Ralph Eubanks, Winston Groom, and Skip Jones

Karen Spears Zacharias emailed me from the Fairhope Center for the Writing Arts, where she's in the midst of a three-month residency at the Wolff Cottage, which was recently saved from demolition and remodeled, thanks to the intervention of FCWA president Skip Jones. Now the cottage is safely tucked away in the backyard of Fairhope, Alabama's new $8 million public library, which Zacharias says is "absolutely breathtaking." (Previous authors who have stayed in the cottage include Rick Bragg, Tom Epperson, and Daniel Wallace.)

She also had a lot to say about the reception the FCWA threw to celebrate her arrival, including an encounter with the author of Forrest Gump, one of the bestselling writers who calls Fairhope home...

We had a shindig tonight at the Writers Cottage. A bunch of people turned out to welcome me to town. They brought wine—red & white—and a tasty salsa made with black-eyed peas. They raved over the remodel spearheaded by Ann Clinton Groom and Skip Jones and a host of others. “You ought to have seen this place three weeks ago,” they said.

I met a transplant surgeon who has spent the last 15 years working on various Polynesian islands. He writes terrorism-thrillers. Several poets graced us with their presence. Winston Groom turned up to admire the remodel job his wife pulled together. He strode across the room, stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Winston Groom.”

I felt like I ought to curtsy, avert my eyes, and say, “Yes, my lord. I know who you are.” But instead I held out my hand and said my name.

“I just finished your book,” he said. Any other time I could have told you word-for-word what anybody else said, but I was so taken aback by the idea of Winston Groom reading my dribble that I grew dizzy. Was it that glass of white wine?

He was saying something about the book being an emotionally powerful story. I remember thinking, “Winston Groom is praising my work. Pay attention. Remember everything.” It was the closest I’ve ever come to having an outer-body experience, discounting the day I gave birth to twins. But that was a whole different sort of outer-body experience. That made me dizzy, too, but for some reason or another I remember that one in details I’d just soon forget.

Sonny Brewer slipped in so silently I nearly missed him. “You know the place is haunted, right?” Sonny asked.

“Nope,” I said. “Don’t know anything about it.” Good thing I spent the first day going from room-to-room praying, I thought.

“You wanna hear about the ghost?” he asked.

“No, I don’t believe I do.”

So Sonny ignored me and went into an elaborate tale, as only a southerner can do, about how the fireplace is the entry portal for the ghost—a man.

“She told you she didn’t want to know about the ghost,” Suzie Hudson said.

Sonny ignored her too.

“Maybe you ought to loan me your dog for company,” I said to Suzie.

My friend, Ralph Eubanks, drove over from the hunting camp where he’s been holed up writing his own book. He’s seen a couple of wild hog heads on the wall but he never mentioned seeing any ghosts.

We went to dinner after the shindig, down on the bay. We ate fried pickles, fried shrimp and fried hush-puppies. The only thing not fried was the tea. It was sweetened. Now I’m sitting here in the Waffle House, drinking coffee and wondering if the cottage ghost can be any scarier than the 2 a.m. clients that frequent this joint.