William Gay has carved for him­self an endur­ing posi­tion in the mod­ern South­ern lit­er­ary land­scape, and the echoes of his work have rever­ber­ated far beyond the red clay hills sur­round­ing his home in Hohen­wald, Ten­nessee. The South of his books is often dark and vio­lent, yet thank­ful for such sim­ple sights as a hay­field at dusk filled with fire­flies, or a demure fem­i­nine smile. In a 2000 NEW YORK TIMES book review, fel­low South­erner Tony Ear­ley wrote, “At his best, Gay writes with the wis­dom and patience of a man who has wit­nessed hard times and learned that panic or hedg­ing won’t make bet­ter times come any sooner; he looks upon beauty and vio­lence with equal mea­sure and makes an accu­rate account­ing of how much of each the human heart contains.”

Gay has pub­lished three nov­els: THE LONG HOME, PROVINCES OF NIGHT, and TWILIGHT, as well as a col­lec­tion of short sto­ries called I HATE TO SEE THAT EVENING SUN GO DOWN, with a new novel, THE LOST COUNTRY, forth­com­ing. Recently, we trav­eled to Hohen­wald to inter­view the author in the rural area of Ten­nessee that forms the back­drop of his sto­ries. We found him there, tucked away in the misty hills where many of his char­ac­ters have been lost and never heard from again, in his hope­lessly idyl­lic log home. Inside, we sipped cof­fee and lis­tened as he spoke can­didly of his life and his work on a driz­zly, cold day that lent itself to the unwind­ing of old Ten­nessee mysteries.

THE OXFORD AMERICAN: You’ve got a novel com­ing out soon. Can you tell us a lit­tle about it?

WILLIAM GAY: Yeah. It’s called THE LOST COUNTRY. It’s sort of a road novel, about a guy named Dewey Edge­wa­ter who’s just been dis­charged from the Navy and he’s hitch­hik­ing back from Cal­i­for­nia to Ten­nessee. The idea is like a place you can’t get back to, like youth or inno­cence, and Edgewater’s try­ing to get back to his life before he lost his inno­cence and became more worldly. And it’s about a one-armed con man—there used to be these con men that went around the South. They had these ways of rip­ping peo­ple off. When I was a kid this guy came through, and he was spray­ing barn roofs. And my grandfather’s barn leaked real bad, so he hired this guy. He told him that it was guar­an­teed to stop all leaks. So my grand­fa­ther came up with the money and paid the guy to spray the roof, but it was just like a mix­ture of black oil and diesel fuel or some­thing. He just sprayed it and got the money and split, and then when it rained, it rained inside as well as out­side, just like it did before. But that’s what the guy did for a liv­ing. There were peo­ple who sold Bibles. They had your name printed in a Bible and would tell you that two or three pay­ments had been paid on it, you know, but they read the obit­u­ary notices in the paper, they knew when some­body had died. And then if it was a middle-class per­son, some­body with a lit­tle money, they would show up with a Bible that had their name stamped in it from the deceased per­son. And that per­son would want to own that Bible, you know, because her hus­band or who­ever had already paid some on it for her. But it was just a cheap Bible.

The con man [in THE LOST COUNTRY], Roost­er­fish, is a guy like that.