Revision
Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass began as a slim volume, full of promise (as Emerson noted in a famous letter to the young poet). Of course, Whitman did not remain a young poet—nor did Leaves of Grass remain a slim volume. Over the rest of his life, Whitman kept adding poems until it became one of the most important (and heftiest) books of American poetry.
There’s an old joke about writers who keep tampering with their work, endlessly editing, in effect making that one work their ONLY work. It used to be that, once a book was published (at least if it’s not Leaves of Grass) it was done.
For good or evil.
Finished.
Out there.
Time to move on to the next thing.
Nowadays, self-publishing—with print-on-demand technologies—allows an author to go back and tweak that one book ad infinitum. This afternoon, for example, I picked up a copy of one of my little books (The Long & Short of It: A Miscellany) and was not happy with its typography. There was too much space between the lines, making it look childish.
More childish than intended.
Once I corrected that problem, the book was even more insubstantial than it had been before. The logical solution was to add more of what is known in the trade as “content.” Some of that added “content” is shown below. Within a couple of days, the new expanded edition of The Long & Short of It will be available in paperback. I suspect the Kindle version is already on the market.
On Turning Seventy
Turning seventy is treated as some kind of accomplishment, even a notable achievement. Perhaps it is, of sorts—but only in a negative sense. It means that, for a very long time, mismanagement of my affairs and fairly continuous application of bad judgment have failed to put a stop to whatever it is I do on this planet.
I’m generally uncomfortable when receiving compliments, as they carry the burden of reciprocation. This is awkward, since—in general—neither I nor the other person are deserving of any particular praise. I’m especially uneasy when I know for a fact that the encomia are unearned. Acknowledgment of intelligence is as unsettling (aside from being utterly mistaken) as being noted for height or eye color. Not one of these qualities is the result of any effort on anyone’s part.
Being feted for accumulating seven decades of existence is much the same. So, now that the big day is upon me, I feel only the urge to hide.
What, after all, have I accomplished? A largish number of days have passed, without the slightest bit of help from me. Roughly twice as many as Mozart or Jesus accrued, who—by any reasonable measure—accomplished somewhat more than have I.
An overabundance of days should not, in itself, be cause for celebration. All those days represent is a number of complete circuits around a rather ordinary star, a star notable only for its nearness to relatively insignificant planet. Those solar circumambulations—purely by an accident of evolution—seem noteworthy to us because we imagine they have some numerical significance. However, that significance is utterly arbitrary. No number, by itself, means anything—and the fact that one is an even multiple of ten (a number that gives the impression of being meaningful only because we have ten fingers, making it easier for counting than some other number) is an anthropocentric illusion.
If turning seventy signifies anything at all, it is that it’s occasionally possible for one to acquire a degree of perspective (perspective that would have been more beneficial—and saved everyone from a lot of embarrassment—if developed much earlier).
Paid subscribers to these substack pages 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 continue to get my regular substack posts—and I’ll still be happy to have you as a reader.