- A.J.Covington: Don't waste your life searching for the one big story you were born to write. Write the little stories. Who knows, the sum total of them might be the big one. Write about Walton's Mountain, your feelings about your family and this place, just the way you've been doing. Write about how it is to be young and confused and poor, groping, but supported by a strong father and a loving mother, surrounded by brothers and sisters that pester and irritate you, but care about you. Try to capture that in words, John-Boy. That's as big a challenge as the Klondike or the white whale or flying the Atlantic Ocean alone. It was too big for me, but I think you just might be up to it.
- Olivia Walton: [Jim Bob says he doesn't feel well] His forehead feels clammy. I wonder what it is.
- 'Grandma' Esther Walton: Well, it's too late for spring fever and too early for summer doldrums. I'll brew him some tea.
- Narrator: [narration as John 'John Boy' Walton, Jr. reading from his journal] Growing up on Waltons Mountain in those Depression years when times were lean and money was scarce I learned early that hard work was a central fact of life and a key to survival. I wasn't afraid of work but, above everything else, I wanted to be a writer. Gripping a book, reading and re-reading the wonderfully colored sentences... this was as close as I could get to another writer; until, one afternoon, I met someone who showed me the way I must take to be a literary man.
- 'Grandma' Esther Walton: I'll tell you something you already know...
- The Grandfather: That's her specialty.
- John-Boy Walton: Piecing out a story in your mind?
- A.J.Covington: Yeah.
- John-Boy Walton: Well, if you'd like to talk it out loud, there's nothing I'd rather do than listen.
- A.J.Covington: That's what I've done with all my stories, John-Boy. Talked them all away instead of putting them down on paper.
- John-Boy Walton: What do you mean?
- A.J.Covington: I've yarned my yarns at boarding house tables, in saloons, hotel lobbies, street corners; just about any place I could get anybody to listen. Then when I sat myself down alone, in front of a blank piece of paper I -- it was all gone. I was drained. I'd talked it all away, so I couldn't write.
- John-Boy Walton: But didn't Melville and London do the same thing?
- A.J.Covington: What they saw and felt, they sat down without asking themselves if it was the story. As long as it was a story, that was good enough.