Rocking chairs are one of those things no writer should ever be without. I'm thankful the folks who built the airport in Knoxville recognize the need for them. I only wish they turn down that blasted intercom. It's ruining my thinking.

Or, perhaps, it's just a symptom of sleep depravation. I'm beat.

It might take me weeks to get over Fairhope. The festivities got underway on Friday night at the spanking new library. There was energetic guitar man wearing the finest pair of red Tony Lamas I've ever laid eyes on. Not to be mixed with the patent leather red thigh-high boots that Beth Ann Fennelly wore the next night. Beth Ann is one of the South's finest word weavers.

"Do you know how lucky you are?" I asked Tommy Franklin, as we leaned against the frig in Skip and Nancy Jones's bayside home. "Beth Ann is your wife. She is beautiful, sexy, smart, talented and the mother of your two children. Bestseller list or not, you are one blessed man."

"You're right," Tommy said. And he meant it.

Beth Ann began her reading Friday with this intro: "This is the poem that could get me fired in Oxford." It was a telling poem about spring at Ole Miss. Something about the changes in a woman's life, how we move from being the coed admired to the aging woman admiring. Beth Ann is able to give voice to the unspoken thoughts of women too polite to say such things aloud. She is never crass but always evokes a smile or tear or nod of recognition. If you are a woman and  haven't read her poetry, you should.

With a hint of country twang,Tommy Franklin read from his newest novel Smonk. A scene about a parrot plucking the eye of an old man. Reminiscent of the most horrific scene of The Birds. Tommy's so descriptive that my stomach recoils but what I love most is the little boy character. So real.

Let's see, Suzanne Hudson read about Ruby Pearl. Ruby Pearl has a best friend who is a fundamentalist Christian. Ruby Pearl is worried about her friend, who seems to have some issues that go beyond the saving grace of Jesus. Suzanne has included a chapter titled What would Jesus Do? No, really.

And Joe Formichella stirred the crowd with an indignant read from his latest release, Murder Creek, the non-fiction account of a horrific murder that took place in Baldwin County in 1950s. A mother of seven. It's a chilling tale that'll be released within the next couple of weeks. I've been quizzing Joe for a couple of years about this book, so I'm really looking forward to finding out what Joe discovered.

We also heard from bestselling author Joshilyn Jackson, author of the bestselling Gods in Alabama, which arguably has one of  the best opening lines of any book written about Alabama. Jackson read a piece that she referred to as her Letter to Penthouse. It's not what you think. While the opening hints at a chaotic fantasy, Jackson unfolds a torturous tale of the demons that plague creative souls of all genres -- chiefly, when is enough enough? Jackson is the tour guide, pointing out the obvious insecurities that lead to the incessant striving that every writer whose ever entered the slop pen of ink knows. Her piece was the favorite of the weekend for me. Maybe because I related to the striving so well.

I remember when I thought getting published in Blue Ridge Country would make me a "real writer." It took me three years before I finally got a paragraph published. They paid me $45. I still have a copy of the check in my files. But I soon found out that being published in Blue Ridge Country wasn't enough. So I set my sights on Home Life, the magazine for Southern Baptists. That took me a year or better but eventually I had several pieces published in Home Life. Then  I wrote my first book and my articles and columns were published in newspapers on a regular basis, including The Oregonian. From there it was the Chicago Tribune, and awards, and the New York Times, and another book, and National Public Radio, and then another book. On and on.

Somewhere along the way I decided I must be a real writer, whatever that meant. But more importantly I learned that whoever I was and whatever it was that I needed couldn't come from publishers or editors or even readers. It had to come from within me. And that the reason I write is because I can't not write. Which is what I told the audience shortly before my reading on Saturday. "I can't get my mind around writing for Hollywood, or to please others. I write what's on my heart."

Or as my professor used to say, I write because I can't not write.

For better or for worse, it's my opium.

Or maybe it's  because as a woman and mother of four, I grew weary of people ignoring me, tuning me out, not listening, or simply not hearing. I can force the computer to listen in ways I never could my family, or friends. And the computer is almost always a congenial soulmate.

Okay. I got to run folks. Nearly missed the plane. The intercom calls me over yonder. I'll be back with news of Karen Abbott, Pia Earhardt and all those other folks in Fairhope. WAIT!!! DON"T SHUT THAT DOOR!!! I"M A COMING!!!