Buy my book. Or, steal it. Your call.

If you are a normal human, you are looking for ways to be immortal.

You paint paintings. You sing songs. You build buildings.

Some people run for high public office; they figure they’ll be remembered that way. Same with people who become soldiers, or athletes, or priests or rabbis or ministers, or teachers, or whatever. If they’re any good at it, they’ll be remembered for a while. Maybe a long while.

Lots of ordinary people have kids. That’s one sure-fire way to be kind-of immortal. Even if you don’t cure the common cold, Junior might.

Me, like my colleagues, I write stuff. Some of it is meh, some of it is okay, some I wish I could go back in time and throw my typewriter in the lake.  (Then: jump in after the typewriter.)

Presently, I’m flogging a book containing my writing. It’s got 334 pages, a spiffy cover design, and it’s been put out by the nice folks at Penguin Random House. It’s selling okay.

I liked what Edna St. Vincent Millay said about putting out a book. “A person who publishes a book willfully appears before the populace with his pants down,” said Edna, who wrote some pretty good ones. “If it is a good book, nothing can hurt him. If it is a bad book, nothing can help him.”

It’s early days, so I don’t know if people think they book is good or bad. I’ll find out soon enough, I guess.  The pants are down, Canada.

I’ve typed out some other books over the years. Some sold, some didn’t. Some were not-bad, I reckoned, but nobody else seemed to think that. Some were not very good, I thought, but they sold. Go figure.

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