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I just arrived in Monroe, North Carolina, my childhood home. Sitting at the dining room table of my father’s old farm house, a place where I spent many meals reading the book in my lap while we ate our meals, it seems a bit surreal to think of myself as a writer. Maybe it’ll take a few more books before I can. For now, I’m still just a book nut who managed to cobble a few of his own words together. Tomorrow morning I’ll be on the local radio station…