Jared Sullivan‘s debut Valley So Low: One Lawyer’s Fight for Justice in the Wake of America’s Great Coal Catastrophe was named a Best Book by The New Yorker, Garden & Gun, and The Washington Independent Review of Books. But like many reported nonfiction debuts, I missed it here at Debutiful. I tend to cover novels, short story collections, essay collections, and memoirs. Still, sometimes a nonfiction title bubbles up to the top of my TBR pile and this book’s topic caught my eye.
In his book, Sullivan chronicles the aftermath of the catastrophic 2008 coal ash spill in Kingston, Tennessee. Following a small-town lawyer’s uphill battle against the Tennessee Valley Authority, the book exposes systemic negligence, the human cost of corporate greed, and the fight for justice in the face of insurmountable odds.
I needed to learn more about Valley So Low and how Sullivan wrote it. We chatted via email about his work, this book, and what’s next.
Debutiful: Your writing spans an impressive range of publications like The Atlantic, Garden & Gun, and The New Yorker, alongside editorial roles at Men’s Journal and Field & Stream. How did these diverse experiences prepare you to tackle such a complex and multifaceted story in Valley So Low?
Jared Sullivan: I learned how to write mostly by editing other people, and I learned from some of the best — Devin Gordon, Nick Paumgarten, Anna Peele, David Sedaris, etc.
I started editing right after I graduated from college, mostly because I had no financial cushion to freelance and needed a regular paycheck. At first, I longed to be a full-time writer, but editing proved to be an incredible education in how to frame and put together a story. At Field & Stream — my first job at a major New York magazine — I learned that often the best way to get readers to care about an environmental issue is not by cramming tons of stats or policy stuff into a story but by focusing on a compelling everyday character. That’s because characters stick with us more than facts or data usually do. No one remembers the name of the chemical that sickened the town of Hinkley, California, but no one forgets the name Erin Brockovich.
That’s a lesson I applied when writing Valley So Low, which on its surface is a legal thriller about an environmental fiasco in Tennessee, but it’s really about three or four ordinary people who found themselves in a hell they had to overcome.
Debutiful: You’ve cited Jonathan Harr, Janet Flanner, and Isabel Wilkerson as inspirations for Valley So Low. How did their work shape your storytelling approach to this underdog tale and the broader narrative about justice versus corporate power?
Sullivan: Their biggest influence on me was stylistic. Those three writers each produced powerful true narratives — in A Civil Action, “The Escape of Mrs. Jeffries,” and The Warmth of Other Suns, respectively — in which they erased themselves from the text. That is, they wrote from the omniscient third person about real people, and did so with a novelistic flair — which you can only do once you’ve reported your ass off — and they gave over their stories completely to their characters. Those three writers are not in the text at all. And I like it when true stories are written vividly from a Godlike point of view. Hiroshima and In Cold Blood are the same way. I wrote Valley So Low in this removed, third-person style, because, going back to your first question, I wanted readers to care deeply about my characters, not about me or how I reported the book. This is a cliché thing for a nonfiction writer to say, but I wanted the book to read like a novel.
Debutiful: With the Biden administration attempting to close regulatory loopholes regarding coal ash contamination, how optimistic are you about meaningful progress? What would you suggest are the most urgent next steps to protect affected communities?
Sullivan: I’m not optimistic anything meaningful will be done. We’re in the middle of a slow-motion apocalypse, or so it often seems. I hope I’m wrong, of course.
The government could do all sorts of things to help the sickened blue-collar workers I write about in Valley So Low. One step would be to establish a fund or program that helps cover the workers’ medical bills. It wouldn’t be a first: Congress created one such program in 2000 for workers who were sickened at government bomb-making sites. But Tennessee’s lawmakers, at the state or federal level, have shown no interest in doing anything like that, because it’s not in their interest to care about common people. The Roberts court made sure of that with Citizens United. Lawmakers’ main concern here in Tennessee, where I live, seems to be turning the state into a Christian-nationalist theocracy. And I don’t think I’m exaggerating much in saying that.
Debutiful: You uncovered allegations that Kingston cleanup workers were exposed to radioactive waste tied to the Manhattan Project. How has this revelation been received, and what do you believe are the implications for future cleanups involving potentially hazardous sites?
Sullivan: Readers have been startled by the revelation, but I’ve heard nothing from anyone in a position of power. As for the implications of the waste, the radionuclides at the bottom of the Clinch and Emory Rivers will remain there until the end of time, effectively, so if the waste is disturbed again, as it was during the Kingston cleanup, it’ll be a hazard for workers and the public.
Debutiful: In your research, you describe TVA’s shift from an engine of economic development to a profit-driven polluter. What lessons can we learn from this transformation, and how can government agencies prioritize the public interest in the face of corporate pressure?
Sullivan: You could write a book answering this question. Here’s what I’ll say: TVA stopped working for the people of the United States when Eisenhower and Republicans in Congress decided that their small-government dogma was more important than the general welfare of the poor, rural people of the Southeast. Eisenhower and the GOP repeatedly withheld federal appropriations from TVA, they accused it of “creeping socialism,” and they kneecapped it whenever they had a chance. TVA, desperate for cash, eventually had to self-finance its operations through electricity sales, which was when lawmakers in D.C. stopped paying attention to it and let TVA grow into one of the U.S.’s worst polluters. The neoliberals were a disaster, too, but the problems really go back to Eisenhower.
As for the lessons learned, the writer Fred Stafford has argued that liberals need to champion public power as they did 80 years ago, to help the U.S. decarbonize, and I generally agree with his view. We need lawmakers, on the left and right, to believe in the government’s ability to benefit average people, and they need to demand TVA and other agencies deliver. Because TVA proved during the Depression that it can. To a similar end, TVA’s board of directors should be given more power to oversee and direct TVA, which is in desperate need of oversight.
Are there other issues or stories you’re passionate about covering in the future? Are you currently researching or planning to write another book, and if so, could you share a glimpse into what it might explore?
Sullivan: I have a few ideas for magazine stories, but I plan to take a break from book-length nonfiction. Writing Valley So Low put a significant strain on my marriage, and I have two young daughters who don’t need me rushing off on reporting trips or to be constantly on the phone with sources. I’ve started drafting a novel about a school massacre and, as odd as it might sound, my marriage. That’ll probably be my next book. I haven’t spoken to my agent or editor about it, though, so I could be talked out of the idea. Whatever I write next, it’ll be about the South in one way or another. It’s clear to me that we’ll never fix this country until we fix the South, so it’s going to remain my focus for a while.