Two Tears In A Bucket. Motherfuck It.

Keep A Diary, But Don't Just List All The Things You Did During The Day. Pick One Incident And Write It Up As A Brief Vignette. Give It Color, Include Quotes And Dialogue, Shape It Like A Story With A Beginning, Middle And End—as If It Were A Short Story Or An Episode In A Novel. It's Great Practice. Do This While Figuring Out What You Want To Write A Book About. The Book May Even Emerge From Within This Running Diary.

Rule Number One: Always Stick Around For One More Drink. That's When Things Happen. That's When You Find Out Everything You Want To Know.

If You Go To Atlanta, The First Question People Ask You Is, "what's Your Business?" In Macon They Ask, "where Do You Go To Church?" In Augusta They Ask Your Grandmother's Maiden Name. But In Savannah The First Question People Ask You Is "what Would You Like To Drink?"

For Me, Savannah's Resistance To Change Was Its Saving Grace. The City Looked Inward, Sealed Off From The Noises And Distractions Of The World At Large. It Grew Inward, Too, And In Such A Way That Its People Flourished Like Hothouse Plants Tended By An Indulgent Gardener. The Ordinary Became Extraordinary. Eccentrics Thrived. Every Nuance And Quirk Of Personality Achieved Greater Brilliance In That Lush Enclosure Than Would Have Been Possible Anywhere Else In The World.

By Morning She Was Dead. She Had Not Died Of Starvation Or Committed Suicide By Any Conventional Means. She Had Simply Willed Herself To Die, And Being A Strong-willed Woman, She Had Succeeded. She Had Missed Dying On Her Birthday By Two Days.