This year’s Willie Morris Award for Southern Fiction goes to Kim Wright, for her novel Last Ride to Graceland
Daydreaming, recharging, bird watching
"You might not move your body around, but there’s grueling, dynamic labor going on inside you."
An intense couple of days ahead at the Writers' Symposium at Furman University, Mar. 23 and Mar. 24. But there will be laughter. Guaranteed.
A walk on a warm day, among the sneak previews of spring, where YELLOW announces itself, over and over…
My list, cobbled together from bookstore receipts, iPad receipts, library notices.
Here’s my test. I have to draw stares when I’m reading on a park bench, the airport, a waiting room—laughing out loud—and not care. Bust a gut laughing, as they say.
I stepped away from the churn and anguish. Sought refuge in nature. Read poetry. Wrote.
No one wants to kiss when she is hungry, according to Dorothy Dix.
I’m not going to fall back on my fainting couch. I’m not insulted. Just…disappointed.
SENSE of place, because senses—at least a couple of them— are usually involved.
Henry Miller kept a list of powerful writing "commandments." I love them.
It takes guts to play God. And yet, the omniscient point of view is enormously fluid and rewarding.
I’ve written before about the poignancy of regret in “I Want to Live!,” a story that manages to weave the nineteenth-century German philosopher Schopenhauer’s ideas around a bantam rooster named Mr. Barnes.
As a former winner of the Willie Morris Award for Southern Fiction, I've had the privilege of serving as one of the judges for several years. My "work" is reading stacks of southern novels, and attending the luncheon and reception in New York, honoring the authors.
He worried his mother would have too much pride to take his pension, but wrote to his sister, "She might as well have it. I know plenty mothers getting it who has twenty dollars to mother's one."
When my grandmother died a few years ago, she left behind her own mother's trunk, filled with photographs (some of them dating from the mid 1800s), stacks of old postcards, a few tragic telegrams, and a letter signed by J. Edgar Hoover about my missing great-aunt, who'd run off to California.