https://www.oxfordamerican.org/magazine/item/1438-my-secret-sharer

And Eudora was not EUDORA WELTY when she started out. She probably never felt like EUDORA with the Southern literary crown on her head. She was a Jackson girl traveling through the South alone, taking pictures of strangers while writing for the WPA during the Great Depression. She was an unmarried writer in a time when my grandfather was just one of many Southern men who would never read a book by a woman. But I cannot find a place in her writing where she complains. I cannot find an instance where she was unkind. I can only find her attesting again and again that she has a life full of love, despite being deeply different. She must—sometimes—have felt an outsider in her world, in her family, in her neighborhood, or—worst of all—to herself. We all do. But I cannot find record of her faith buckling. She speaks only of knowing love well, pressing on, the power of words and the surprise of beauty. To invent sentences, she did not need to fill her life with drama or spectacle. She was not at work making a wreck of her personal life. She just pursued the heart of things, those small experiences resonating with a larger truth. Being an artist was not permission to think less of other people; she loved the world she chased with words, and—it seems to me—had the feeling that she belonged there.