The old and persistent notion that the writers of books are an irritable tribe, hard to deal with, and manageable only by flattery—if it was ever true, is not true now. During an experience of a good many years I have suffered a discourtesy from only two. Both these were “philosophers”—not even poets, nor novelists. They wrote books that the years have proved are dull; and, when it became my duty to disappoint them, although I hope I did it courteously, they wrote ill-tempered letters. The hundreds of other writers of all sorts that I have had the pleasure to deal with have conducted themselves as men and women of common sense, and most of them are men and women of very unusual attractiveness. I doubt whether a man of any other calling has the privilege of dealing with persons of such graciousness and of such consideration.
But the women who write require more attention than the men. Their imaginations are more easily excited by the hope of success, and few of them have had business experience. They want to be fair and appreciate frank dealing. Yet they like to have everything explained in great detail.
One woman, now one of our most successful novelists—successful both as a writer of excellent books and as an earner of a good income—was kind enough to seek my advice about one of her early novels. It was a book that she ought not to have written; the subject was badly chosen. I frankly told her so. The whole reading world has told her so since. But naturally she did not agree with me. She took the book to another publisher. Two years passed. She had a second novel ready. This was one of the best American stories of a decade. To my great gratification I received a letter from her one day asking if I cared to read it. Of course I said yes.
Then came another telling how she had never changed her opinion of her former book—not a jot—I must understand that thoroughly. If that were clearly understood she went on to say she would like to have me publish the new book on two conditions: (1) That I should myself read it immediately and say frankly what I thought of it, and (2) that I should pay her a royalty large enough to repair her wounded feelings about the former book. Subsequently she added another condition—
“You may publish it,” she said, “if you heartily believe in the book.”
Very shrewdly said—that “heartily believe in the book.” For the secret of good publishing lies there. There are some books that a publisher may succeed with without believing in them—a dictionary or a slapdash novel, for examples. But a book that has any sterling quality—a real book—ought never to have the imprint of a publisher who is not really a sharer of its fortunes, a true partner with the author. For only with such a book can he do his best.
I did believe in this book. As soon as it was in type I required every man in my office who had to do with it to read it—the writer of “literary notes,” the salesman and even the shipping clerk. When the author next called I introduced to her all these. They showed their enthusiasm. She was convinced. The book succeeded in the market almost beyond her expectations. It is a good book. Everyone of us believes in it and believes in her.
She is not a crank, “but only a woman.” We have our reward in her friendship and she is generous enough to think that we have done her some service. We esteem it a high privilege to be her publishers.
But God save me from another woman who has won a conspicuous success in the market. The first question she ever asked me was:
“Are you a Christian?”