Authors: Jack Hitt
Once committed to a book, though, there’s a long period of wondering just what it was that you said in that proposal, which all of a sudden reads as vaguely as a found spiral notebook filled with notes from a long lost high school English class. This inspires frantic reactions that typically involve hiring research assistants and giving them half-cocked requests to find out everything about, say, self-taught dinosaur experts, homemade gasoline distillers, open-source anything, local “historians,” the newest religions, DIY submariners, amateur chefs, and the latest version of creation science. But then you realize what you really need is information on, say, self-taught dark-matter theorists, ethnic innovators coining new races, the ongoing jet-pack dream, the last 500 patent applications, high school kids building nuclear reactors in the suburbs, the latest Howard Finster, the latest Steve Jobs, the latest Lana Del Rey, anything to which the prefix wiki- has been added, and space elevator designers. But, wait, that’s nowhere near enough, so you tell them you also need a research file on, say, this year’s MacArthur Genius Grant winners, amateur porn pioneers, pranksters, weekend warriors curdling into militias, storm chasers, uncredentialed archaeologists, the collected triumphalist blog posts of Jeff Jarvis (a lot of heavy lifting, that one), cutting-edge agronomists in the medical marijuana field, self-appointed terrorist hunters, that whole smart mob business, competitive eaters, amateur rocketeers, microbrewing dudes, top fan-fiction writers, horticultural pioneers, latter-day radio pirates, and the surprisingly hefty crowd of people describing themselves as time travelers, some of whom, curiously, have recently disappeared.
The first person who got sent off on these quixotic missions was the
indispensable and brilliant Kirsten Weld. And when she fled to South America for a real research job, I handed the reins to Will Sedlack, Aliza Shvarts, and David Huyssen, who rode off on many a quest and in at least one case—and I totally understand—never found the way back.
After the writing starts, there is a whole set of people who might read something or just listen to you talk through some vague notion until it begins to sound like a newish idea. First and foremost is Lisa Sanders, who sits in the other chair in our living room, and who has figured out the sweetest ways to say things like, “I don’t understand this whole chapter, really” and “signposts, Jack, signposts” and “Is this chunk in English, or did you accidentally set the font to dingbats?” When the writing’s all over, there’s this moment when you really need a single reader who can sit down with the manuscript and tell you in fresh terms exactly what it was that you actually said. Thank you, Michael Pollan. Throughout all this, there were those who did their share of listening and I am told this can be a fun but at times trying experience: Ian Ayres, Jessica Bauman, Jennifer Brown, Kevin Baker, Kaveh Khoshnood, Sarah Koenig, David Mikell, Jon Mooallem, Stephen Sherrill, Vera Titunik, and the itinerant scholars at Lulu’s.
Then there are the other ears I have counted on all my life: Joan Algar, Dianne Moore, Nancy Miller, and Bobby Hitt. Thanks for everything that happened at 38 Gibbes Street—somehow connected here, I think.
Toward the end of any book, there is the guy who was there every step of the way. Sean Desmond, my editor, is someone who managed a Jobian patience when he should have lost it and a no-drama steadiness not seen outside of the White House. For letting me supply the counterpoint, Sean, I am grateful. And all those at Crown—Sarah Breivogel, Julie Cepler, Annie Chagnot, and Courtney Snyder—and that riot of fun e-mails and ideas, thank you.
Finally, to Tarpley and Yancey, who in the course of all this somehow managed to follow the plot, going from scuffed-up little girls to brilliant young women. You’re why this book and I are here.