Sometimes I wonder if truly exist anything like a healthy writer. You know, a truly vegan with a long list of forbidden foods and immaculate ruts, including 365 days of sobriety and no smoking. Reading The Trip to Echo Spring, I have plunged again into Scott Fitzgerald’s legendary genius fueled entirely by alcohol of all kinds and chain-smoking. And Tennessee Williams, John Cheever, Raymond Carver, John Berryman, Ernest Hemingway… Even so, the author of this enjoyable book missed out my dear Bill Faulkner. How dare she! In all that egregious list of red noses and matinee coughers, how can she forget that pairing of mint-julep and a pipe?