Yesterday I read of the death of a US author named Henry Bernstein who was first published at the age of 93. I was going to comment that I might get published yet, but I've no intention of writing anything, so why pretend.
It's a little like my missus talking of what she would do with a big lottery win in spite of not participating in "the tax on stupidity" (Adam Smith?).
Thinking about the whole business of authorship and publication brought to mind an occasion when I was called on to be a literary midwife (so to speak).

A mate of mine of a criminal bent, in and out of prison for various acts of dishonesty, turned up at my gaff one day with a sheaf of grubby notepaper and a biro. "Me and you's gonna write a play" he declared.
"What are you on about?" was my first question.
Well, I've just seen in the paper about this jam duff who got murdered by his boyfriend. He'd written a play, and it said it was making so much money he wouldn't have to do a stroke for the rest of his life."
He was referring to the recent murder of the playwright Joe Orton, murdered by his lover who then committed suicide. "Jam duff" was my mate's term for a homosexual, rhyming slang that only works for Northerners.
"What are you going to write about?" I asked.
"Oh, I've got plenty of ideas. I just need you to do the spelling and put in the full stops and stuff like that."
He outlined one story, a revenge yarn, a sort of "Count of Monte Cristo" in a modern setting. He jawed on for what seemed like hours without writing a single word. Then, thinking of something else he had to do, he gathered up his writing materials and left.
I didn't see him again for a few months. When I ran into him I asked him how the play was going. The desire for literary fame and fortune had not lasted. Nothing had made it to paper. Another moneymaking scheme had been conceived, far less honest than play writing. Was I interested in joining him in its operation. I was not.

Another time I met him in a pub with his wife. He'd just come out of prison. "Show him that poem I wrote to you while I was in there" he said to the missus. She pulled out a letter and handed it to me. The poem began as expected.
I love you X I really do.
You know I always will be true.
That kind of thing for about six lines, then it turned very literary, obviously written by a real poet.
"Get out of it", I said, "you didn't write that." His wife couldn't hear, of course.
"I copied it out of a book in the prison library" he admitted. "Good though, innit."