Instinct taught me 20 years ago to pace a song or a concert performance. That translates into pacing a story, pleasing a reading audience.

You get religion as your hair turns grey.

Elvis was the only man from Northeast Mississippi who could shake his hips and still be loved by rednecks, cops, and hippies.

That to me is the way any good romantic would look at his life: Live it first, then write it down before you go.

The right combination of guilt and machismo has sent many a fool out into the jungle when he should have stayed home.

Places I've lived since then had to have some kind of uniqueness and character about them. And logically Key West, and then Down Island. So, all of that stuff sort of had it's roots in New Orleans and went crazy.

Where it all ends I can't fathom, my friends. If I knew, I might toss out my anchor.