By Mary Margret Daughtridge I knew a fellow one time. A writer, he was. He was from South Carolina and his name was—I swear—Beauregard. Seriously. Beau, whether or not he ever actually wrote, talked a lot about writing. Back in those days, writing was my guilty secret, so I did write, but never talked about it. People who could talk about it impressed me greatly. If you asked Beau where he was from, he would say Columbia or Greenville or Beaufort—I don’t remember. “But,” he would add in a South Carolina accent thickened considerably by the beers he had consumed, " Ah considda Muunks’ Cawnah mah spurchal home. " (I consider Monk's Corner my spiritual home.) There, he said, flowed a never-ending fountain of inspiration, of ideas and words, paragraphs and plots, and when he was finally ready to write his novel, there he would go. I didn’t have a spiritual home, that I knew of, and I wasn’t perfectly clear on how a spiritual home differed from any other kind. I was raised in ...
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