The platitudes pinned to John Gould run the gamut from witty to one of America’s best authors to, perhaps the most apt, curmudgeon. He was all of these things, but most of all, he was a darned good writer. Mr. Gould, who died Sunday in Portland at the age of 94, wrote more than 30 books and thousands of newspaper columns. His column in The Christian Science Monitor first appeared in October 1942. Sixty years later, he was still entertaining readers with tales of folksy characters and outdoor adventures.

For all the praise he won from readers, politicians (former Gov. Angus King declared Aug. 17 as John Gould Day) and fellow writers (he was Stephen King’s first editor), Mr. Gould was characteristically self-effacing about his gift. “I don’t think writing is an art. I think it’s a trade,” he said last October when he celebrated his 94th birthday and 70th wedding anniversary. “It’s a job. I’ve always said it beats working.”

It’s a job Mr. Gould did remarkably well and prolifically. His last book, “Tales From Rhapsody Home: Or What They Don’t Tell You About Senior Living,” was Mr. Gould at his cantankerous best. Stuck at a fictionally named assisted-living facility where the windows wouldn’t open and the food was awful, Mr. Gould refused to leave his sense of humor behind. Mr. Gould’s complaint about the windows being sealed shut paid off when a window that opened was installed months later. Problem was that the wind howling through the window kept him up at night.

If there was one thing Mr. Gould couldn’t stand, it was being labeled a regional writer. His appeal, he argued by way of letters from fans as far away as California, spread far beyond Maine’s borders. As he rightly pointed out, if something is well-written it will appeal to everybody.

With their unpredictable twists and turns, his stories about clever Mainers held up well here, but they also made people chortle in Minnesota and Malibu. That sure beats working.