The Homesteader: A Novel

by Oscar Micheaux

Of course they were not aware of his limited knowledge of the art of composition. To them, a patriotic, boosting people—despite the ravages of drought which had swept the country, this was a new kind of boost,—a subtle method of advertising the country. So everybody began looking for the appearance of his story in all the leading magazines. The fact helped the newsdealers considerably. But to return to Jean Baptiste and the story he was writing.

The friend was baffled when he saw so many tablets and such writing. He pretended to be too busy, at the time to consider it, and sent him to another. But it was a long time before he found any one who was willing to attempt to rearrange his scribbled thoughts. But a lawyer who needed the wherewithal finally condescended to risk the task, and into it he plunged. He staggered along with much difficulty and managed to complete half of it by Christmas. The remainder was corrected by a woman who proved even more efficient than the lawyer, notwithstanding the fact that she was not as well trained. Besides, Jean Baptiste was of quick wit, and he soon saw where he was most largely in error, so he was very helpful in reconstructing the plot, and early in the next year, he had some sort of story to send the rounds of the publishers.

And here was the next great problem. He had, while writing, and before, read of the difficulties in getting a manuscript accepted for publication. But, like most writers in putting forth their first literary efforts, he was of the opinion that what he had written was so different from the usual line of literature offered the publishers, that it must therefore receive preference over all.

So with its completion, he wrapped it carefully, and sent it to a Chicago publisher, while he sighed with relief.

It seemed a long time before he heard from it, but in a few days he received a letter, stating that his manuscript had been received, and would be carefully examined, and also thanking him for sending it to them.

Well, that sounded very encouraging, he thought, so he took hope anew that it would be accepted.

In the meantime he was questioned daily as to when and where it would appear. He was mentioned in the local newspapers, and much speculation was the issue. Many inquired if he had featured them in the story, and were cheered if he said that he had, while others showed their disappointment when advised that they had not been mentioned. But with one and all, there was shown him deep appreciation of his literary effort.

So anxious did he become to receive their "decision" that as the days passed and he waited patiently, he finally went to town to board until he could receive a reply. And as time passed, he became more and more nervous. At last his anxiety reached a point where he was positive that if he received an adverse decision, it would surely kill him. Therefore he would entertain no possibility of a rejection. It must be accepted, and that was final. Added to this, he took note of all the publicity he had been accorded with regard to the same. How would he be able to face these friends if they failed to accept the book? Tell them that it had been rejected as unavailable? This fact worried him considerably, and made him persist in his own mind that the company would accept it.

Some of his less practical creditors extended his obligation anticipating that his work would net him the necessary funds for settlement—the question of acceptance they did not know enough about to consider. So it went, the time passed, and he could scarcely wait until the stage reached the little town where he now received his mail. He was never later than the second at the postoffice window. He had read in Jack London's Martin Eden that an acceptance meant a long thin envelope. Well, that was the kind he watched for—but of course, he estimated, it was possible for it to come in another form of envelope, so he wouldn't take that too seriously. Still, if such an envelope should be handed him, he would breathe easier until it was opened.

And then one day the letter came. The Postmaster, who knew everybody's business, regarded the publishers' name in the upper left hand corner, and said: