In a land where ghosts and ghost stories were as common and accepted as the gray, curling moss dripping from the oak and pecan trees, the art of storytelling was a rite of passage in any young Southerners' life.
As for myself, quite literally raised "on the bayou", I was not immune to this bard-like existence.
Writing since I could hold a pen, I have put out an extensive mess of words that have, over the years, accumulated into a myriad of web sites, blogs, and even a few published works. Words do not