William Humphrey started writing as a teenager but wisely waited a few decades before letting anyone read a word of it. After a doomed stint in Hollywood—where he discovered success required 17‑hour days and a high tolerance for editors—he earned the rare distinction of being a failed screenwriter, an unpublished novelist (still), and a sellout Hollywood magazine editor, all before lunch.
At fifteen he tried to fly a small plane in Alaska and to befriend Eskimos. both unsuccessfully then he washed up in Northern California helping his sister raise seven children, using them as a long‑term social experiment. The results were mixed but respectable: they all survived, earned scholarships, some escaped to college or earned other high successes, perhaps by way of rejecting his example.
Later he attempted grown‑up respectability as a cabinetmaker and shipwright, then wandered into life as a marine surveyor, ship’s agent (which he still hasn’t escaped), and innkeeper. Along the way he quietly kept writing stories about people who make questionable choices (based on his own example) in interesting places—and finally stopped waiting to let someone else read them and has lived in the rainforest of Puerto Rico for the past forty-five years.