upsetting the apple carts of more than a couple of self-satisfied editors

in the region. It was the anti-establishment strain of the literary family,

the kids in the back of the classroom shooting spitballs, lobbing rotten

apples, thumbing their noses at grammatical prudes. And William

had nothing but disdain for posturing and preening, academic airs,

mercenary social climbing, obsequious ass-kissing. And limousines. No

wonder he kept returning.

1998-2008: these were literary magic years, with Big Daddy

Sonny Brewer bringing the juju, along with partners-in-crime like Jim

Gilbert, Kyle Jennings, Skip Jones, and Martin Lanaux. The community

came alive, venues volunteered, folks opened their homes to lodge

authors, throw parties, banquets, lunches and brunches, and the ABC

store did a very brisk business. The weekend's events all fell under the

umbrella of Southern Writers Reading.

Why "Southern"? There's been much debate over the last

couple of decades about whether the classification should even exist

anymore. For my own self, I just know that when I was doing research

for my 2003 novel In a Temple of Trees, I explored some very dark,

Deliverance-like parts of West Alabama that took me right back to my

childhood days in southwest Georgia-in the 1950s. Places where time

has stopped. My protective guide took me to dives and honky tonks

and drove me around with a man and his six-year-old son, both of

whom enthusiastically chewed and spat tobacco. We visited a woman

in jail accused of carving her boyfriend's rectum out with a fish scaling

knife. I witnessed an elderly African American man address a teenage

white boy as "sir," and not in an ironic way. Confederate flags were not

uncommon.