For some time now I’ve been confused over my obsession with southern writers. I get all conflicted trying to figure out if I want to be a New Englander writing in the South, or a Southerner writing about New England. Sometimes I can’t figure out if my story is about […]
There were snakes in that river. That’s why we were never to go there alone. I never saw a snake, but I knew they were there. Our mothers said so. We had just moved to our new town in June. We would have moved earlier but Mom said we had […]
My New England stories are based on my memories of growing up in a small New England town. The stories, and the memories, are so much a part of me that I don’t always know which parts are something I experienced and which parts live in the imagination of my […]
Mr Miller had lived in the cabin in the southeast corner of Porter’s field for as long as most people in town could remember. Everybody called it Mr Miller’s cabin, but really it was just a little wooden shack. If you were riding up Porter Road, you might not even notice it, tucked away in the clearing behind the stand of Eastern White Pines. When the wind blew through those trees, you could hear their eerie song all the way down the hill.