The ghosts on that ridge

A story that is literally about some things I dug up in the woods recently but more figuratively about creative success, criticism, trauma, and becoming your own true love.

I want to tell you a story. Like most of my stories, it’s going to start out sounding not at all relevant to your interests, but I swear it’ll end up somewhere close.

Follow the asterisks, padawan.

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A few weekends ago, I was metal detecting again in the woods behind my house. Normal.

I’ve spent two years plus now detecting a single slope out there—one I’ve taken to calling my Special Area. Situated about a hundred yards from the nearest trail, it contains multitudes: innumerable shards of early-Republic farm garbage; Civil War shell fragments; Early 20th-century hunting supplies; a few contemporary beer cans.

I dig something new and wondrous every time I visit my Special Area, most of which I’ve donated to the local historical society: a c. War of 1812 naval officer’s button; a penny from 1817; pre-Revolutionary War farm hoe; a minié ball; hundreds of similar things where those came from.

In my Special Area, time collapses. At least three hundred years of American material culture commingle just beneath the forest floor.¹ It’s like this place is determined to outdo Forrest Gump’s record for All Time Corniest Material Allegory for American History.

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Three weeks ago, something new happened out there. Since then, I’ve been on a wild ride. Half my nights and weekends I’ve spent sparking with dopamine-lit certainty about what I uncovered that day, overcome by an obsessive desire to learn more.

The other half I’ve spent boiling with shame, undone by strangers’ criticism.

This all strikes me as kind of like the experience of writing and publishing a novel.

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