The other day on Substack, Ross Barkan wrote a note about Ben Lerner and how he didn’t publish frequently and how that surprised him — how back in the good old days successful writers published a book every couple of years. And he’s right. People don’t seem to publish as often now. I was reminded of Lorrie  Moore, who went ten years between Birds of America and A Gate at the Stairs. I remember the good old days (the 90s) when Updike and Roth were publishing books so frequently that keeping up was a form of cardio. 

I realize that material conditions are different now. And I’ve read enough author interviews to know that Moore was likely raising a child by herself during that time period. The frequency of publishing is not really a judgment on that person’s character, but a desire to see that person more, read that person more. If you like their voice, you just want more of it. It sounds like judgment but it’s really just the greediness of admiration. 

There are a couple of current writers who publish frequently, Brandon Taylor and Lauren Groff and Barkan himself, and props to them. They are out there hustling. Then there are the semi-famous who have almost stopped writing books entirely. I am thinking of Michael Chabon, who has been working on TV stuff perhaps? But still. It’s been ten years since his last novel Moonglow. I realize that everyone’s conditions are different, man’s gotta eat, and television is a valid medium, all that, but still. There’s being stuck in development hell and there’s books being stuck on my shelf, and I know which I’d rather have.  

The list of people I wish would publish more frequently is legion. I won’t list them out of fear of being whiny and weird. (Batuman! Gates! Beatty! Wherefore art thou?)

Some people get so famous that any additional publishing dilutes the brand’s prestige. Example: Cheryl Strayed. But that’s marketing logic, not reader logic. Was I excited when Updike published Gertrude and Claudius later in life? Did I think it would help his brand? No and no. But I’m glad he was out there trying new stuff. The other night I caught Andre Agassi playing pickle ball on TV. Pickle Ball. On the one hand: what a pathetic attempt at garnering attention and prestige and money from a person past his prime. On the other hand: dude was covered in sweat, smacking that ball like a man who knew what he was doing, in the game. And I was on the barstool watching him. Turns out you don’t ever win the game. You just stay in the game. 

And the crowd goes wild.