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ment of a crazy fan girl.

But instead of looking uncomfortable, Bragg chuckled warmly and looked up and smiled at me. “You know,” he said, setting down his pen, “that’s about the finest thing anybody could say to me.” He pushed back from the table a bit, as comfortable as if we were sitting together at a kitchen table somewhere, having a cup of coffee. “Where are your people from?”

And for the next two minutes, as the line waited patiently behind me, Rick Bragg and I had a moment. We talked about family — about strong mothers; drinking, gambling fathers; beloved grandmothers; and about Sunday dinners. And then I turned, found my friend, and she and I walked away.

That day, I realized that great writing isn’t just about stringing pretty words together. It’s about touching that universal chord that makes strangers feel like family. Rick Bragg’s stories have always done more than entertain me — they’ve given me permission to see the poetry in my own family’s history, to recognize the epic in the everyday lives of the people who raised me and others existing on the same Southern soil as me.

I try to do that for readers — connect them to memories, allow them to see beauty in the ordinary, and make them feel like they’re sitting on the patio with an old friend, sharing stories that feel like home. I realized years ago that I would never become rich from writing stories and putting words on paper, but there is some consolation for me — some small reward — in helping others glimpse the luminous moments in their days, understand the complicated love of family, and find words for both the profound and mundane moments that make up a life. Maybe that’s all any of us can hope for in this world — to strike a match in the darkness and help others see their lives with more clarity. I hope I do that.