An Emphatic Answer in the Negative—They Are Gentlemen and Ladies and Treat Their Publisher with Courtesy—Bonds of Friendship Thus Formed That Endure—Some Amusing and Nettling Exceptions—Cranks Among the Scholars—The Inconstant Author Who Is Always Changing Publishers—Why a Publishing Trust Is Impossible.

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?”

“Do I look like a Jew or a Mohammedan?” I asked.

She never forgave me. Her novel had a great religious motive. It sold by the tens of thousands and most maudlin emotionalists in the land have read it. But I do not publish it. To do so, I should have had to pay the price of being “converted.” Now this lady is a crank. But it is not fair to call her books literature.

The veriest crank of all is our great scholar. It is an honor to publish the results of his scholarship (few parsnips as it butters), for the man’s work is as attractive as he is odd. He thinks himself the very soul of fairness. Yet he comes at frequent intervals wishing so to change his contract as to make publishing his books an even more expensive luxury than it was before. A contract is to him a thing to make endless experiments with. When we were once driven to desperation, one of my associates suggested that we propose half a dozen unimportant changes in it, on the theory that change—any change—was all he wanted. It was an inspired suggestion. A great scholar, a restless child. But some day (we feel) he will break over all traces, and we are all afraid of him.

But very sane and sensible men and women are most of those who succeed in winning the public favor. Some are grasping, as other men are. One, for instance, whose book had earned $7,000 in two years, demanded a prepayment of $8,000 for the next book. A compromise was made on $2,000! That was the measure of my folly, for the book is waning in its popularity and has hardly earned this prepaid royalty.

An author came to my office one day indignant because his novel was not more extensively advertised. There was the usual explanation—it would not pay. He had money to spare and he proposed to advertise it himself. He wrote the advertisements, he selected the journals in which the advertisements should appear, and he inserted them—$1,000 worth.

By some strange fate the sales of the book began just then greatly to decline. They have kept declining since, and why nobody can tell. When the public has bought a certain number of copies of a novel—of one novel it may be 1,000 copies, of another 100,000 copies—there is nothing that can be done to make it buy another 1,000 or 100,000. It seems to know when it has enough. Take more it will not. The worst “crank” that any publisher ever encountered is not an author; it is the public, unreasoning, illogical, unconvincible, stolid!

Odd persons are found in every craft. But I think that there are fewer odd ones among successful writers than among successful lawyers, for instance. And this is what one would naturally expect, but for the traditional notion that writers are unbalanced. Who else is so well balanced as the writer of good books? He must have sanity and calmness and judgment, a sense of good proportion, an appreciation of right conduct and of all human relations, else he could not make books of good balance and proportion. Most writers have few financial dealings, and they often innocently propose impracticable things. But this is not a peculiar trait of writers. Most preachers and many women show it. I have known a successful college president, for instance, to cut a paragraph out of a proof sheet with a pair of scissors, imagining that this would cause it to be taken out by the printers.

They are appreciative, too; and they make the most interesting friends in the world. Almost all writers of books work alone. Lawyers work with clients and with associated and opposing lawyers. Even teachers have the companionship of their pupils in the work. Men of most crafts work with their fellows, and they forget how much encouragement they owe to this fellowship. A dreary task is made light by it and monotonous labor is robbed of its weariness. But the writer works alone.

Almost the first man to be taken into his confidence about his work is his publisher. If the publisher be appreciative and sympathetic and render a real service, how easily and firmly the writer is won. A peculiarly close friendship follows in many cases—in most cases, perhaps, certainly in most cases when the author’s books are successful.

And this is why a great publishing trust, or “merger” is impossible. The successful publisher sustains a relation to the successful author that is not easily transferable. It is a personal relation. A great corporation cannot take a real publisher’s place in his attitude to the authors he serves.

This is the reason, too, why the “authors’ agents” seldom succeed in raising the hopes of unsuccessful writers. As soon as a writer and a publisher have come into a personal relation that is naturally profitable and pleasant, a “go-between” has no place. There is no legitimate function for him. Writers are as constant in their relations as other men and women. As they acquire experience, they become more constant. Every one for himself works his way to this conclusion—once having an appreciative and successful publisher, it is better to hold to him. And the strong friendships that grow out of this relation are among the most precious gains to each.

One publisher said to another the other day: “I see by your announcements that one of my authors has gone to you—you are welcome.”

“Yes,” was the reply, “I have in almost every instance made a mistake when I have taken in a dissatisfied writer—one cannot make lasting friends with them.”

Every great publishing house has been built on the strong friendships between writers and publishers. There is, in fact, no other sound basis to build on; for the publisher cannot do his highest duty to any author whose work he does not appreciate, and with whom he is not in sympathy. Now, when a man has an appreciation of your work and sympathy for it, he wins you. This is the simplest of all psychological laws—the simplest of all laws of friendship and one of the soundest.

Those who know the personal history of the publishing houses that in recent years have failed or met embarrassments know that, in most cases, one cause of decline was the drawing apart of publishers and authors. When authors begin to regard their publishers as mere business agents, and publishers to regard authors as mere “literary men” with whom they have only business relations, the beginning of a decline has come.

I recall as one of the pleasantest days of my life the day on which I accepted a book by an author I had never before seen. So pleasant was our correspondence that I took the first occasion I could to go nearly a thousand miles to see him. In his own house we talked about his literary plans, and I spent a day always to be remembered. Our friendship began then. Of course I was interested in his work—you cannot long feign an interest that you do not feel. This friendship has lasted now long enough to make it very much more secure a bond than any merely commercial service could have become.

Every publisher’s experience is the same—if he be a real publisher and will long remain a real publisher. Else he would be only a printer and a salesman, and mere printers and salesmen have not often built publishing houses. For publishing houses have this distinction over most other commercial institutions—they rest on the friendship of the most interesting persons in the world, the writers of good books.

The more formal cultivation of friendly relations such as the famous dinners that some publishers used regularly to give to writers has gone out of fashion. There are yet a few set dinners in the routine of several American publishing houses. But every true publisher knows the authors of his books—knows them as his friends; and the tradition of irritability is false. It is usually the unsuccessful who are irritable, whether they be authors or not.