Many people — especially in this City of Literature — believe they have a book in them.
Usually their first excuse for not writing it is, “I’ll never get around to it.” The second is, “Who would publish it?”
The second excuse won’t wash, anymore. It has become amazingly easy and cheap to publish and market your own book.
I’m all too painfully sensible of the pathos and vainglory that must go into anyone’s decision to self-publish. When my first novel, “Willie Wilden,” came out in 2011, and I was asked, “Who’s publishing it?”
I got a vague understanding of how it must feel to be an exceedingly plain girl who’s never had a serious boyfriend, walking around with a big pregnant belly, having someone ask, “Who’s the lucky fella?” — and having to reply, “Uh … it’s complicated,” because you don’t want to admit that, being unable to attract a mate, you used frozen sperm.