I love the sounds of words, probably the first reason I became a writer. Later I added the hope of causing folks to laugh and cry reading stories that I found fun to write.
I grew up in Myrtle Beach, a carnival town surrounded by characters who have grown on me like riotous vines, some blooming as moon flowers, others as morning glories; a few are thorny and dangerous to handle. All are friends I intend to keep and love, or I would not trouble to write about them.
Of course the highest and best use of words is the truth. Most people don’t handle the truth comfortably, most don’t believe it when they hear it about themselves, unless they do the telling.
Most of the people I write about are real. All the action happened, either to me, or came down to me as gospel, which I give credence to and stand behind. Everything I write about has a precedent in truth, the truth as I remember it which is always entertaining the way I write about it, because along the way, I admit, I give events a measure of spark that might not have been apparent to anyone but me at the time. Such events have remained bright enough in memory to make them easy reading I trust.