I don’t know much about writin but I reckon its beautiful. It’s like how you take a gander at a leaf and it seems like a leaf, smells like a leaf, tastes like a leaf even. But then you REALLY look at it and it becomes a complex organismal doohickey. With intricate designs and different shades of green. And thats just one leaf. I won’t even get into all the sorcery of how it gets energy from the sun like our local hippie. I do declare that language is likewise. Both are above my pay grade. I remember when my Papa would read me books in our double-wide when I was seven. It created a new world in my mind. Sometimes I get a hankering to write stories like that, maybe someday I will when I retire… if I ever get there. I don’t think writin would be a stroll in the bayou. Heck, it takes me an hour and a half just to get groceries. Writin takes way more discipline. I know a thing or two about swinging a hammer and grinding a 9-5. But that at least pays the utility bills. Most books don’t make it and writers know that. Y’all writers got to be a mysterious concoction like Mrs. Belles sweet tea except instead of sugar and fresh lemon, y’all got a mix of tenacity and passion. Heavens to betsy and plus a little extra. I’ll tell you what, thanks for your time Mr. Parker, I hope you’ve found what your lookin for. Bless your heart.

(excerpt from a 2015 street interview in central Alabama)