Good Writing Is The Hardest Form Of

Anyone Who Knows Me Well Must Understand And Be Sympathetic To My Genuine Need To Be My Own Greatest Hero. It Is Not A Flaw Of Character; It Is A Catastrophe.

I Only Hope To Do Well Enough Before I Die To Have A House As Big As My Rich Uncle Ed And Aunt Carole.

I Was The Only Person In The World Who Thought It Was A Military Duty To Appear To Be In A Good Mood.

My Soul Grazes Like A Lamb On The Beauty Of An Indrawn Tide.

My Mother, Southern To The Bone, Once Told Me, “all Southern Literature Can Be Summed Up In These Words: ‘on The Night The Hogs Ate Willie, Mama Died When She Heard What Daddy Did To Sister.’” She Raised Me Up To Be A Southern Writer, But It Wasn’t Easy.