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Mason spent a year in New England on a Guggenheim Fellowship while writing ‘North Woods’, his multigenerational historical novel set across four centuries on a single plot of land. When that book was finished, a whole category of material from that year had nowhere to go: the comedy of a city academic family dropped into rural life, the social textures that a 400-year epic had no room for.
After I’d finished it up, I still kept on thinking about the area and particularly about all the sort of comedic elements of a family from the city picking up and moving to the countryside. [paraphrased from audio]
That leftover material became the seed of ‘Country People’, a contemporary novel set in Vermont whose protagonist, Miles, is a Russian folklore specialist as out of place in rural New England as Mason’s own family felt during that fellowship year.
The hollow-earth subplot, in which Miles encounters Vermont locals who believe the earth is literally hollow beneath them, arrived through a separate discovery. What began as a single comic detail pulled Mason into weeks of reading he had not planned, and he found the belief running through literature he already knew well.
The belief that there exists this other world beneath our feet, it’s a very old one. It’s almost like the belief in other worlds and other planets. We can think of Dante, Alice in Wonderland — it’s sort of this core part of our literature. [paraphrased from audio]
For Miles, a scholar of Russian folklore, the encounter is not absurd but professionally familiar: the same structure of belief he has spent his career studying has simply crossed the Atlantic and taken root in a Vermont field.
Mason’s three previous novels all depended on historical distance: period letters, psychiatric case notes, and older prose styles that he has described as instruments discovered in an attic. ‘Country People’ is his first novel set in contemporary times, which closed off a technique he had relied on heavily.
Using these older voices not only was fun. It’s like finding some instrument that you’ve never seen before and trying out, like, an old rusty trombone you find in the attic somewhere — seeing what it sounds like, seeing what kind of music it makes. But also, there’s this opportunity to express thoughts that perhaps my contemporary English don’t enable me.
Without the cover of a historical voice, the comedy in ‘Country People’ had to land in real time, in an idiom Mason couldn’t borrow from another era.
Getting humor to survive revision is a specific technical problem Mason has confronted before. When working on ‘North Woods’, which also carried significant comic material, he found that jokes erode with repeated reading in a way that serious scenes do not, and he leaned on his editor to calibrate when to push the comedy further and when to pull back.
Humor can be hard to write, as something that’s funny on a first read is definitely not by the sixteenth. My editor, Andy Ward, helped me in too many ways to count, but a common theme was guidance on when to lean into humor, and when it was too much.
Mason’s own Lagotto Romagnolo, nicknamed Figgy, became Giuseppe, the truffle-hunting dog at the center of ‘Country People’. On the Good Morning America segment, Mason brought Figgy on camera and identified him as the book’s most faithful self-portrait. Beyond character inspiration, the dog shaped Mason’s daily writing practice in a concrete way.
He’s always sniffing, always noticing stuff that I can’t see, which is just a wonderful thing for a writer because it reminds you that you can always look elsewhere for inspiration. [paraphrased from audio]
Mason has returned across multiple interviews to a question about what compels him to write at all, and his clearest answer came not from a discussion of his novels but from an essay collection. In researching ‘A Registry of My Passage Upon the Earth’, Mason encountered the Brazilian outsider artist Arthur Bispo do Rosário, who spent decades inside a psychiatric institution creating elaborate textile works from whatever materials he could find. Mason saw in Bispo do Rosário’s compulsion something he recognized in himself.
I very much relate to him; I feel he articulates something so fundamental about the act of creation itself: the drive to discover and record something, to capture something beautiful or strange about the world, to turn it over in one’s hands and then set out to make something with it, a memento, something that could say, ‘I experienced this… I was here.’
The same impulse shows up when Mason describes why fiction draws him rather than another form. The answer is not about communication with readers but about what happens to him during composition, in the gap between intention and discovery.
I love language and narrative, and over time, I have fallen in love with the way that stories emerge while I’m writing, the surprises.
The hollow-earth believers Miles meets in Vermont could easily read as targets of academic condescension, city-dweller mockery of rural eccentricity. Mason has been careful in interviews to position them differently. He describes the novel’s arc not as the unmasking of a delusion but as a gradual opening toward something that cannot be settled.
At first our characters are skeptical that this legend could possibly be true, but as the story progresses, it seems like there might actually be something there beneath the green grass. [paraphrased from audio]
Whether what lies beneath the grass is literal, metaphorical, or simply the habit of belief itself, Mason leaves for the reader. The novel does not resolve the question; it asks how long you are willing to hold it open.
Mason’s medical work as a psychiatrist and his fiction writing have never been entirely separate projects for him. The attentiveness required by both, the effort to inhabit a perspective that is not your own, is the same skill operating in different contexts. He made this connection explicit in a 2018 Stanford Medicine interview, and it carries directly into the way Miles’s eccentric acquaintances are written: with the same seriousness he would bring to a patient’s account of their experience.
I think that psychiatry and fiction ultimately have the same goal — that of understanding another’s mind.