And yet she kept on working, always working, writing those daring and serious stories which dive below consciousness, drawing us out of our comfortable selves and down into strange places;...

My father was as loyal a son of the South as the South ever produced, save for two qualities. He never stopped growing, and he would not march in lockstep in a white society that...

These photographs of my father, the late Willie Morris, and the letters he wrote to me are not, by themselves, related directly to one another. They came into being during the same 25-year...

Will sat that night staring at a blank sheet of paper, conjuring up a London that his grandfather might have known. Accurate scholarship could re-create what had been bombed out, what had...

The interwoven visuals in my series are embedded with the personalities and deep strengths of my loved ones. Along with my longing for them, I seek to honor and memorialize them. These...

Although Mama drives me crazy with most of her string-saving, obsessive-compulsive habits, I have studied her like a map of the world to try to learn her secrets not just of living so long,...

At my grandmother’s table, food was a serious topic. Endless discussions of country butter versus store bought; arguments over seasoning; backhanded compliments about skills. Without even...

On the days I am not my father holding you is enough until holding you is no longer enough for either of us. I listen well.

I looked at the heap of her body on the living room floor, and I felt something for her that reminded me of when I looked at the river and knew that at the bottom there was a tempting...