Southern Writers Reading was the literary scene gone rogue,
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.
