Hemingway said he wrote hardback books for money.
Bukowski wrote trade paperbacks. He was a poet.
He had to write a novel to get anywhere. Post Office.
Charles Willeford wrote paperback originals. He finally
broke down and wrote a police procedural. A series with
a hero and a cast of ensemble characters. A black boss,
an Hispanic female partner, a peckerwood for an ex-partner
who took a promotion to liaise between working detectives and
the front office. Better him than Hoke Moseley. Better Willeford
than me. I write a roman-feuilleton, or saga novel, which I post to
the Internet every day, and give away, free. I also give away
self-published pamphlets. That's about it. It is not rational
behavior. My economic model is the Kula ring. Round-aboutness.
Think exchange theory. Claude Lévi-Strauss. Economics is the exchange
of goods and services, linguistics is the exchange of messages, kinship is
the exchange of women. I dream of a world in which one might
keep to himself. I write to get the word right on the page.
Fuck it. Let other people worry about the business end.
My audience, my platform. My Wales, my sow.
Dylan Thomas at MacSorley's.
Nuala O'Faolain fucked Leslie Fiedler
because that is how the patronage was handed out.