That’s where the single narrative becomes so dangerous. Because people don’t know the history of the region, and they don’t understand its problems. Yet many of those same people have a great number of preconceived notions they aren’t afraid to unleash.

The Appalachian region faces an uphill battle to survive. But that’s how it was designed. If the region — and its people — have any chance to prosper, it’ll come from the most boring of places: infrastructure building.

As I sat down down to write this book, I was faced with this strange tightrope act: I wanted to write a book about why Appalachia and its people ended up as they have, but I also needed to acknowledge its sometimes brutal and horrible history.

The things that have always sustained me, and carried me through the darkness, and given me a world with color: the writing, and the voices, and the stories. I’ve found my voice in the wilderness. I’ve found other voices in the wilderness.

After two hundreds years, the choice between the do-gooder who ends up stealing you money and the asshole who doesn’t care whether you live or die is pretty simple: I’ll take the asshole every time