by David Dudley
BROWNINGTON — Ten years ago, Ralph Swett made a promise to himself. The self-proclaimed farmer, father, Native American, businessman, and damn hard-working Orleans native, decided to write his autobiography.
At 88 years young, as he likes to say, he spends more time tending his health than anything else. But Mr. Swett is no stranger to struggle. He built at least three thriving enterprises while balancing the burdens life has in store for us all, so why should he slow down in retirement?
Still, in a time of information glut, one wonders why write a book at all? Authors who want to be read have to engineer a media stunt to get noticed, and Mr. Swett is hesitant to reveal the messy details of life that get others noticed. Even then, for a man interested in earning a living, there’s not much money in publishing. And, as the traditional wisdom goes, writing is fun for no one, and even less so for writers. So, why write an autobiography?
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