“Incunks – crazed academics and collectors who want nothing more than to obtain a dead writer’s every last piece of prose and memorabilia – their incunabula.”

Steven King used this word in his 2006 novel Lisey’s Story to describe the villains presumably trying to steal unpublished manuscripts from a dead novelist’s wife.  I stumbled across this slightly unsettling terminology in a much more serious article about the moral and ethical uncertainties surrounding the trend of publishing authors’ work posthumously.

The practice of publishing pieces after the writer has kicked the bucket dates all the way back to the times of Machiavelli. I sort of knew this without actually knowing it (if that makes any sense,) but many works by big names like Kerouac, Wallace, Dickinson, Hemingway and Plath only exist because someone living decided to publish their work for them. And many times, this happened against the author’s will.

Personally, I would have a coronary if someone tried to publish something I wrote before I felt the piece was at its best. I mean, thankfully these authors’ belligerent family and friends went ahead and published their work anyway, we’d be missing out on some awesome literature. But I’m pretty sure there’s something inherently WRONG with that.

SO

Dear famous authors,

Make me the executor of your will, I won’t publish your work. Cross my heart.