Nothing Good Can Come from This
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Books

The Golden State

9780374164836 fc
Hardcover, MCD × FSG, 2018
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200065523

Lydia Kiesling

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NATIONAL BOOK FOUNDATION 5 UNDER 35 PICK. LONGLISTED FOR THE CENTER FOR FICTION'S FIRST NOVEL PRIZE.

Named one of the Best Books of 2018 by NPR, Bookforum and Bustle. An Amazon Best Book of the Month and named a fall read by Buzzfeed, Nylon, Entertainment Weekly, Elle, Vanity Fair, Vulture, Refinery29 and Mind Body Green

A gorgeous, raw debut novel about a young woman braving the ups and downs of motherhood in a fractured America

In Lydia Kiesling’s razor-sharp debut novel, The Golden State, we accompany Daphne, a young mother on the edge of a breakdown, as she flees her sensible but strained life in San Francisco for the high desert of Altavista with her toddler, Honey. Bucking under the weight of being a single parent—her Turkish husband is unable to return to the United States because of a “processing error”—Daphne takes refuge in a mobile home left to her by her grandparents in hopes that the quiet will bring clarity.

But clarity proves elusive. Over the next ten days Daphne is anxious, she behaves a little erratically, she drinks too much. She wanders the town looking for anyone and anything to punctuate the long hours alone with the baby. Among others, she meets Cindy, a neighbor who is active in a secessionist movement, and befriends the elderly Alice, who has traveled to Altavista as she approaches the end of her life. When her relationships with these women culminate in a dangerous standoff, Daphne must reconcile her inner narrative with the reality of a deeply divided world.

Keenly observed, bristling with humor, and set against the beauty of a little-known part of California, The Golden State is about class and cultural breakdowns, and desperate attempts to bridge old and new worlds. But more than anything, it is about motherhood: its voracious worry, frequent tedium, and enthralling, wondrous love.

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An excerpt from The Golden State

Day 1


I am staring out the window of my office and thinking about death when I remember the way Paiute smells in the early morning in the summer before the sun burns the dew off the fescue. Through the wall I hear the muffled voice of Meredith shouting on the phone in laborious Arabic with one of her friend-colleagues, and in my mind’s eye I see the house sitting empty up there, a homely beige rectangle with a brown latticed deck and a tidy green wrap-around lawn to its left, a free-standing garage to its right, and beyond that an empty lot with juniper shrubs and patches of tall grass where deer like to pick. Technically it is a double-wide mobile home, although it does not look mobile—it’s not on wheels or blocks; it has a proper covered foundation, or at least the appearance of one, and could not be mistaken for a trailer. Technically I own this house, because my grandparents left it to my mother and when she died she left it to me. 

The house is waiting for an occupant; my Uncle Rodney, who didn’t need it and thus didn’t inherit it, has been paying someone to come every month to tend the geraniums and cut the grass for the last five years. He pays for a low, persistent hum of electricity and gas through the winter so as to avoid the effects of a hard freeze. The idea is that someone will one day want to buy this house, and my Uncle Rodney is keeping it nice until then, I suppose as a favor to me. 

I hear Meredith send valedictory kisses through the phone and amid the sparking glass and chrome splendor of the Institute I see faux wood paneling of the house and the nubbled brown upholstery of my grandmother’s two soft couches, still in situ with the rest of her furnishings. And then I feel something tugging—first from across the Bay, the dingy living room where Honey and six other babies spend ten hours a day toddling, then from the long stretch of road, nearly four hundred miles of road, leading up to the high desert. And then I stand up from my office chair and open the right-hand desk drawer and put a post-it on the petty cash box noting my outstanding debt of $64.72 to the petty cash fund, and after a moment’s hesitation I put the Dell laptop and charger paid for with endowment income from the Al-Ihsan Foundation into my workbag. And then I turn off my monitor, slip on my ill-fitting flats, call goodbye to Meredith (“Have a good night,” she calls back, at 11:15 a.m.), and walk out of the building and down the main walkway through campus, the Bay before me and the clock tower at my back. 

On the BART I stare out the window and consider why it is that I am homebound at 11:45 in the morning with my eye to the northeast. The morning was not worse than most mornings. The alarm went off at six and I hit snooze seven times at 6:10 6:19 6:28 6:37 6:46. I heard Honey calling from the crib like a marooned sailor and guiltily left her there to take a shower after calculating the number of days without (four, too many). I got her from her room where she was standing wailing in the crib, wiped her tears changed her diaper replaced her jammies gave her kisses carried her to the kitchen put her in the high chair gave her a fistful of raisins and realized there were no eggs or yogurt or fruit, which meant oatmeal, which takes an additional eight minutes by the most conservative estimate. And so because of my own late start and the absence of the eggs I had to rush her through breakfast, and lately she hates to be rushed, hates to have the things cleared away before she is ready, and when I took the oatmeal away she started wailing and when I carried her into my room she screamed and stiffened and threw her body back against my arms, a great dramatic backward swan dive with no regard for whatever might lie behind. And when I hustled her onto the floor to get dressed and held up the onesie and tried to invest her in the process like they say you should she started shrieking and thrashing anew and it felt very distressing, very critical, very personal, and I gripped her arms tightly, too tightly, arriving at a threshold of tightness that felt dangerous but obscurely good in a way I wouldn’t care to investigate further, just before but not on the cusp of where you could inflict pain. And then I tugged the onesie over her head and put my own head in my hands and sobbed for thirty seconds. 

Engin’s primary criticism of me is that whenever he tries to initiate a serious conversation I start crying, which activates his innate gallantry and sympathy, and which effectively halts whatever potentially challenging conversation we are having. He calls it a taktik; I call it a refleks. “What do you do when they criticize you at work?” he asked me once, and I told him, truthfully, that at work I am perfect. Whatever the thing is, it worked on Honey, because she paused and I seized the moment to stuff all her limbs into the onesie the pants the socks. Then I put her down and got dressed while she rampaged cutely around the bedroom and messed with the doodads on my bedside table, evil eyes and icons and various other apotropaics I keep meaning to hang up on the wall. And then I dutifully put the little ricesized grain of toothpaste on the little toothbrush festooned with Elmo and friends and sang the song from the Elmo video, but she clamped her mouth shut tight and pearly tears squeezed from her eyes and I gave up which I do five times out of ten. 

But this was par for the course. In fact it was a small miracle that we were out the door at 7:55 for a nearly on-time daycare arrival of 8:05. Then to the streetcar to the train, there to zone out with the Turkish novel I’ve been reading for three years, then switch trains, then to smoke a cigarette by the planter boxes of the Chase bank and then to walk up the hill and arrive at work at 9:35 which is a little over one hour later than I am supposed to be there according to the terms of my offer letter. But I’m still the first in the office and if I bring Honey to daycare at 8:00, the earliest they accept kids, I can’t get to work any earlier than 9:30, even if I don’t smoke a cigarette—it is physically impossible. 

In the office things proceeded more or less as usual. I checked the US Citizenship and Immigration website to see the status of Engin’s green card, which was, is, in perpetuity, “processing”. I checked the bank balance, $341 Checking; $847 Emergency. This had five months ago been a plump and hopeful $3147 until the forced abandonment of Engin’s first green card and immediate forced return of Engin to Turkey at our expense, and the subsequent retention of an attorney to reapply for it, and the recent additional fee to understand why it has been “processing” for five months with no perceptible forward movement—which is, we have been told, likely a “click of the mouse” error. I paused to silently pray that whatever future Emergencies might arise can be resolved for under $847. I checked the credit card balance, $835 less $483 in pending reimbursements for Miscellaneous Catering Expenses. I checked the University Purchasing Portal to see the status of my pending reimbursements, and verily they were still pending. I checked my retirement balance, $9,321, which is theoretically comforting although I cannot of course access it without penalty until my departure and theoretical retirement from the University. I checked the “immigration” thread on BabyCenter, very short, and the Subreddit, very sad. I looked at a WeChat picture from daycare, showing Honey’s diaper containing one troublingly small turd. And finally I listened to a voicemail from the Office of Risk Management relaying that I would have to make a statement regarding the death of student Ellery Simpson and injuries sustained by student Maryam Khoury in a taxi outside the Fidanlik Park refugee camp on a research trip supported with funds from the Al-Ihsan foundation and partially arranged by me. And then I looked at the window and thought of death and remembered the smell of the Paiute air and the dew on the fescue grass.


I reach my stop and navigate the streetcar to my block and stop to smoke a cigarette in front of the door of our building, staring at a free newspaper in a waterlogged bag on the pavement and picturing the long road up to the house. It’s been a year since I made the drive, a year since I covered the huge swath of territory punctuated by alkali lakes and picturesque homesteads and tree stands, the stretch of increasingly far-apart tiny townships and ruined general stores and abandoned trailers, and then the point where you think you’ve absorbed the beauty and caution of the territory and it must be time to get where you’re going but you’ve still got 80 miles of rattlesnake plain surrounded by distant mountains, the only movement the occasional flocks of sheep impossibly far from shelter. I imagine the swift elevation up from the plain through sugar pine and juniper and more pine and the sudden descent onto another great basin, this one checkmarked with fields and cattle and pieces of wetland, its silvery grass and wet places shimmering pink in the twilight, a cattleman’s paradise 5,000 feet high. And finally, my own abandoned homestead in Deakins Park, to sink into those soft nubbled couches and take in the cool morning air of Altavista, the seat of Paiute County. 

I put the cigarette in a flowerpot and go inside and pull out a tote bag and a suitcase and all of the focus that has lately abandoned me at work materializes and I run through the checklist: clothes diapers pack n’ play baby bedding sound machine high chair stroller toys books bib sippy cup snacks and, in a final flash of motherly inspiration, socket protectors. There are 30-some Costco string cheeses in the fridge and several bags of shriveled horrible natural apricots in the cupboard. I put on jeans and I stuff my jammies a housedress a few of Engin’s tee shirts and my sweatshirt that says “I climbed the Great Wall” into the suitcase. There is no Business Casual in the high desert and none of my nice things fit in any case. I put everything in the trunk of the car in two trips and then I pause before locking the door and run back in to get our passports because you never know. Then I stand on our dingy wall-to-wall carpet thinking now is a moment to reverse course and drive south to the airport and find the soonest flight to Istanbul and get us one ticket since Honey is still free and then I recall I have this thought every single day like a goldfish and every time it ends back at the $847 dollars in Emergency. 

My mother-in-law is not rich but she is not poor and I suspect she would happily buy the plane ticket to Istanbul to get her hands on her granddaughter so I suppose it’s not only the $847 that keeps me from this course. The other thing is that I have this objectively marvelous job, a world-historically good job, a job at the best public university in the country or the world, a job wherein I got to make my own title which is “Director of Engagement” and for which I make $69,500 a year all by myself which is simultaneously far too much and too little, an extremely arbitrary figure well above the national median household income with which I pay our rent our daycare and our food and appreciate but do not rely upon the sporadic lump sums from Engin’s video production gigs. “Always have a job,” my mother told me when I was 11, and again when I was 17, and then again, when I was 23, right before she died, when we sat together at her dining room table going over the papers that would give me the mobile home and all of her own furniture and household effects. “Don’t ever live on someone else,” she said to me over her glasses, her small fragile head wrapped in a scarf I remember for no reason that my dad bought her in a little town in northern Greece in the dead of winter. 

So I suppose it is the $847 that keeps me here, but it is also my glass-walled office, my gold-plated health care, our below-market rent in a top-five American city. And there’s Honey, born here. If we leave I am pretty sure we are never coming back, and she’s a California baby now and if we leave she won’t be ever again. I abandon Istanbul with a pang as I do every time I think to take flight, and I smoke another cigarette against the hours in the car to come. Then I walk the two blocks to daycare to collect Honey, who gives me a radiant smile when she is brought to the door, and I accept this as confirmation of the rightness of my decisions thus far. 



2015 07 31 14.50.28 sm

Alturas, California

Photography and Text by Lydia Kiesling

  • “A big, rollicking adventure of a novel, overflowing with the kind of intense, fractal consciousness life with small children entails, the world at once collapsed and expanded infinitely, in which whole lifetimes are contained in each and every single day, Lydia Kiesling’s The Golden State is as funny and alive a story as they come.”

    Elisa Albert, author of After Birth
  • “Lydia Kiesling has written a bold, keenly detailed, and distinctively female coming-of-age story about a woman who, having happily stumbled into marriage, motherhood, and a great job, must now rethink everything. Kiesling makes her patch of high-California desert as vivid a character as the secessionist next door. Beautifully, intricately written, true to life and to women’s experience in particular; full of insight and humor and memorable landscapes, The Golden State is a marvelous and captivating literary debut.”

    Michelle Huneven, author of Off Course
  • The Golden State is spectacularly good at rendering maternal obsession and panic. Lydia Kiesling is brilliant on our certainty that for all we feel, we don’t do nearly enough for those we love.”

    Jim Shepard, author of The World to Come
  • The Golden State is a rare and important novel not only because it depicts with blazing accuracy the everyday experience of raising a young child but also because it uses the quotidian to reveal larger truths about humanity’s gifts and deficits. In Lydia Kiesling’s remarkable first novel, the familiar and the foreign are not so different after all, and what we remember may not be what is. A profound book.”

    Edan Lepucki, author of Woman No. 17 and California
  • The Golden State is a perfect evocation of the beautiful, strange, frightening, funny territory of new motherhood. Lydia Kiesling writes with great intelligence and candor about the surreal topography of a day with an infant, and toggles skillfully between the landscape of Daphne’s interior and the California desert, her postpartum body and the body politic. A love story for our fractured era.”

    Karen Russell, author of Vampires in the Lemon Grove and Swamplandia!