A Writer’s Bit of Shameless (or Shameful) Self-Promotion

I’ve just published the Deluxe Edition of my collection of short comic writings, titled Why Are You Telling Me This? The collection spans about forty years of my writing efforts, dating from just after my high school graduation, right up to the present. I refer to it as the Deluxe Edition because after publishing the original version in 2020, I followed-up with a second volume, titled Are You Still Here?

Now, however, both volumes are combined as one, retaining the title Why Are You Telling Me This? This isn’t the first time I’ve put my fictional flights of fancy to print— I’ve done so with three other works. Creating something and seeing it to completion, especially without outside interference, can be a satisfying process, but also an uphill trudge, especially when, upon completion, word needs to be spread that the new work indeed exists, even with no “real” publisher to provide back-up or publicity. Hence, this message today.

With the gift of 20/40 hindsight, it appears that I’ve wanted to be a writer since the age of eight or so. It was roughly around that time, while fending off peer pressure (from, of all people, my peers) to indulge in various hijinx involving fire crackers and ill-gotten candy bars, I began attempting to write stories that actually had a beginning, middle, and end. I never really wanted to do much of anything else as an occupation. And I don’t know why. Oh, sure, for a number of childhood years I wanted to be an astronomer, and for the next number of years I fantasized about filming wildlife documentaries on the savannahs of East Africa (Tsavo National Park in Kenya, to be precise).

Once those fever dreams broke, it was back to writing — especially writing that was meant to be funny. Again, I don’t know why. While still in elementary school, whenever a teacher would give the class a short writing assignment to undertake right then and there, I’d try to think of a something that would make her laugh — or at least smile — as she read it. Even as an eight or nine-year-old, this was very important to me. After handing in my story and returning to my desk, I’d watch her intently as she sat and read it. If my writing got a smile or chuckle out of her, I considered that a thrilling victory. I continued to write silly little stories and skits ever since, but I worked hard to get every word just right.

I had often thought of selecting what I considered to be my finest comic pieces to put into a…