According to family lore at least, my father wanted to buy a newspaper. After having been first a reporter and then Sunday Editor for many years at the old Boston Post, he would have liked to become owner of a daily or weekly outside the city.

For various reasons, it did not happen; in the last year of his life my father became editor-in-chief of the Post but he never closed a deal to become a publisher elsewhere.

Maybe the power of paternal genes accounts for my interest in publishing. How else can one explain what drove me, 16 years ago, to start a publication for my neighbors? Realists would call this rag a newsletter; however, with grandiose vision, I like to think of it as my very own newspaper.

Admittedly, it does not rival the New York Times, nor can it claim the scope of the paper you are reading now. Instead, my work features homey news provided, in large part, by neighbors themselves.

Known as The Howl, this publication takes its name from the 10-house Howland Street where I live. This name also echoes distantly the Beat poet Allen Ginsberg, whose epic “Howl” swept the country in 1955-1956. To me, the title suggests that  readers will cry out either with delight or horror, or a mixture of the two.   

The trouble with being sole proprietor of a publication, I have discovered, is the need to take on all the jobs oneself. To serve as editor, reporter, photographer, copy boy, printer and deliverer, among other roles, often proves burdensome. I have tried to lure neighbors into exercising some of these prestigious positions, but have found no takers so far.

But these same neighbors often contribute fine editorial material. Five-year-old Peter, for instance, sent us a three-line poem about a snail and adorned this verse with a fanciful drawing of several snails emerging from the grass.

And Jim, 40 years older than Peter, contributed a fascinating account of a vacation in Peru with his son. The accompanying photo of Machu Picchu was awesome.

I tell neighbors of my intention to dig up dirt about them, but this lighthearted threat serves only to push them to take the initiative with their news. Occasionally, professional writers among the neighbors have contributed to The Howl but, for the most part, we rely on amateurs.

And neighbors have been generous in sharing their expertise in desktop publishing. The most recent issue featured, for the first time, the capacity to deliver the paper by email. This enabled some readers to see photos in living color, an amenity that has added much to the pleasure of perusing The Howl.

If, in the pursuit of self-knowledge you crave experience of your fallibility, I strongly recommend starting your own publication. The effort to avoid mistakes entails constant and depressing struggle. Pain and embarrassment frequently result from what now seem to me inevitable slips.

In the October issue, I managed to confuse the name of my next-door neighbor─who is a good friend, and whom I have known for decades─with that of a television personality. She has, I think, forgiven me.

Another neighbor, though, wrote me a stinging letter denouncing me and all my works. She demanded, and received, the cancellation of her non-existent subscription.

Many years ago, a neighbor who is a highly successful realtor credited The Howl with increasing property values in our neighborhood. In fact, we have observed at least one other professional in the house-selling field providing a copy of the publication for his customers to peruse.

But this publisher’s purpose does not center on economic considerations. Instead, my driving force has always been to build neighborhood solidarity. Sharing news and experience among those who live in the same area strikes me as conducive to good relationships. It is one way of fostering cohesion in groups of people who differ from one another in many ways.

This purpose can make perhaps make The Howl seem like a paper that Don Quixote might have published. And, in pursuit of my idealistic goal, I am prepared to fight windmills, the way Cervantes’s hero did. However, I can supply some evidence that the main aspirations behind The Howl have found at least modest fulfillment.

I will soon be sending forth ethereal words (via email) announcing the annual holiday issue. If I can persuade the writer closest to my heart to compose her often-annual poetic tribute to neighbors, I will feel myself off to a top-flight start. Ideally, adult neighbors with literary ambitions will contribute stylish essays. And maybe local urchins will report with gusto on Halloween and other fall activities.

In any event, my dreams of exercising freedom of the press will continue to be fulfilled. Using the computer as a successor to Gutenberg’s printing press, I fantasize myself a publishing tycoon.

Surely, my father would have approved.

Richard Griffin