I have been a book writer for more than three decades, for half of my life. I have written 25 books, the latest of which, “Talking To Animals” has been out for just a few weeks. I am working on the 26th book, “Lessons Of Bedlam Farm,” which will be published sometime in 2018.

I am proud being a book writer, it is the only thing I have wanted to be and I have loved almost every moment of it. It has introduced me to thousands of wonderful people, taken me all over the country, put me on TV, and even inspired a movie about my life. In a way, it brought me to Maria, the first words she ever spoke me were about the fact she had never read one of my books. It was a great conversation starter.

The last few days and weeks, I have been thinking about making “Lessons Of Bedlam Farm” my last book.

About concentrating my work on the blog and my photography, both things now the focal point of my creative life.

I am not thinking of retiring from anything, I do not wish to ever retire. Writers can keep on going until they drop, that’s my plan. I expect to die in my chair in my study, to collapse from my own protracted verbiage. And there are lots of classy, small and independent publishers I am interested in writing for.

I am loving writing this new book, it is natural for me, but I am also increasingly conscious of how much publishing has changed, how unrecognizable it is for  writers like me, from e-books to the Great Recession.

And of how natural and exciting and comfortable writing on my blog is for me, every single day.

I want to keep writing and keep taking my pictures.

But the new and corporate world of publishing is not really for me any longer, I fought hard against that idea, and have known this is true for some time.
But it is, I think,  time to give rebirth to my life, the blog has nearly four million visits a year and is still growing rapidly. I write on it every day and love every minute of that, it is timely,  no one can tell me what to do, I have no marketers to impress, and it has its own vibrant and attentive audience.

One day, I might even make real money out of my voluntary donations and payments, but at least the blog is mostly paying for itself.

Publishing has become a very different writing forum than when I first signed a contract.

There are hardly any book reviewers on newspapers and magazines any longer, the public reviews are exciting and revealing but also nastier and more erratic. Even the public radio interviewers focus mostly on TV personalities and movie stars now.

It is almost impossible to find an interviewer or online reviewer who actually wants to talk about the issues in the book, or who has read it.

It is nearly impossible to get any publicity either. Donald  Trump knows how to do it, I don’t.

The publishing world has gotten rid of most of its publicists, leaving it to writers themselves and social media to let people know if the book exists. So many writers have dropped out or fallen a way it is sad for me to see. There are fewer bookstores and fewer people coming out to hear writers talk and read.

I have worked hard at this, and been somewhat successful, but at heart, I am not a promoter or publicist or marketer.

I understand that I am one of the very lucky ones, I still have a commercial publisher that wants to publish me but more and more, I am wondering if it is time to move on. I don’t want my song to get old and worn.

And the truth is, I have no idea if my publisher wants me to stay on or just disappear. That is telling in itself.

I have not talked to my editor or any publicist in months, what was once a wonderfully collegial process  crammed with readings and interviews has become quiet and solitary, done exclusively by e-mails and text message.  I wouldn’t know these people if I ran into them on the street., and I always depended on them for inspiration and encouragement.

Now, it is mostly me and Maria.

Sometimes, my books feel like orphans, sailing out into the big cold world by themselves. This, I know well, is the reality for the vast majority of new and young writers today. But it never used to be my reality, and this is the challenge we all feel as we move on in life, and begin to be older.

I never feel that way about the blog.

Writing on the blog, I never feel irrelevant or empty or forgotten, or even older. Quite the opposite, we have the most vibrant and civil quarrels and arguments and discussions almost every day.

I am right in sync with my readers, I know who they are and they know who I am. There is a lot of crackle and pop, and blog writing fits my own head and chaotic, ADD style. The farm journal is my voice, my medium.

I love being a writer in any form, but I love the vibrancy and challenge of the interactive world.

The Army of Good, something that is unimaginable and impractical to explore in a book, has been a wonderful inspiration and experience for me, and we have just started marching. I want to work with elderly people in assisted care facilities, and I want to work with refugees and immigrants, desperately in need of advocates and support.

Odd, but this is not the end of my time, it’s the beginning.

My writing hero was John Updike, and while I do not claim to write like him, I do admire  him and the way he approached his writing life. He wrote eloquently about the moment when he knew he was not vital and essential to his readers any longer, he noticed that his books weren’t getting the attention they once did, that fewer people came to his readings, and fewer books in his stories.

Like Updike, I don’t want to brood about my place in the world. When is is time, I want to be the one who sees it. I don’t wish to regret my life, or ever speak poorly of it.

Ever since my long-time editor was laid off and discarded by my former publisher, I have seem some of these things begin to happen to me and my books. Even the nastiness on Amazon and other places seems ritualistic and tired to me, the same thing again and again, to no afffect and without much thought.

It makes me weary.

For all of my life, I have loved my work, and next to Maria, that is the most precious thing for me.

I have no laments or complaints to make, publishing has been wonderful to me, it’s given me a life I could not have imagined. But I don’t want to stay anyplace beyond my time, and while people I care about suggest it is not my time, I am beginning to get the feeling that time is near.

I’ve said this during the publication of the last several books of mine, as publishing changed and moved inexorably away from the kind of writer I am and the kind of environment I am comfortable working in. I might well get over it, but I might not. Life does require us to give birth and rebirth to ourselves, again and again. I accept that call.

I don’t ever want to work only for money, or only out of habit. It has to be much deeper than that.

I am ready for it. I am far from over. In so many ways, I am just waking up.

Tonight, I’m off to Oblong Books in Rhineback, N.Y. for a talk and a reading. I am excited to be going to that beautiful bookstore, and I look forward to it.