I read this piece to the Jackson Writers Guild a year ago. Since then, we’ve not been able to meet. Here it is again.
A southern writer can collect more stories from a back-porch conversation than from hours of creative writing instruction or a ten-day cruise through the Panama Canal. It’s especially true on Friday night when everybody kicks backs, eats well, and can’t wait for Saturday’s football extravaganza. Most of my tales come from my home town, Jackson; others from all over the state. For me, they spring to life when somebody says, “Hush up, I’m fixin’ to tell a story.”
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