THE NOTION OF A HINTERLAND
By Laurie Meunier Graves
Every country, every culture, has its center and indeed sometimes more than
one. In the United States, New York is the cultural center, and Washington,
D.C., is the political center. By the same token, every country has its
hinterland, and again there is often more than one. But the hinterlands all
share common characteristics in the popular imagination. They are places
that lie far from the center of things, places that are remote and often,
but not always, cold. Life is slower in the hinterlands, friendlier, less
materialistic but also harder, coarser, and less sophisticated.
I live in Maine. For good and for ill Maine qualifies as a hinterland,
despite the fact that it is relatively close to both Boston and New York
City. At times Maine feels almost like an island; the huge bridge that
connects Portsmouth to Kittery and is the primary entrance to Maine from the
south only serves to heighten the illusion. All true Mainers know they are
home when, with a sigh of relief, they cross that bridge.
Like denizens of hinterlands the world over, Mainers have contradictory
feelings about where they live. On the one hand there is pride and even love
for this place with the deep blue sky, the cold ocean, and the dark
evergreens. On the other hand there is a nagging sense of inferiority. For
the most part the clothes are not as fine, the houses are not as big, and
there are fewer luxury cars. Good jobs are not easy to find, and young
people, with their parents’ blessings, have left the state in such numbers
that Maine is fourth in the nation with the largest percentage of senior
citizens in its population.
Then there are the cultural disadvantages. Even in Portland, Maine’s largest
city, professional dance, theater, and musicians are in short supply. Maine
simply does not have the numbers to support them.
Yet certain things thrive on the edge. A few years ago, I went to a writers'
conference in Presque Isle, which is far north even for Maine. It is a place
of rolling hills and skies so wide and open that it feels like you are at
the top of the world. At the conference, there was the usual griping about
how rural writers do not get the respect they deserve. Heads nodded in
agreement, but then came a serene, dissenting voice, and it came from the
great Canadian writer Alistair MacLeod. He said that some of the best writing
comes from the hinterlands. As an example, he mentioned the Brontës and the
fine novels they wrote in the hinterlands of England. (A funny thought, I
know, but as I stated in the opening paragraph, every country, even England,
has its hinterlands.)
Behind my house are deep woods where I could wander for hours without seeing
another person. It is a place where foxes and fishers and other wild animals
live. In that dense tangle of green, they are seldom seen but are always
felt. Alas, there are no wolves, but nevertheless the woods have a wild
spirit that reminds me of them. This spirit infuses my writing. In fact, I
don’t think it is an exaggeration to state that I would be a different
writer if I lived in the city or in the suburbs. My mind and my writing are
never far from the forest. It, along with being Franco-American, is the
springboard for most of my creative endeavors, including this one.
Since that conference in Presque Isle, I have often thought about the
hinterlands and the role they play in the life of a culture. I have come to
the conclusion that we need our centers and all that they bring, but we also
need our hinterlands. We need a place where there are fewer constraints on
the body and on the imagination, a place where wild things thrive, a place
where complete solitude from the company of humans is possible. Just as
importantly, we need to hear the voices that come from the hinterlands,
voices that are off center but are fresh and valuable. I suspect that deep
down even the most committed city dweller recognizes this.
In that spirit, Wolf Moon Press is here to present points of view that come
from the hinterlands. Sometimes the writing will be about Maine; sometimes
it will not. But it will always come from the edge, which, when all is said
and done, is one of the best places for writing.
