Two Tears In A Bucket. Motherfuck It.

For Me, Savannah's Resistance To Change Was Its Saving Grace. The City Looked Inward, Sealed Off From The Noises And Distractions Of The World At Large. It Grew Inward, Too, And In Such A Way That Its People Flourished Like Hothouse Plants Tended By An Indulgent Gardener. The Ordinary Became Extraordinary. Eccentrics Thrived. Every Nuance And Quirk Of Personality Achieved Greater Brilliance In That Lush Enclosure Than Would Have Been Possible Anywhere Else In The World.

Keep A Diary, But Don't Just List All The Things You Did During The Day. Pick One Incident And Write It Up As A Brief Vignette. Give It Color, Include Quotes And Dialogue, Shape It Like A Story With A Beginning, Middle And End—as If It Were A Short Story Or An Episode In A Novel. It's Great Practice. Do This While Figuring Out What You Want To Write A Book About. The Book May Even Emerge From Within This Running Diary.

Two Tears In A Bucket. Motherfuck It.

Someone Once Wrote That Musicians Are Touched On The Shoulder By God, And I Think It's True. You Can Make Other People Happy With Music, But You Can Make Yourself Happy Too. Because Of My Music, I Have Never Known Loneliness And Never Been Depressed.

If You Go To Atlanta, The First Question People Ask You Is, "what's Your Business?" In Macon They Ask, "where Do You Go To Church?" In Augusta They Ask Your Grandmother's Maiden Name. But In Savannah The First Question People Ask You Is "what Would You Like To Drink?"