Monroeville (Part II)

I attended the Alabama Writers' Conference last week in Monroeville. The theme of this year's event was "Literature on Location: The Muse of Place." The program was crafted such that various writers from many different genres discussed the effect of location on their stories and writing.

I can't think of a better venue to have such a discussion than Monroeville, the undisputed literary capital of Alabama. And yet, for the life of me I can't exactly figure out why this came to be.

There is something special about this little south Alabama town, something indefinable and unique. It's an intangible quality you can't quite put your finger on, like walking into a familiar room and feeling that something is out of place. A feeling that someone has been in this room before you and moved something--although you can't quite say what has been moved or where it has been moved to.

It is s a uniqueness certainly not readily observed in the landscape of the town itself.

Monroeville is the epitome of the small-town county seat. The state highway leads to the inevitable square, the courthouse prominent in the center of town. The structure is old and beautiful, but no more or less so than similar courthouses in other Alabama towns, like the Clay County courthouse in Ashland or the Macon County courthouse in Tuskegee. The small shops on the square surrounding the old edifice are probably a little more prosperous than in some of these other places, and there seems to be less vacancy and neglect than is the case elsewhere. You will find the requisite cafe, a Christian bookstore, and a coffee shop, along with a smattering of attorneys' offices and mom-and-pop variety stores. None appear wildly prosperous, but nothing is in a state of neglect or rank disrepair either.

The rest of the town could be any small town in Alabama. It is a characterless New South mix of old homes and new; a business district of struggling old shops fighting for survival against the evil empire that is Super Walmart. There are still a few substantial employers, like a business that manufactures concrete road barriers, and a nearby paper mill. But there is also noticeable vacancy and emptiness where jobs once existed, like the Vanity Fair plant that I assume has relocated to more southern climes across the Rio Grande. There are the inevitable fast food franchises and convenience stores, juxtaposed with a few local cafes and locally-owned motels (one of which appeared to have rooms that could be rented by the hour). Near the intersection of two state highways is more modern lodging, a couple of standard franchise hotels offering reasonable rates for the bone-weary traveler who might only stop there because he is too heavy-lidded to continue the journey. All-in-all, there is really nothing particularly remarkable in any way. Like most small southern towns, it is all a jumbled mix of old and new that has robbed away the uniqueness and charm, the kind of character that once separated one town from another.

Monroeville does have a modern and attractive community college. Still I am left to wonder what these young scholars will do upon graduation. With so little employment opportunity to allow them to stay home, I assume that most will leave to find their way in places like Mobile, Pensacola, Atlanta, or Birmingham. Perhaps a few with old family connections will join their fathers and grandfathers in some enterprise that will allow them to make a living in the place of their birth. Others with an entrepreneurial spirit and a little luck may be able to create a place for themselves without leaving--at least I'd like to think this is still possible in small-town Alabama.

None of this accounts for Monroeville's unchallenged position as the literary Mecca of Alabama. A place where pulpwood coexists with great-American novels--cows with great columns.

The number of great writers with connection to Monroeville is astonishing, like the number of great baseball players from the Dominican Republic. There is, of course, Harper Lee, whose To Kill a Mockingbird is required reading in most public schools in the U.S. as well as internationally. Once part-time resident Truman Capote, cousin of Miss Lee, was a man who could craft a sentence and turn a phrase as well as any American author. Others who spent time in Monroeville include legendary singer/songwriter Hank Williams; columnist and writer extraordinaire Rheta Grimsley Johnson; author Mark Childress; columnist Cynthia Tucker; and probably a few others that I am not well-read enough to recall.

So what is it about this place that has lead or contributed to such great writing? Writing is, after all, a very solitary and lonely pursuit. Almost any quiet place should do for the task at hand. The writer's real setting consists of a blank page (or these days, more likely a blank screen) and the overwhelming task of filling the empty spaces with something that he or she deems worthy of occupying the emptiness. It is snatching thoughts and feelings from the ether of the mind and somehow converting them into words and phrases that, hopefully, someone somewhere will want to read and appreciate.

Perhaps it's something in the water. The enterprising local community college has bottled the local water and is selling it under the brand name of "Inspiration." I wish I'd brought a few bottles home to Opelika. I need all the help I can get.