About a quarter century ago, I held in my hands—for the first time—a published book, that I had written.
I’d done small pieces for magazines, and other people’s books, and edited, and illustrated some forty-odd textbooks plus three children’s books—but not one single written-by-me book. I’ve recounted, here, a little about that first book and how it got me started down the path of wanton book-creating—an addiction that continues, unabated, to this day
There’s no need to go into that again. Instead, let’s talk about a small revelation I had when I held that copy of The Resource Guide for Foodwriters.
It listed all kinds of places where foodwriters could get the kind of information they needed. The entire middle section of the book listed electronic sources. There were bulletin boards, search engines, and websites—but no blogs (the very first blog I encountered was Julie & Julia). It didn’t exist when I was writing the book, first appearing during the interval between the manuscript’s submission and its publication.
Perhaps “revelation” is not the right word. “Unwanted understanding” is more apt. Most of the electronic sources were soon to be obsolete; some, I feared, already were by the time the book came out. Bulletin boards were already disappearing, and most of the search engines were quickly being replaced by Google.
I realized that, if the book had any chance of remaining even vaguely relevant, it would need constant updating—preferably via something faster than traditional publishing could manage. I began by sending out a newsletter of updates, via e-mail, that listed new sites—and corrected the URLs of sites when they relocated from place-to-virtual-place. I hoped to send them out at roughly one-month intervals.
So far, it has worked. Last month I posted issue number 276.
They no longer go out via e-mail; technologies have evolved in the past quarter century. When I started doing them, podcasts and social media hadn’t even been invented. In addition to reaching out to people through sites like Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter (X), and GoodReads, I maintain a website (On the Table), a blog (Just Served), and the descendants of that newsletter (Food SitesUpdates), which are archived on the website.
And now, of course, there are these substack pages. Like them, the updates are free to anyone who wants to subscribe (there’s a sign-up link for them in the left-hand column of the website’s opening page).
The updates were originally intended only to be a service for foodwriters (and they still do that), but the demarcation between foodwriter, food scholar, food lover, and intelligent glutton is not at all distinct. I have many subscribers who are not interested in writing about food.
Yet.
Perhaps some of them will, someday, become foodwriters. Who knows?
What I do know is that all of these forms of communication have led to the creation of a network of like-minded individuals, around the world. Every day, they aid and inspire (enable, in the bad habit sense) me to go on doing the thing I love most: creating more books. Since that first one, a quarter-century ago, I have written, edited, illustrated, collaborated on, and contributed to, some fifty-or-sixty-odd books (not counting all those textbooks). Most have been conventionally-published, but I’ve also self-published a dozen-or-so titles.
Our house is literally, and literarily, filled with books and—so far—my own books constitute only a small portion of those prodigious piles of printed matter. I count myself fortunate that I never received contributor’s copies of all of the textbooks I illustrated, way back when. It’s bad enough that there’s a flat file, in the attic, jammed with hundreds of original illustrations.
Paper, in several forms, constantly re-enacts that famous scene from The Sorceror’s Apprentice.
More blather about books and bookishness (excerpted from The Digressions of Dr Sanscravat: Gastronomical Ramblings & Other Diversions) follows, anon:
Books and the Writing Life
Editor’s Note: As one might expect of a man whose notion of a social life is anything that exists primarily in print, Sanscravat discusses books as a better-adjusted person might write about friends and family.
Sadly, one would be right.
“Why All the Books?”
Every once in a while, someone walks into my house and asks that very question. Every time, the question leaves me feeling completely befuddled. Not why the books; why the question. What kind of person even thinks to ask such a thing?
You know, I once lived in a place that had a wall of books, floor to ceiling, directly inside the front door. One day a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses—primly-zippered bibles in hand, too-plain suits hanging stiffly from their too-straight backs—came a knockin’ at the gates of Chez Sanscravat.
Once opened, all they could see were books. Thousands of books. Books as far as they could see.
Hardcover books.
Multi-volume sets of books.
Books that looked heavy; books that were heavy.
Books that looked read. Maybe more than once.
They looked at each other for a longish moment, then walked away without saying a single word about The Word.
Or anything else, for that matter.
Maybe they realized that I already possessed more than enough words, and they recognized all the hallmarks of a long hard sell. At that moment, I experienced a kind of epiphany, ‘though very different from the one they had in mind.
Maybe the next time someone asks “Why all the books?” I’ll know the answer: “To discourage those missionaries I choose not to eat.”
—
I did have a couple of these guys approach my door another time, at another house. After engaging them in conversation about scripture (about which I seemed to know more than they did) for ten minutes or so—pointing out anachronistic, scientific, and historical inaccuracies, while praising the literary qualities of The King James Version over their milk-toast translation—they slunk away. Had they possessed the tails they probably suspected me of having, said appendages would have been tucked firmly between their legs.
Paid subscribers get access to complete editions of two of my novellas. Noirvella is a modern story of revenge, told in the style of film noir. Unbelievable is a kind of rom-com that forms around a pompous guy who is conceited, misinformed, and undeservedly successful. Both books are sold by Amazon, but paid subscribers get them for free!
Also, substack pages (older than eight months) automatically slip behind a paywall—so only paid subscribers can read them. If you’re interested in reading any of them, you can subscribe, or wait until they are re-released in book form (something I’m in the process of considering).
Meanwhile, it is easy to become a paying subscriber (just like supporting your favorite NPR station). It’s entirely optional, and—even if you choose not to do so—you’ll still get my regular substack posts—and I’ll still be happy to have you as a reader.
Dr Sanscravat. When I don't wear ties, it's only one at a time that I'm not wearing.
& thanks, BTW...
Always such a delight to read you on just about anything, Dr. Sanscravats.