Who's Counting?

Last week, a newspaper reporter asked me a series of questions about my writing. One was: how many books have you written?

I had to point out to the journalist that he probably meant to ask: How many books have you had published? He seemed, initially, taken aback by my correction . . . but the distinction is an important one.

After all, the writing of books and the publishing of books are two very different things. If he truly were asking about writing books, well, then, great-god-of-macaroni, I've lost track of that number. I'm sure it would be approaching 100 by now. I've written at least a dozen novels (all of them suck, and that's why they've never been published), at least twenty children's books (mostly for my kids, and even my children didn't like them) and dozens of other books that, if I were able to assemble the accumulation of my essays, short stories, memoirs and poems and divide them into publishable collections, would probably fill a narrow shelf.

Looking back on my accumulation of written material, I often wonder what I could find in my archives that would be worth salvaging. But I have so many new ideas it's tough to "go home", as they say. The past is the past. And I'm a much better writer now than I was when I was thirty. Or, at least editors are willing to trust me now with their precious gems and they seem far more willing to talk to me now that I am old and gray.

It is most commonly accepted that the most prolific writer in American history (the world?) was Isaac Asimov, whom most people believe was a writer of science fiction. However, Asimov wrote hundreds of books in his lifetime. His titles ranged from hard science to science fiction, yes . . . but he also wrote books on history, education, literature, and even the Bible. He also edited an astounding number of books, too. He's one of my heroes. Asimov rarely traveled but a few miles beyond his New York flat, and all he did was write. All day. Every day. Week after week. Year after year.

I should be so lucky. I guess.