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has been writing for 33 years, without
selling a word to New York or Hollywood,
winning a grant, a writer-in-residence
position, or a literary prize.
He is working on a 40-year roman-
feuilleton, or saga-novel, that is too
large for small presses to publish and
too outspoken, freewheeling, and vulgar
for the mainstream commercial houses.
A vernacular writer, he calls himself.
In the sense self-taught. But also in
the sense ambassador-in-bonds.
He shoots his leaflets into the void and
presses on to Boulogne, like Tristram
Shandy. His stack now stands at 258
volumes, 259 roaring in his veins like a
camphor injection. The stopped-up toilet
of American letters, fixing to erupt,
like the Wakulla Volcano, or an
explosion in a charnel house.
He calls his coterie of steadfast
readers the Buzzard Cult, after the
Southeastern Ceremonial Complex, a
revitalization movement that swept the
Lower Mississippi Valley just before and
after European contact, and calls
himself the salvage archeologist of the
Mall Builder culture.
America’s greatest living unpublished,
or underpublished writer, perhaps the
greatest unpublished, or underpublished
American writer ever.
www.thedailybulletin.com
saunderj@bellsouth.net
