I didn’t have a published book until I was 53. Since then, my work’s appeared in over forty books—all non-fiction and mostly about food history. Despite knowing that no one would ever consider me to be a “real writer” until I did something more respectably “literary,” I never wrote fiction.
Then, about five years ago—while recuperating from back surgery—I had an idea for a novel. My wife assumed that the foolish notion would pass when my prescription for pain medications ran out.
Since then I’ve been writing—and self-publishing—essays, fiction and poetry, non-stop. Seven or eight books—in paperback and Kindle editions, with matching covers. Several more are in the works.
As a literary figure, I’m a seventy-five-year-old infant.
And, like most infants, I’m screaming for attention. Substack might become my voice for a while. It will allow me to share bits and pieces of my non-food-history writing, maybe even works-in-progress. Who knows? Your feedback might even prevent me from publishing the literary equivalent of a soiled diaper—or, at least, not making a complete ass of myself.
Though, considering my history, it seems unlikely.
BTW, Nancy Harmon Jenkins recently coined a new bit of initialism: ATRIH (“And The Rest Is History”). I’m stealing it—and might even use it as a subtitle for this Substack newsletter. There is no honor among thieves, or writers.