Rather than give up a love affair with words, old writers, with decades of footprints in the book trade, simply change genres, refurbish stories, and stay delightfully crazy.

My falling in love with storytelling happened at nap time in my grandmother’s bed. It was some time in the year of 1949. She fell asleep in the midst of reading a story. I did not, and poked her with my elbow to get her voice going again, a voice honed on decades of reading the Bible aloud, with its old-world rhythms. Since my grandmother seemed to worry that I would be the first female in our family to go to prison, she dropped me off each Sunday in her church’s Children’s Class. There, I heard Bible stories that were older even than my grandmother, a realization that led me to my first profound thought: if stories could last so long, they must be something we need. Like air, food and water—or a good purse.

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