I had a better notion of what Nelson was seeing and the nature of his protest. He had shown me a world where people lived without choice or destination.
I lived for days with this nightmare, asking myself why I should feel guilt for those who no longer feel responsible for themselves. Then it occurred to me that the question was never one of guilt, but only of love. The agony exists regardless of the setting. The lack of love is not alone on Clark Street.
To be successful, an autographing cocktail party must be planned with consummate skill and attention to detail. You must leave nothing to chance. You may not pretend that everything will work out satisfactorily at the last minute. It will not. And because I respected writers so much, I tried to guard them against the ultimate humiliation of sitting at a table before a pile of their own books, with no buyers.
I adopted the following procedure: First, get from the author his own list of names—people he would like personally to invite to his party. Phone each of them, or at least write a post card asking if they are interested in receiving a signed copy of the book. Next, send out the invitation to all your charge accounts, then check the mailing list for people you think will be interested in the book. Avoid freeloaders. Invite the press and the literary critics and try to write a short human interest story for the columnists. In short, build up as big an advance as possible.
Furthermore, don’t throw a skimpy party. People carry away impressions, and the only impression[impression] you can afford is a bountiful one. It is said that all the world loves a lover, but one thing you can be sure of is that they love a winner. So avoid failure by planning against it, and then pray. Pray that it won’t rain or turn freezing cold, that the pipes won’t break or the electricity be turned off. Pray that you may fulfill your multiple responsibilities; to the author, the publisher, and your own hopes for continuing operation.
It seemed natural that one of our greatest cocktail parties should be given for Nelson Algren upon publication of The Man with the Golden Arm. Yet behind the scenes things went very oddly, and for a time it was hard to tell whether either the author or the publisher wanted the party—or the large downtown department store, either, which entered the picture as a prospect for the event.
Anyway, it took place at the Seven Stairs. Ken McCormick, Editor-in-Chief of Doubleday, Nelson’s publisher, flew into Chicago. I can see him still, loaded with books in both arms, carrying them from one room to another.
There was high excitement—newspaper photographers and an unbelievable crush of people. It all began to tell on Nelson’s nerves and mine. It seemed to me he was writing too long in each book, and at times he would change his mind in the middle of an inscription and ask for another copy (to Nelson such revision was a literary exercise, to me a spoiled copy was a financial loss). The line of guests seemed endless and I began to develop an active dislike for people, for money, for the whole business. Besides, it was getting awfully hot. Nelson and Ken and I removed our coats. Nelson even gave up writing long paragraphs in each book. I tried keeping a cool drink at his side at all times. It seemed to help.
It was a great but strange party. Nelson was a success, and in a way I was, too. And this altered things enormously. It had never occurred to me how people attach themselves to the rescue phantasy, how easily failure inspires love, how differently even the semblance of success affects relationships. All at once, people who had only wanted to help me became hypersensitive and found me snubbing them. And I was feeling a new sensitivity also: “You can’t destroy me in the process of buying from me.” It was the beginning of a new struggle.
The last guest finally left. Ken McCormick was a very happy publisher. I swept all interior confusions aside and counted up the books. We had sold one thousand copies of The Man with the Golden Arm in a single night! It was almost too much for Ken—he had to see it to believe it. And we were all dead tired. Just as I was about to turn the last light switch before we went out the door, I remembered and asked Nelson to autograph a book for me. As he bent down to write, I could see Bob Kohrman and myself sitting on the sand dunes reading the galleys of the book. I remembered conversations with Nelson and Jack Conroy in regard to the title, and Jack’s needling of Nelson when the advances were running out, saying, “Any day now you’ll be begging to come to work on the encyclopedia” (the constant drudgery to which Jack has given most of his working hours for two decades.)