It is a bright September morning, and the weather has broken (as it always does, if briefly, after Labor Day) giving a hint of fall. I'm driving slowly through an old neighborhood, tourist-style, looking from porch to porch, block to block. I see a friend working in his yard, and I call through the open … Continue reading Jackie’s house.
I caught a nasty cold in Seattle, and it was - by and large - my own fault. It's possible you're wondering, "what was she doing so far away from Memphis?" and I'll tell you. But first I must give credit where credit's due. The reason I got a cold was that I failed to … Continue reading Don’t forget to write.
Inside Miss Pettibone's black leather pocketbook, which was lined in shiny black satin, were these things: a packet of facial tissues, a needlepoint case for glasses (with a spare pair of glasses inside), a red leather coin purse, a dusty pink compact, a tarnished silver lipstick case, a ballpoint pen, a bottle of prescription pills … Continue reading Miss Pettibone’s pocketbook.
Here's what I know about writing fiction: it's harder than you might think. Last summer when I hit a dry spell working on the memoir/essay/cookbook project I started, I decided maybe I'd take the hint offered by a writer friend and try my hand at fiction. What she'd actually said over lunch, journalist speaking to … Continue reading Southern storyteller syndrome