between starting my day off reading The Little Friend by Donna Tartt and listening to an episode of the New Yorker: Fiction podcast featuring Eudora Welty’s “No Place for You My Love,” i am having a deeply southern day.
even as i write this, my cat sleeps on the stool next to me. late afternoon sun slants through the shutters and i hear the drone of a neighbor’s lawnmower. the ceiling fan turns lazily overhead.