Southern

Parts of my book will read like Southern Gothic folklore, except I am the kid in the story.

A rebellious pastor’s kid.

Born to be rebellious.

A self-fulfilling prophecy.

A character in a story I didn’t write.

“Pastors’ kids are always wild.”

At parties on a Saturday night, listening to dad preach on Sundays.

I learned later that the men in the church that called me wild, were my true pastors.

They always said it to me with a grin, almost with unspoken approval.

I always grinned back.

“You are going to be alright, kid,” is how it felt.