The voices in these poems are not often heard outside the South, and they are voices that, like the land, are being lost with the development and modernization that characterize the New South. Yet they express emotions and concerns we all share, and wherever I’ve taken this project, people are responding to it.
by Jessica Levine
Because I wanted to write novels and knew that writers draw on their memories, the idea of not remembering years of one’s life, the major as well as the minor events, terrified me—an enormous loss not only of experience but also of creative raw material.
by Robert Gipe
There was a spot of color on my mother’s cheek…seeping through like blood seeping through a rag. I wanted to wring my real mother out from the rag her body had become. I wanted to wring that rag out over a bucket, pour what I wrung out into some kind of mold, like a jello mold of my old momma, my good momma, and make her back into what she was.
by Lynn Sloan
The gurgle of wine being poured and the happy glissando of piano keys. Had this been recorded in a cocktail lounge? I hoped so. To write two novels a year and hang out in cocktail lounges: a dream.
by Nicole Wolverton
Twenty-five years after his death, someone else found value in Ellis Ruley’s work.
by Kaulie Lewis
On reflection, [Megan Mayhew Bergman] concludes that “I do not find it unusual that many writers I know acquire vintage clothes, buy old homes, and rescue animals. For one, we don’t have Wall Street salaries, and secondly, we’re suckers for backstory, particularly that which is left to the imagination. Our job, after all, is to make up lives, engage in epic games of pretend.”
by Michele Beller
A bell of familiarity clanged in my head when I read that Stern’s father defended himself, reminding her how much he “tried to help” her during her “troubled childhood.” The exasperated voice of my mother came back to haunt—“You have a fear of success,” she would say to me when I was at my lowest.