“We call that ‘flyover land,’” were the words said to me at the Squaw Valley’s writer’s conference a couple of years ago. This was how one writer described the land between her LA hometown and New York City. I was silently aghast at her words, especially so when a New York writer nodded his head in agreement, and the two of them shared a smug look.

My first thought was, “And we call you ‘gator bait.’” And I said to myself—well, I won’t repeat what I really said to myself, but here’s the softer and kinder version—“Now, that’s rude, especially since you’ve never been published anywhere.”

And what I said to her was, “Wow! I thought Faulkner, Twain, and Harper Lee penned some really great seminal works, but I guess you wouldn’t bother yourself with a layover in their hometown?”

Too bad for them. They’ve missed the New Orleans of Tennessee Williams (“Stella!!!”). They passed up an opportunity to walk among bones scattered in the desert between the US and Mexico where Cormac McCarthy took his inspiration. They’ve missed the vibrant multicultural community that flourishes in Austin. They failed to walk under the shade of the very same and magnificent oak trees of Oxford where Faulkner made his rounds. Too bad.

I’ve been gone for a few years and have come home to a highly-charged art community in Shreveport. Everywhere I look I see roll-up-your-sleeves hard work by people to fan the flames of a building bonfire of creativity.

The Louisiana Film Prize and the Louisiana Music Prize are two great examples of artistic endeavors that serve to put our twin cities on the map. Moonbot Studios has won an Academy Award. Our nascent permaculture movement is an admirable eco-conservation initiative. I could continue this list here and for other cities.

I look back on those conversations and come away with sorrow for people holding such haughty attitudes. They slight only themselves.

By: The Old White Guy (otherwise known as Mike Sledge)