words. With my heart, and without mercy. The rest is just wrapping paper.
For people who miss reading your newspaper columns, can you tell us about taking your work to the paid newsletter platform? Where else can people find and support your work?
“Michael Perry’s Voice Mail,” a combination letter/mini-podcast comes out weekly at michaelperry.substack.com. I share a little news, read a piece of writing from the past, and reflect on it. Just this week we’re adding another section: “Mike’s Marginalia” (I go back through books I’ve read and scribbled in and reflect on the scribble). There are both free and paid subscription options. Other than that, the best source of news, information, events, books, and any other projects can be found at SneezingCow.com.
What are you working on next?
I have two books under contract and waaaayyyy overdue. That, and I came home from a family trip to find the sewer backed up. So I’m about to put on my boots.
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