I sometimes say that I grew up in the middle of nowhere, but that’s not quite true. If I really think it over, it’s more accurate to say that my little town perched on the edge of nowhere.
Those essays didn’t start out as anything ambitious, either. At their core, they’re just primal screams.
When I was in the first grade, I was probably the only girl in my class who’d never gone rabbit hunting with her father.
She couldn’t remember a time before the swamp.
Going home it always bitter sweet. As I crossed into my home county, I felt the anxiety settling in. I was home, and that was only comforting until it suddenly wasn’t.
If you’ve been hanging out with me, you know that I just can’t seem to get Alabama out of my system. Remember when I threatened to turn my childhood into a horror story about demon? Well, it’s arrived. At least partially. As a working title, I call it ‘Appalachia’. Put simply, it details an outbreak […]
So this past week, I spend some time in Alabama. It’s the first time I’ve visited since the blog started almost a year ago, and I’ve gotta say, things have changed. I wish in the good way, but we don’t always get what we want.
Who would believe my stories about the south?
I bet many of you wouldn’t. I could write an entire memoir of horror stories, and most people would find it more believable if I filled them with imaginary demons.
There’s something about the south and it’s ghosts.
People always say I should write about Alabama. “You have such good stories!” they say, and perhaps they aren’t wrong.