My grandfather was an oral storyteller. He never penned any of his stories. As a child, I would sit on his knee while he spun his yarns. Actually, he had only one storyline; a little boy didn’t obey his mother and/or father and ended up stung by a bee. The setting and ending varied each telling.
When I grew old enough to put thoughts into a story, I attempted to carry on the oral storytelling tradition. But then I took it a step further and penned my stories.
My grandfather passed away when I was seven. He was eighty-eight. He never had the chance to read any of my stories; but I know if he were still alive, he would be one of my biggest fans.
The interviewer asked me if I have any plans of committing at least one version of my grandfather’s story to paper. And you know what? I certainly might. I believe he would approve.