About
“Writers write.”
A mentor told me that over coffee under the oaks outside the LSU Student Union, a long time ago. So here I am. Name’s Darrell, and I’m still writing.
I’m past sixty, retired, and married. I live in the piney woods south of the Kisatchie National Forest, in west-central Louisiana — ground so flat and easy-sloping you’d hardly call it a hill, soil the color of a rain cloud underfoot. Unsweet tea. Star Trek reruns. Mixtapes that told their own stories. That’s the raw material.
These days you’ll find me marking the day Tolkien’s last ship sailed for the Grey Havens the same week I’m sorting through what Job has to say about a hard year. I write about books and music that still get me, the back roads of west-central Louisiana, and faith the way it actually shows up: in gravel, in grief, in the moment you finally stop fighting and let go. Just what I see, hear, and think.
Veni. Vidi. Scripsi. — I came, I saw, I wrote. Not out to conquer anything, just the questions in my own head.
Take what’s useful. Leave what isn’t.
