I think my grandmother Woodrell was most responsible for my becoming a writer. She wasn't quite literate, but was very proud that she attended school as far as the third grade. She worked as a maid, housekeeper and cook.
Earned a bachelor's at 27, then an M.F.A. that is still completely unused and in mint condition, never taken out of the box.
I guess it's ridiculously romantic, but I wanted to be a full tilt, sink-or-swim writer.
I have a Ford Taurus, and I don't care who knows it.
When poetry is on the money, 12 words can slay you. I admire that greatly.
I am well aware that the writers of New York, London, and Toronto are more readily noticed, though the shadowy and potent Ozarks Literary Cabal does what it can for me, then nightly joins me for dinner and calls me 'honey.'