This is a help-wanted ad. The help I want is a partner to bring my words to the world.

            I never wrote for money or glory, but to make friends. I got into the habit as a boy who spent most of his time alone.

            This little quatrain served as epigraph for my first book of poems:

            The friends I sought lived in future time. So had Thoreau made a friend of me a hundred and twenty years after he scribbled. Many friends or a few made no difference, only that there be one, glancing at my page, nodding, even smiling. Most makers of art, I suspect, feel this way. What use beauty except for another’s delight?

            Over fifty-plus years I’ve published a lot – maybe six million words – and composed maybe double that. And my rate is accelerating, not slowing, as I near my finish line. I consider such loquacity insane, it’s too much, but such is my nature, I can’t help it. For the last decade, you bear part of the blame for this superabundance. Expecting me each dawn has kept my engines revving.

            The quantity of my readers never concerned me, only their quality. I thought of my congregation as a secret coterie, who believed in truth, justice, grace, humor, humility, beauty, and enjoyed the written word. Readers so smart and good demanded my all and then some. No garrulity or gimcrack if I could help it. The deteriorating timbre of our times made civilized interludes more welcome.

            All was – and is – well. Only with the advance of time, I begin to hear footsteps nearing. What if – not if, when – I kicked? My poor kids, faced with this mountain of mouthing! They could burn it all in a convenient fire – or bury it in a forgotten bin – I’d never know – only they’re way nicer than that. I could discard the lot myself, only I didn’t feel like it. There was gold in them thar hills, I believed – maybe not a lode, but some.

            I’d published one normal book and a plump collection and several smaller books, of which I’m unduly proud, but this was just an inkling of my ink. How might I arrange and offer my words, past, present, and future, to friends present and prospective, and spare my kids the ordeal of sorting my remains?

            My move from Mailchimp to the Substack platform was prompted by these concerns. Substack was built as a machine for writers to reach readers. Also, as a way for writers to make a living. Whatever money we earn on Substack I mean to reinvest in reaching out to new friends.

            How many friends? I’ve no notion. Do my present readers constitute most of those who might enjoy my words or a tiny fraction? Might our companionable coterie swell into a force for sanity, decency, civility in this rancorous hour?

            Here’s where I need help. My dream is a partner who’d relish the mission, who has the energy, interest, and time to devote to this attempt. No expertise required: Substack writers indefatigably advise one another. Spectacular Substack success stories inspire. Might we win big here – who knows? I’m curious to find out.

            This is a paying gig. If we start making money, it might pay generously. I’d do it myself if I had a second life. The right person could be youngster or oldster and reside anywhere. All thoughts welcome at [email protected]. Bless you for reading.