By turns brutal, uncompromising, funny and deeply humane, 'Heartland' is an unforgettable memoir for our times.
I've always distrusted a certain kind of memoir - the way I distrust people who hector strangers with long jokes. I had no wish ever to write such a book. But it was a question that always came up, in the end: why don't you write about your childhood?
Actually, what it usually meant was: why don't you write about the peculiar man who raised you? Sometimes, it called on other stuff, too: being bullied, being a vandal, being a Mormon. But all this circled a man to whom I'd for years laughingly referred as Mr Cross - as if he'd been no more than a passing, colourful acquaintance. But he was much more than that; he was a pernicious kind of mentor. He was my formative influence: the angel on one shoulder and the demon on the other.
When my novel Always the Sun was published, the question was put more widely and more intently. The novel had fictionalised some of the violent anxieties that attended becoming a father. But there was more in there, too; I'd never connected my adult self with the child I'd been. There was no line of continuity between us. He seemed a wholly alien creature, one who frankly embarrassed me. But people kept asking the question. Eventually, I asked it, too.
When I thought about growing up, it was like I was sitting in the front row, far too close to the big screen. So I backed away, felt my way to the centre row. When I replayed it, I saw from the new perspective that I might be able to make sense of it, after all; that strange little boy and the people around him.
So I sat down and tried to write it.
