Every so often, I’ll come across a book that absolutely ruins reading for me, a book so good I can’t read anything else for months. On my first-ever trip to Eau Claire, Wisconsin, I bought and brought home a copy of Michael Perry’s memoir, Population 485. I read it a few months later, around the same time I was mulling over whether to relocate from Oregon to Wisconsin. After reading Perry’s essays, I didn’t pick up another book for three months. Nothing could live up to his prose, at once somber and sidesplitting. By the time I was ready to read again, I was already moved into a one-bedroom apartment in downtown Eau Claire. I’m not saying I moved to Wisconsin because of a Michael Perry book, but I’m not not saying that either. Like Didion writing about her native state of California and its subcultures, Perry has a particular way of writing about Wisconsin, about the land and the people of this particular time and place. Most of the nation knows this region as ‘flyover country,’ only seeing it through the porthole of a plane. Perry’s prose turns a lens onto the land and those who tend to it, mixing darkly serious subject matter with moments of unexpected yet necessary levity. His characters may represent archetypes, but they never feel one-dimensional.
When I read Population 485, I thought it was an impressive debut. But this wasn’t Perry’s first rodeo; he’d self-published a few titles prior to this traditionally-published release. In recent years, he’s returned to his DIY roots, choosing to publish certain projects under his own press, Sneezing Cow Publishing. His latest, Forty Acres Deep, is a short novella that winds up being a wild ride.
Michael Perry can be hard to pin down. He pens and publishes essays, columns, and books (and music, too, recording and touring as The Long Beds). There are speaking engagements. Stage plays. Sometimes it seems like Michael Perry puts out a new project quicker than I could clean the snow off my car. Thankfully, he made time in his busy schedule to generously answer questions via email about writing, publishing, and his latest book, the novella Forty Acres Deep.
Elizabeth de Cleyre: Your publishing track record is a mix of traditional and self-published works. You decided to publish Forty Acres Deep through your own press, Sneezing Cow Publishing. What goes into making that decision? Does it depend on the finished book, or do you start a project with a clear sense of where it will one day live (traditional press or your own)?
Michael Perry: It’s a situational thing. The publishing industry has evolved—or devolved—into a business that doesn’t do much for mild mid-listers like me. I’m not terribly distressed about it. Similar to the protagonist of Forty Acres Deep, for quite a while now I’ve been trying to remain pliable in the face of change. It’s so easy to grow brittle and bitter. Rather, I view it as an exciting opportunity to rev up the ol’ DIY machine—I self-published my first four books, and I used to sell my homemade humor cassettes at Kwik Trip, so I’ve been down this road before. Let’er rip.
Ever since Population 485, HarperCollins has treated me tremendously well. But certain projects—collections of regional newspaper columns, for instance, of which I have self-published several—just don’t fit their big machine. In the case of Forty Acres Deep, my agent—who is not known for blowing sunshine—told me it was the best writing I’d done in years, but in light of the content and novella form, the odds of it selling to one of the “bigs” were virtually nil. There was the option of smaller presses (I’ve had some wonderful experiences publishing with Wisconsin Historical Society Press), but—and I guess I’m risking coming off as crass here but business is part of the business—my youngest child just had her braces removed, so I’ll say it: This little novella recouped its expenses in about 48 hours. I can sell far fewer books for a far better return. I’m not gonna get rich off it, but neither am I waiting six months to a year for a check accompanied by an impenetrable royalty statement that is by definition partially fiction.
This is not some screed against traditional publishing. I have a book under contract with HarperCollins and another with Sourcebooks. The editors on each project are terrific. Both publishers have vast distribution channels and contacts that I can’t possibly match with my Toyota van and email list. So I’m very excited about those two projects. In fact I should be working on them right now. But for some projects, a return to my DIY roots just makes more sense.
It also allows me to work with local talent. I hired a local editor, copyeditor, and proofreader. I hired a local graphic artist—RT Vrieze of Knorth Studios—to design the cover. I hired a local audio engineer—Jaime Hansen—to produce the audiobook. We print all of our webstore and road merch books locally. Our distribution and fulfillment has long been handled locally, and still is. It’s nice to know when we sell one of those self-published books some modest amount of that money is cycling back into the local economy.
credit: Justin Patchin
EDC: You mentioned the inspiration for this book came in part from your own struggles to save a few pole barns (or sheds, to us commoners) on your property one winter, and wondering about farmers whose livelihoods are at risk when barns collapse, losing expensive and necessary equipment, or even livestock. Can you talk a little more about the inspiration for the book?
MP: Yah, there have been two winters out here when the snow got so heavy on my pole barns I feared they would collapse. The most recent time there were sheds and farm buildings going down all over the place. My brother lost one of his sheds. Farmers lost cattle and equipment. People died. So I was yanking torpedo heaters back and forth through the drifts one night, sweating and saying bad words and worrying, when it hit me that I was just a softhanded writer with two sheds mostly full of junk. Some valuables, but certainly nothing critical to my livelihood. Whereas there were farmers all around me with their entire livelihoods at stake. This got me to thinking how that would alter my perception of the struggle.
“This then spun into a yarnball of other thoughts: the loss of family farms, the mental health crisis, the effects of our struggles on those who struggle beside us, the sense of powerlessness, fear, and anger in the face of change and general social nastiness, and so on. And how sometimes we so desperately long to simply clean the slate. Start over. ”
This then spun into a yarnball of other thoughts: the loss of family farms, the mental health crisis, the effects of our struggles on those who struggle beside us, the sense of powerlessness, fear, and anger in the face of change and general social nastiness, and so on. And how sometimes we so desperately long to simply clean the slate. Start over. Also, the character is an amateur student of philosophy, and throughout the novella he wrestles with the conundrum of how this appreciation helps him cope and grow and navigate and find beauty in harshness…but is essentially powerless in the face of brute force change.
Tra-la-la, as my farmer father used to say!
EDC: Once you had the idea for this book, what did the writing process look like? How was that similar or different from previous books, and as a writer of both fiction and nonfiction, does your process change when you work in different genres?
MP: When I started, I thought it would be a short story. I had written a couple of winter-driven spoken word pieces already: “Old Guys Surrender the Jukebox,” which I cowrote with Geoffrey Keezer for a jazz festival performance, and “WinterSleeper,” which I performed with S. Carey and others at Eaux Hiver a couple years ago. I figured this story would be slightly longer than those. Once I started writing, I realized it was going to be longer than a short story, but shorter than a novel, i.e., a novella. This was exciting because the author Jim Harrison was one of the signal influences on my writing in the early days, and he was known for his novellas (the most popular of which was Legends of the Fall, thanks to the film featuring Brad Pitt). I’d always wanted to try my hand at the form.
Mainly I just had these scenes I so wanted to write. The feel of hoar frost mornings and what happens when the first breeze stirs. Deer as black holes in moonlit snow. Or yarded up under pines, on a mat of needles and poop marbles, just like I’ve found on our back forty. The fantasy of firing up a bulldozer to go all mondo Marie Kondo on every bit of trash cluttering your house and heart. The sound your ankle makes when it clicks in a quiet house. An underdog putting the run on a boss dog.
So I started with scenes. And lines. I did a lot of the writing and revising during the lockdown year. Once I had a rough draft I’d leave it for a month or two then sit down with a red pen and get real picky. That’s my favorite part. Revision. I love it so. Just dwelling in the line, toying with the words, listening for the beat, choosing the silences. It’s an affliction I picked up during my yearning poet days. I had such hair back then.
One thing I did do differently with this book was send it to outside readers. A farmer. A couple of people who work in ag-related mental health. An acquaintance whose life experience Venn diagram overlaps with mine in several respects and departs from it in significant others. An attorney who specializes in estate law. Each offered critically helpful comments and perspectives, and all encouraged me to go ahead at a time when I wasn’t sure I should.
EDC: The landscape features prominently and beautifully in this book. Can you tell us more about how living in rural Wisconsin impacts or influences your writing? And any thoughts on how living outside literary cities like New York might influence your perspective on publishing?
MP: Landscape is vernacular. The topography of Forty Acres Deep is pretty much what I see when I look out the window of my writing room. It didn’t have to be. But it fit the work. And it gives you this set, this structure, on which to present the play. The ravine in Forty Acres Deep? “Goldmine Gully” in The Scavengers? They’re the same place—and right out behind my pole barn.
“Regarding New York publishing, now and then I enjoy gently reminding those from the coasts that sometimes out here in the Midwest, we think things up all by ourselves. They’re terribly worried about us provincials and our cultural blind spots, but—like when I had to explain to them why Montaigne should be wearing a blaze orange ear-flapper cap on the cover of Montaigne in Barn Boots—they have blind spots of their own.”
Regarding New York publishing, now and then I enjoy gently reminding those from the coasts that sometimes out here in the Midwest, we think things up all by ourselves. They’re terribly worried about us provincials and our cultural blind spots, but—like when I had to explain to them why Montaigne should be wearing a blaze orange ear-flapper cap on the cover of Montaigne in Barn Boots—they have blind spots of their own.
So yah, I have a whole bunch of fun stories like how they try to book my flights out of Milwaukee “because you’re from Wisconsin,” or how they tell me they don’t think volunteer firefighters will buy books or go to plays (so I just sell them books and play tickets myself—DIY!), or how when I had RT Vrieze send the Manhattan-based book jacket designer the Pantone code for blaze orange and the designer went with a pale substitute because “we don’t think folks will notice the difference.” (RT and me, we set him STRAIGHT, just check the glowing orange hardcover spine on that one!)
So. We yank their chain a tad. But there is more than enough silly tribalism in the world, and I am equally pleased to say the folks in the East Coast publishing world changed my life forever. When allowed by the machine employing them, they do tremendous work. My first-ever Manhattan publicist—a former dancer from Canada—still buys my books, including the self-published ones. A Harper sales rep I had never met decided she loved Population 485 and brought it to the attention of half the bookstores in California. I have had four Harper editors, and every one of them has raised my writing far beyond what I brung’em. So I enjoy poking fun now and then, but these folks are pros and have my everlasting thanks and respect.
One other aside: Thanks to my agent—who is still based in New York and actively representing names you’d recognize in the New York Times book reviews or bestseller lists—I know that life in the upper echelons of the literary scene is increasingly desperate. I don’t say that with any joy. I have a vested interest in a vibrant, thriving literary world. But it does lead me to count my blessings in that I’ve got recourse to self-publishing and boots-on-the-ground hustling to make up the difference. And it all starts with me sitting down at the keyboard in a room over my garage in rural Wisconsin. Lucky me, and I don’t ever forget it.
EDC: In the past, writers relied on traditional publishing, or legacy publishers, to get their work out into the world. Now, there are more options, including self-publishing and “hybrid publishers,” which some view as “vanity publishing” in disguise. Any thoughts or advice for folks who are trying to navigate this changing industry and figure out a way forward?
MP: There’s no question that a deal with a “legacy” publisher is still a big deal. I’d be a dumb-faced disingenuous liar if I said being able to say I’m published by HarperCollins isn’t thrilling for a dude who grew up cleaning calf pens in Chippewa County. And yes, self-publishing is full of pitfalls—I’ve run into folks who’ve paid thousands—in one case tens of thousands—of dollars to get a book “published” when in fact someone was just robbing them by leveraging their dreams. And yep, some self-published books only reinforce why the professionals are the professionals. But when I self-published those first four books, I wasn’t thinking about cachet, I was thinking about how to get started. How to learn the business. The basics, like ISBNs and shelf space and distribution and 60/40 splits and on and on. My first two self-pubbed books were pretty bad. I was learning in public. But they were essential steps in the process. They got me here. And now that I’m here, I find there are times when self-publishing just makes more sense—financially, logistically, realistically.
“The bottom line is, it’s not about traditional publishing versus self-publishing. It’s about ears and eyeballs. And hearts. ”
The bottom line is, it’s not about traditional publishing versus self-publishing. It’s about ears and eyeballs. And hearts. And the way to ears and eyeballs and hearts is to go to the keyboard, to the notebook, to whatever it is you use to turn your spirit and your visions into words, and put those words in a line. And then make another line. And another, and another. When you have a bunch of those lines, re-read them. Read them aloud. Listen to see if you hear your heart. Your voice. If not, get out that red pen. Literally, in my case, figuratively if you prefer otherwise. The writing. The revision. That’s what I love. That’s what makes my heart jump. The nature of the publisher is secondary.
EDC: When you choose to publish a work through your own press or outlets, what does that process look like? After the book is done, what are the next steps?
MP: Oh shnikies, that’s a four-day workshop. OK super-short version of the self-publishing process: Write, revise, etc. Get manuscript print-ready. Obtain and assign ISBN. Record audiobook (in my garage—yay!). Finalize cover art (another salute to Knorth Studios). Order print copies for web and event sales. Upload print-on-demand and ebook files to KDP (Amazon and Kindle, basically). Upload print-on-demand and ebook files (for all non-Kindle platforms) to IngramSpark (they distribute to independent bookstores who—quite understandably—ain’t gonna order your self-published book from the monster that is squashing them). Upload audio files to ACX (Audible, basically) and Findaway Voices (indie audiobook distribution…although recently purchased by Spotify). Go through several maddening cycles of files being rejected for arcane reasons. Get a bunch of social media posts ready. Get your email blast ready (we use MailChimp…don’t really like ‘em but kinda locked in and nothing else we’ve found is any better). Add book to webstore. Do a “soft release” with a quiet post here and there (a good way to make sure all the links are working before a ton of orders come rolling in and you’re up to your eyeballs in customer service mayhem). Send out that email blast. See if anybody bites.
That’s super-abbreviated and there are a multitude of variables and micro-promoting I’m not addressing. Like I said, a workshop. My manager Ben Shaw has become an expert at the self-publishing process and does take on some freelance clients. I don’t know his rates, but should you wish, inquire within.
EDC: Do you approach the marketing any differently when you’re releasing your own book versus going through a traditional publisher?
MP: Unless you’re an established star or irritating influencer or political flame-tosser, traditional publishers are surprisingly ham-fisted at marketing books. Montaigne in Barn Boots was a real turning point for me. When it was finished, I went to New York on my own dime and met with the marketing and publicity team. This was—I think—my seventh book with them. I had a multi-page compilation detailing the geographic coverage of my mailing list, charts of which bookstore events had been particularly successful in the past, page after page of media contacts who actually sought out my work, etc., and so forth. They raved about it. Said how useful it was gonna be. And then sent me on the same ineffective book tour to essentially the same handful of bookstores they’d sent me to for the previous book.
I’ve long understood that even with a major publisher you’re going to do most of your own promotion, and I’m fine with that, but to have presented them with all this actionable, proven intel only to see it ignored reinforced my commitment to spending my time and pinning my hopes elsewhere. Again, in defense of these folks, they have done great things for me and are working under the constraints of the industry. I ain’t mad, I’m just gonna get busy elsewhere.
EDC: In the announcement for the book launch, you mentioned feeling “nervous” and unsure if you should publish it. That sounds like a common creative impulse, to doubt one’s work or its place in the world. Can you tell us what about this particular book made you nervous to release it?
MP: The sources of my nerves were various. The subject matter—suicide, death of spouse, death of a child—is heavy. I’ve written about all of those things in my nonfiction, but I didn’t want to appear to be exploiting tragedy in the name of fiction. There is also the idea that I was—through the characters—bumping up against political and social issues that might draw some fire. The worry that I might be unintentionally insulting or condescending or misrepresenting the issues and persons portrayed. The fact that there were some heavy duty swears (I did get a note regarding this from my mother, but she has earned the right and otherwise liked the book).
“Separately, it seems nearly everyone who releases creative work—and I’ve talked at length about this with both writers and musicians, including some who have been wildly successful—goes through a form of postpartum depression and anxiety. ”
Separately, it seems nearly everyone who releases creative work—and I’ve talked at length about this with both writers and musicians, including some who have been wildly successful—goes through a form of postpartum depression and anxiety. In my case, I just assume everyone’s going to find something problematic or offensive or reportable to the IRS or who knows what, but there is always this point where I feel bare naked and windburned and want to gather up all the books and take them back and burn them in my room. I’ve been doing this for I guess around 30 years and one negative comment will knock me off my stride for two days, no matter how many glowing reviews preceded it. But here’s the cool thing, and perhaps the cure: the itch to write never completely subsides, and in short order you’re back at it. It’s like love, in other words.
EDC: When you come up against creative blocks in your work, how do you move through them?
I have two answers, neither of them artful. The first is a call-back to what I said earlier about paying for the offspring’s orthodontia. The last time I had a predictable paycheck—every two weeks, withholding and social security and all that—was 1992. So if I stop creating I stop earning. I generally just push through. Write cruddy stuff until something good comes of it. I also always have more than one project in process. If one goes comatose, I just switch saddles. And I’m fortunate to work in a variety of formats.
credit: Justin Patchin
The second answer is a product of the first: I am a shy, intensely private person by nature. And yet here I am, making a living by telling stories on myself in public. So, as noted above, when I encounter a creative block I am putting our family income in jeopardy. This leads to feelings of fear and dread. This renders me vulnerable. Which puts a quake in my soul. Which releases thoughts and feelings I’d prefer to keep to myself but tend to connect with folks. So I go ahead and write ‘em up, and before you know it that block is in the rearview mirror.
EDC: What are your hypotheses for the future of publishing? Any future plans for Sneezing Cow Press you can share?
MP: I don’t have any grand thoughts about it. My only response is to—as long as I am physically and mentally able—keep writing and finding a place for that writing, whether with a traditional publisher or keeping it local. For all my yip-yap about the state of the industry, the book world is a wonderful world. Daily I receive uplifting, meaningful correspondence from readers. People who love books and want more books. Today I emailed back and forth with one of my favorite independent booksellers. This triggered a truckload of lovely book tour memories, but also reminded me of all the groovy little stores out there that have survived clear into these Tik-Tok times. They are welcoming spaces filled with words and the people who seek them.
“I do sometimes wish I was writing in an age when books were central to society. When a novel might actually drive a national—rather than niche—conversation. Then I realize I am living in an age when books are filled with a richer array of voices than any time in our history… and I’ve been allowed to join that chorus. That’s low-key glorious. Let’s go write some more.”
I do sometimes wish I was writing in an age when books were central to society. When a novel might actually drive a national—rather than niche—conversation. Then I realize I am living in an age when books are filled with a richer array of voices than any time in our history… and I’ve been allowed to join that chorus. That’s low-key glorious. Let’s go write some more.
For more information about Mike's writings, recordings, and live events, please visit: SneezingCow.com. For more information about the weekly audio Substack, "Michael Perry's Voice Mail," please visit: https://michaelperry.substack.com/
Also, click here to learn more about PBS Wisconsin’s newly released show “Michael Perry: On The Road.”
Elizabeth de Cleyre is a writer and editor. She founded the forthcoming interview series Yesterday Quarterly, and is the current prose editor for Barstow & Grand (open for submissions March 1 - April 30).