She Knew Full Well The Enormity Of

The Remainder Of My Schooldays Were No More Auspicious Than The First. Indeed, They Were An Endless Project That Slowly Evolved Into A Unit, In Which Miles Of Construction Paper And Wax Crayon Were Expended By The State Of Alabama In Its Well-meaning But Fruitless Efforts To Teach Me Group Dynamics.

She Was Born In The Objective Case.

Calpurnia Evidently Remembered A Rainy Sunday When We Were Both Fatherless And Teacherless. Let To Its Own Devices, The Class Tied Eunice Ann Simpson To A Chair And Placed Her In The Furnace Room. We Forgot Her, Trooped Upstairs To Church, And Were Listening Quietly To The Sermon When A Dreadful Banging Issued From The Radiator Pipes, Persisting Until Someone Investigated And Brought Forth Eunice Ann Saying She Didn't Want To Play Shadrach Any More - Jem Finch Said She Wouldn't Get Burnt If She Had Enough Faith, But It Was Hot Down There.

To Be A Serious Writer Requires Discipline That Is Iron Fisted. It's Sitting Down And Doing It Whether You Think You Have It In You Or Not. Everyday. Alone. Without Interruption. Contrary To What Most People Think, There Is No Glamour To Writing. In Fact, It's Heartbreak Most Of The Time.

Ladies Bathed Before Noon, After Their Three O'clock Naps, And By Nightfall Were Like Soft Teacakes With Frostings Of Sweat And Sweet Talcum.