Photo by Steve Davis
There were writers in my clan as I was growing up. I wanted to become a painter, though an uncle who was a published writer urged me to follow family tradition, “There are a lot of famous southern writers,” he said, “But southern artists are few and obscure.” I was convinced, however, that a picture is worth a thousand words, and stayed on my horse.
Fifty years later, having discovered belatedly that a story is worth a thousand pictures, I began, at seventy, to write fiction. I gravitated toward fiction because it allows you to tell the truth without being accused of it. At seventy-seven, I’m still at it. If I still have a brain at eighty, I might retire and become a poet, because I’d like to go out with a song.