
Some days, it feels like we’re living inside a Southern novel. Not the kind with porch swings and sweet tea, but the darker kind, where power and corruption hides in plain sight, and self-preservation outweighs public service.
The longer I write about Rocky Mount, the clearer it becomes. We are not just observers in this story. We are the characters. And what is happening here would sound far-fetched in fiction, except it is all true.
If All the King’s Men by Robert Penn Warren taught us anything, it is that small town politics can turn insular, transactional, and dangerous, especially when power is left unchecked.

Warren understood that corruption does not need chaos to thrive. It only needs time, silence, and the gradual erosion of accountability. He wrote about the messiness of choices, about how ambition cloaked in good intentions can turn a town inward, loyalty into currency, and truth into something negotiable. His story was fiction. Ours is not.
There is a cost when institutions are curated to serve the few, not the many. There is a cost when neighborhoods are left behind so influence can be stockpiled elsewhere.
And there is a cost when communities stop asking hard questions because they already know the answers, and are afraid to say them out loud.
This is not about drama. This is about reality. This is about truth-telling. And in Rocky Mount, the pages are still being written.

Great book choices.
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