IN THE LAND OF COTTON

by John M. Floyd

Southern fiction. What’s the big deal about it? you might ask. Why in the world do so many readers seem to be fascinated by stories written, or set in locations, south of the Mason-Dixon? And why has this area of the country produced so many authors?

Well, I have a few views on that. I’ll admit I’m biased; except for a stint in the Air Force and some farflung travels with IBM, I’ve spent my whole life in what is arguably the heart of the Deep South, and I love it. My homeland is a strange and special place.

The fact is, things are just different down here, and not all those things are good. Everyone knows about our history and our struggles and our social issues — but if you live here you also know what strides we’ve made in the past fifty years. Do we still have problems? You bet we do. But some of those same problems exist in the Midwest, and New England, and on both coasts.

I’ve always suspected that we might owe our rich literary heritage, at least in some degree, to those problems. After all, how can one write convincingly about conflict and pain and failure if he’s never seen them firsthand, or at least seen their consequences? The South has always been a place of contrasts: wealth/poverty, hospitality/prejudice, stability/volatility. I will admit that I’m one of those who have lived sheltered lives, but I’ve still seen the extremes, and I know people well who live on both ends of the socio-economic ladder. And I think the literature that comes out of such a diverse culture will sometimes show greater intensity and emotion.

Perhaps the biggest reason for the abundance of authors from the South, however, is one that I mentioned in an earlier column: Southern kids just grow up listening to a lot of different people tell stories. Or at least they used to, when I was a boy. Our storytellers were relatives, friends, relatives of friends, friends of relatives, old-timers, co-workers, you name it. Some were folks we had never seen before in our lives and would never see again — nameless wanderers who happened to stop by for a plate of food on their way to Points Unknown. Those vagabonds would now be called homeless persons, but back then we knew them only as hoboes, which to us meant adventurers who had traveled the globe and seen things we could only dream about. I can recall sitting at their feet beside the bench in front of my grandfather’s gas station in Sallis, Mississippi, sitting there wide-eyed and gullible and marveling at their tales while they munched Nabs and Tom’s Toasted Peanuts and sipped RC Colas bought for them by my granddad from the Coke machine inside the hot but shaded office. Most of their thrilling accounts, I realize now, were pure fiction — but I can remember some of them to this day.

Did those stories influence me to later tell my own tall tales? Of course they did. Did they make me a good storyteller? Maybe not. But they made me want to be a good storyteller. If I’m not already, I hope I’m on my way.

Another factor in the South’s production and development of authors is, I believe, the fact that we grew up among such colorful — and sometimes outrageous — characters. Almost everyone seemed to have a hidden past, or a flair for the dramatic, or at least a mischievous gleam in his eye. (And I’m referring to women as well as men, here. I recently heard my cousin say, after she’d been told that it would probably be illegal to fire a gun at a trespasser unless he was in her house at the time, that if the situation arose she would by God shoot him in her yard and then drag his body into the house before the police arrived.) And speaking of folks being “colorful,” it’s a little surprising to recall how many of my parents’ friends had nicknames — the southeastern U.S. is a great place for nicknames. Within several miles of my hometown lived men and women who were known only as Jabbo, Biddie, Pep, WeeWee, Buster, Puddin’, Doo-spat, Ham, Big ’un, Nannie, Bobo, Snooky, and Button. How could folks with those kind of names be anything but interesting?

The truth is, though, no one knows why this region has been home to so many wordsmiths. I just know it has, and I’m oddly proud of that. I even wish there had been more Faulkners and Weltys and Grishams and Conroys and Tennessee Williamses in the world. And maybe there will be.

I also know this: I’ve been inside bookstores all across the nation, and I have yet to see a section labeled “Northern Fiction.” Maybe that, in itself, is revealing.

Good or bad, and with or without its many literary alumni, the South is a unique world. A place where most folks still respect their elders, say grace before meals, have at least one relative named Bubba, and feel free to drop in for an unannounced visit at anybody’s house at any time.

Except maybe my cousin’s.