Monday, December 22, 2008

Rick Bragg

Rick Bragg writes about a South I've never seen. Or maybe that's not true, I saw it once, as a child, but it went by so quickly that it exists only in autumn fragments.
Ricky writes about knife fights, screaming muscle cars and whiskey. About fathers who tried to do right but failed and mothers so saintly that their heavenly halos must be made of the finest gold and encrusted with diamonds.
Which is to say that his stories are a little flowery. But they are damn fine and they are true. Every time I read one of his books it's like listening to my father tell stories. Or my grandmother or just about any person I know with a Southern accent and an honest heart.

My mother and my grandmother met Bragg several years ago. I was a cub reporter in the midst of one of the hardest times of my life. I was about to get fired. Later, my mother would tell me about how stressed out I was and what a difference it was when I left that place and went to the closest thing I have ever found to a sane newsroom.
I don't know what was said but my mother must have told him where I was and how I was struggling. She asked him to sign three books for me.

My copy of the dedication page of All Over but the Shoutin' reads this way: To my momma and my brothers. And to Brady, From one writer to another. It gets easier.

Ricky, thanks man. It absolutely did get easier.

Bragg Books




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