On the right-hand side appeared the standard costs incurred whenever an edition, new or supplementary, was actually printed. Here we listed the printer’s fees, the cost of paper, transportation from the printing plant, storage in the warehouse, keeping the book in the catalog and fliers, and, sometimes the heaviest manufacturing cost of all, binding the book in hardcovers with colorful wraparound jackets. These figures added to an imposing total, but at the bottom came the crusher: ‘Add 35 percent for overhead.’ This covered the costs of keeping the big offices opened, lit and heated, of paying editors, of paying salesmen, of paying for the entire apparatus of publishing.
I became almost a wizard at keeping the left-hand and right-hand costs at a minimum, only to have that dreadful 35 percent overhead kill me at the end. The art of publishing is to keep the inevitable costs of the left-hand side so low that the profit per copy on the right-hand side will be large enough to amortize the fixed costs if a reasonable number of copies are sold. Thus if the fixed costs of a proposed book are going to be $41,000 and the profit per copy is $0.52, obviously the book would have to sell 78,846 copies to break even. But remember that with each copy sold, the book contributed that 35 percent of the company’s share of its purchase price to the general overhead of the firm,* so that the company might well decide to publish the book even though a final sale of 78,000 was unreasonable. Profit would still be made on the contribution to overhead.
There was one more factor an editor like me could play around with. We might print 78,000 copies, but allot funds to bind only a portion of that number. The overage would be kept in the warehouse as stored sheets whose additional cost for printing had been minimal; if the book caught on, these sheets could be rushed to the bindery and trucked out to the stores. If the book died young, the extra sheets could be pulped with little loss.
From these multiple experiences, plus my passion for books when I was a child and my admiration for the beautiful books published in England in the late nineteenth century, I acquired an abiding respect for the concept of a book as one of the finest symbols of our civilization. I saw it as a timeless pledge to the future. I wanted any book for which I had responsibility to look right, to be well printed and properly bound, to feel good to the hand and inviting to the eye. I would spend great effort to help select the proper type for a given book, the right margins, the proper spacing of paragraphs, anything at all to make it attractive. With me the making of a book was an act of dedication, and I had this devotion before I ever dreamed that I would myself be writing books.
As publisher and writer I have placed on the shelves of the world millions of books, and each has gone forth as an act of faith, the best I could make it at the time, both in content and appearance. I was asked recently: ‘Do you want to be viewed as an author of novels or of nonfiction?’ and I replied: ‘I write books.’
Back in the Pacific, when my first manuscript was finished, at four one morning in the Quonset, I wrapped it carefully in waterproof fabric and prepared to send it off by military mail to some publisher in New York. I was in a quandary because Macmillan had an ironclad rule about not publishing works by its employees. Once, when an employee sought to publish a book in-house, the company had found that too many conflicts of interest arose. Who should edit the book? What grade of paper should be used? Into which publishing season should it fall? How much money should be allocated to its publicity? Where should it appear in the catalog? The house risked great resentment if it did not give the book all the attention the author/employee desired or the animosity of other employees if they believed it received too much attention.
My own company being forbidden territory, I decided on Knopf, a company whose books I had read with admiration. But as I was addressing the parcel it occurred to me that I was at that moment technically not a Macmillan employee, and since I believed that my company was one of the best in the business, I mailed it there under a nom de plume and with a contrived return address to which the response could be sent. Under those devious conditions it was accepted, but I was told that when the editor in chief, the redoubtable Mr. Latham, learned of my deception, he was displeased.
The manuscript fell into the hands of a most engaging Englishman, Cecil Scott, who had it edited and ready to go by the time I returned from the Pacific in February of 1946. Scott was a soft-spoken, enthusiastic man reared and educated in England. He was surprised to learn at our first meeting that I was a chap from upstairs, but he took great pains to show me how to make the manuscript better and cleaner; his standards would not allow G.I. talk, and when I insisted he invented work-able substitutes. Every suggestion he made helped me improve the book, and he became in all senses of the word its sponsor.
Any young person who aspires to be a professional writer should inspect a Macmillan first printing of my first book, Tales of the South Pacific, because it was one of the ugliest books published that year or in any other year. Wartime restrictions concerning paper required the use of the tag-end lot of a bizarre paper that was extremely thin and had two radically different surfaces front and back, as well as a dirty brownish coloring. I saw the paper for the first time when a finished copy of the book was handed to me, and the comparison between that volume and my ideal of a book was devastating.
As an editor I had always attended to margins and visually beautiful openings for chapters. My own book had almost no margins and the chapter containing the story that would gain fame around the world started four lines from the bottom on the left-hand page in order to save paper. Other stories started in the middle of the page, and it was so obvious that Macmillan had printed the book on the cheap that Scott apologized when he handed me my copy: ‘I did the best I could.’ It was an ugly, monstrous book, a disgrace to a self-respecting company and a humiliation to its author.†
Throughout the remainder of this narrative I shall refer repeatedly to the good luck that has followed my writing life, as it did my earlier years, and no instance was more dramatic that the one I am about to cite, even though its enormous significance will not become apparent till the end of this chapter.
Publication of my book was scheduled for the end of 1946, but in mid-September an editor at The Saturday Evening Post in Philadelphia heard an enthusiastic report about some of its stories and invited me to come down to his offices and discuss publication in his magazine. I went, was charmed by the man, and sold him two stories, but since they could not possibly appear in the Post until early 1947, publication of the Macmillan book had to be postponed from late 1946 to early 1947. I am forever grateful to Harold Latham that he agreed to the disruption of his orderly schedule, even though as Cecil Scott pointed out: ‘If the Post publishes before the book publication, the author gets the entire fee, after publication we get half.’
The Post did a first-class job of presenting my two stories; the pages were handsome, the illustrations good, and the whole effect was pleasing. I was proud when I walked to work those weeks to see copies of my issue boldly featured on all the newsstands, and I remember that a casual incident during that wintry spell first awakened me to the fact that I might one day become a real, working writer. It was dusk and I was returning from my editorial work when I saw a discarded copy of a three-week-old Post lying in a snowy gutter. Without thinking, I cried: ‘Hey! That’s an important magazine! It contains my story!’ and I stooped down to rescue the periodical. But when I saw how muddy and torn it was I drew back and kicked it farther into the gutter as I reflected upon the painfully short life of a magazine story: Magazines are ephemeral, books are forever, and if you can get your book on the shelves it will have a fighting chance to find its own life.
I have counseled hundreds of would-be writers to follow a simple rule: ‘Stop daydreaming about the big money, the Hollywood contract, the glittering literary scene, the advertisements. Your job is to write the most honest book you’re capable of writing, persuade someone to publish it at whatever terms are obtainable, and get that book on the library shelves. Let it find i
ts own level while you go immediately to work on the next one. Rack your brains on how to make this one even better. All else is irrelevant.’
My own first book appeared to have slim chances. It was published in silence, reviewed by only a few journals and sold to a small number of people. It enjoyed a faltering life of about five weeks, but in that brief period it proved that a book does not have to garner a huge audience to succeed ultimately. If it falls into the hands of even a few appreciative readers it can survive, as my book did when it attracted the attention of four readers, whose reactions changed the direction of my life. They were a lineal descendant of the Marquis de Lafayette, the dean of New York literary agents, the spunky daughter of an American president, and a handsome Hollywood actor.
The Lafayette descendant was Jacques Chambrun, a debonair Manhattanite who operated a literary agency that served some notable men of letters, including Somerset Maugham. Chambrun had wit, charm, literary knowledge and a keen sense of what was happening in New York. My book had been out only a few days when I received from him a remarkable letter on stationery embossed with a coat of arms. It said in brief that he had heard such scintillating accounts of my talent that he had run right out to Brentano’s to fetch a copy of my book and it had more than borne out the truth of the rumors. From his long experience in dealing with great authors like Somerset Maugham he could recognize talent when he saw it and felt sure that I was destined to follow in the distinguished footsteps of … and here he named four other important writers, all of whom he represented. He wanted to meet me immediately—say, that afternoon—and sign me to a long-term exclusive contract, which was certain to earn both of us a great deal of money.
Walking on air to think that I would that afternoon join the immortals, I reported to my office at Macmillan with an elation that did not subside until my encounter with Cecil Scott. Summoning me to his office, Scott told me that he was most pleased with the way my book had been received, modest though the trumpet blasts had been: ‘It’s being noticed by the people who count, and for that very reason I feel I must warn you about a very real danger. There’s a man who listens assiduously to book gossip, then traps beginning authors before they get their eyes fully open. He writes very flattering letters, and has you signed to a long-term contract before you’re aware of what’s happening.’
‘Jacques Chambrun?’ I asked, and he moaned: ‘Oh, my dear fellow! He’s got to you already?’ and when I showed him my letter he growled: ‘That swine.’
He then told me a harrowing tale of literary life in New York: ‘Chambrun reads every review, and ten minutes later, if the review is at all favorable, he dashes off a letter like this, and he traps quite a few unsuspecting naïfs. Were you intending to see him?’
‘I was.’
‘Thank God I caught you.’
‘What’s he do?’
‘He keeps all the money you earn from your writing.’
‘What do you mean, he keeps it?’
‘Agents’ rules are that the magazine or publisher has to deliver all moneys to the agent, not the writer, so that the agent can be sure of getting his ten percent. An honest agent then sends you your ninety percent, but Chambrun is a common thief. He keeps the whole hundred percent and gives you a score of reasons why you’ll be getting some of it next month.’
‘Don’t people sue him?’
‘They do, but he has a dozen dodges.’
‘He says he’s the agent for Somerset Maugham.’
‘He is, and Maugham thinks highly of him. Says so if asked.’
‘How can the publishers tolerate such a man? Why don’t you do something about him?’
‘He does bring us clients. He never steals from us. I clear my conscience by warning my writers.’
All Scott said about Chambrun was true. Maugham adored him, and those authors with important reputations received their proper funds on time. But novices waited for years and in many cases forever, the wily Chambrun having perfected many explanations for not paying them, and to everyone’s consternation his explanations held up in court. Had I gone uptown to that meeting I would have signed my death warrant as a self-supporting writer, and I shall be forever indebted to Cecil Scott for having saved me from a disastrous situation.
Two weeks later I showed Cecil a very different kind of letter. It came from the dean of America’s literary agents and personal representative of what admirers said was close to a hundred of New York’s and Hollywood’s brightest talents. When Cecil saw the letterhead, he whistled, for this new man dealt only with the best. The letter was much like Chambrun’s, but more subdued, in the manner of a gentleman discussing a mutual interest with another gentleman, and reading it made me feel good right down to my toes, which were tingling.
The letter said that the writer had a full stable of authors but was always on the lookout for young men and women with obvious talent. He believed that if we met quietly and developed an understanding between us I would want to sign with him, and he would be eager to have me do so. Scott said it was as reassuring a letter as he had ever seen a young writer receive and urged me to call immediately, which I did from his office.
The meeting was one of the most enjoyable I would ever have with a stranger. The master agent was a big, quiet-spoken man who had mastered the exacting art of keeping high-strung writers and dramatists happy and productive. He explained that he could not perform miracles: ‘I can’t turn a poor writer into a good one, and I can’t suddenly rejuvenate a writer who’s lost his touch. But what I can do is orchestrate a productive career and protect you in all your business relationships.’
When I nodded enthusiastically he warned: ‘But I can do this only if you produce, only if you like to work and work well—toward a purpose—and if you care about your reputation and want to enhance it.’ He was a knowledgeable expert who had seen all the triumphs and pitfalls to which writers were susceptible. I suspect that it was my naive enthusiasm that later made him suspect that I might not turn out as he had originally anticipated. If he had any suspicions that day he kept them masked, and we signed an exclusive contract; as I left he walked me to the door, his arm about my shoulder as he said: ‘You have a tremendous future, Michener, if you can learn to tell a story.’
My experience with this man was unalloyed pleasure, the eager learner listening to the tested professional. Our work together centered on what Hollywood had already termed ‘a colossal search for talent with a colossal reward.’ The year before, one of the motion picture companies had conducted a nationwide search for a new novel with a fresh approach and had offered a prize of a huge amount of money to the winner. After much hoopla, the name of the lucky author had been announced: Ross Lockridge, a young fellow from Indiana who had written a masterly novel, Raintree County. It had received unbelievable encomiums, been reprinted in part in Life and sold enormously before being turned into a movie starring Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift.
My new agent believed that my second novel, The Fires of Spring, then in manuscript form, had an excellent chance of copping the second $100,000 prize if I could revise it along lines he suggested. Under his patient tutelage I worked from four in the morning till eight, week after week, while putting in a full nine-to-five day at Macmillan. After work I hied myself to the Twenty-third Street Y.M.C.A., where I served as setter for the volleyball team that won championships, then to bed at nine-thirty and up again at four and back to the typewriter. It was a regimen on which I thrived, and I was glad to hear that most serious writers do their first three novels at either four in the morning or eleven at night while holding down a full-time job. I was proved to be in that tradition.
After completing a prodigious amount of work, I handed the manuscript over to my agent, who had it copied and sent along to Hollywood, where the selection committee promised to announce its decision promptly. I spent weeks of anxiety, awaiting the communication that would remake my life, and one Monday morning in spring a uniformed messenger came to my door at West Twelfth
Street near the Hudson with what I thought was the news I awaited. It was a special delivery letter, and in my excitement to hear Hollywood’s verdict I failed to notice that it did not come from California. In my nightshirt I tore open the envelope and read one of the most crushing letters I would ever receive. In fact, it was so devastating that once I read it I tore it up in a fit of rage. Even today, forty years later, I can accurately summarize the words that were burned into my soul.
The letter was from my agent and began with not ‘Dear Jim’ but ‘Dear Mr. Michener,’ and informed me not that I had won the prize, nor even that I was still in competition, but that my agent had reached the regrettable conclusion that I had no future as a writer. Therefore he was terminating our contract and would be returning my manuscript under separate cover, for he doubted it would ever be publishable. He gave as his reason for his drastic action the fact that I did not seem to welcome constructive criticism, that my revisions had in no way improved the manuscript, and that I showed no promise whatever of developing into a writer whose works would find favor with the public. In short, he was dropping me because there was no chance of my ever attaining commercial success and that consequently I had no place in his stable.
I was shattered by this professional estimate of my abilities and by the impersonal manner in which it was delivered, but I remember clearly that I was not angry with the agent, who had always treated me fairly. As I showered, shaved and dressed for Monday’s work I looked in the mirror and said without emotion: ‘I guess he knows what he’s doing.’ I was aware that I must have disappointed him grievously because I knew that initially he had liked me and had hoped that I would succeed as a writer. I acknowledged also as I left my room that he had been accurate and just in his principal criticisms. I did not accept advice from others graciously, and especially not when it touched on writing; I was determined to do things my way and accept the consequences. Gradually I had seen that I did not fit the pattern of the kind of client the agent had in mind; I would always be an uncut diamond rather than a polished gem and it was futile to think that I would ever change. And I certainly did not wish to challenge his main accusation that I lacked popular appeal because I did not see myself as ever attaining much commercial success. I was not concerned with ‘the well-crafted English novel,’ nor had I any aspiration to the literary life that accompanied such writing. My heroes were Balzac, Dreiser, Stendhal and a handful of lesser-known Europeans, such as the Pole Wladyslaw Reymont and the Dutchman Douwes Dekker.
The World Is My Home: A Memoir Page 38
