I THOUGHT I WAS HOME FREE. I believed that acceptance of a book manuscript by a publisher was the reward at the end of the maze, and the writer could bask in glory. I was wrong again. A writer faces many false turns and dead ends. Moments of exultation shatter into months of despair.
In my files, I have an acknowledgment of my returning the $650 and cancellation of the contract with the first publisher. But I also learned that the Harcourt advance wouldn't be mine until the manuscript had been editorially accepted, as well as legally accepted. That meant it had to be cleared by attorneys who examined it for libel, copyright infringement, and other small print legal problems. If they considered the book unpublishable, I would have to return their advance as well.
There was much more work to do. The publicity department needed an autobiographical sketch, and names of well-known authors who knew me well enough to read an advance copy and say things that might be used in a blurb as a quote to praise the novel. The very thought embarrassed me, and still does.
I was also asked for names of "opinion makers" or celebrities I knew, who might spread the all-important word of mouth or, as one reviewer later quipped about Algernon, "...he got good word-of-mouse."
The only one I knew was a colleague in the Journalism Department at Wayne State University who reviewed books for the Detroit News. We talked, and he assured me that if my editor sent him an advance copy, he would review my novel.
Well, it was a start.
What happened next? I got galley proofs—my last chance to make changes before page proofs. Too many changes and I'd have to pay for them. But I wanted my work to go out into the world with as few mistakes as possible.
At this point, I learned that bound proofs, with the notation "Uncorrected Galleys," had been sent to the powerful prepublication reviewers, Virginia Kirkus Bulletin, Library Journal, and Publishers Weekly, who needed them about three months before publication day. These reviews would influence libraries, independent bookstores, and major book chains. They might also affect newspaper and magazine reviewers whose columns were usually held until after the official publication date when books would be in the stores. So prepublication reviews were the first ones anyone saw and often set the tone for those that followed.
The first hint that something was wrong came about two months before publication day. My acquaintance from the Department of Journalism stopped me in the corridor. "Dan, your publisher sent me bound galleys of Flowers for Algernon. I haven't read it yet, but I've decided it's not right for me—as a colleague of yours—to review it. I've passed it along to my friend Phil Thomas on the Associated Press staff. He's a short story writer, and he's agreed to read it."
I thanked him but went back to my office with a sinking feeling that something was wrong. What could have turned him around? I went to the periodicals section of the library and asked for the most recent Virginia Kirkus Bulletin. She handed me the issue dated January 1, 1966. And there it was.
For lovers of Science Fiction, this story, in its original form was always a special kind of tour de force, a classic to be given to people you were trying to convert to the genre. Now, and regretfully, unfortunately, it has been turned into a full novel which in turn is being made into a motion picture. The idea is still unique ... But now, oh what Freudian psychoses riddle the pages ... What shapely Hollywooden scenes come to view. What bastardization of what was once so beautifully put...
I dashed into the men's room and threw up. And then I wandered through that day with the deepest depression I had ever known. I understood now why my colleague didn't want to review it. He had obviously checked out Kirkus. And the Kirkus reviewer—the very first reviewer—had fulfilled my earliest fears. How dare I tamper with a classic story? Six years of work from novelette to novel had resulted in the epithet—bastardization!
I remember every moment of that despair, not only with my brain but in my gut. It still hurts. But, enough. Let it go.
I had to wait three weeks for the second prepublication review. Publishers Weekly said, "FLOWERS FOR ALGERNON is a strikingly original first novel..."
Praise also in the Library Journal: "This is an absorbing first novel, immensely original, which is going to be read for a long time to come ... Purchase in duplicate is recommended."
The New York Times published a full-length review in the midweek "Books of the Times" by Eliot Fremont-Smith, a respected literary reviewer. Here's the beginning and the end of his review:
Algernon is a mouse and the flowers are for his grave, which explains the innervating title of this novel but does not convey Daniel Keyes's love of problems...[It] is a technician's maze, a collection of nasty little challenges for a writer of fiction. That it works at all as a novel is proof of Mr. Keyes's deftness. And it is really quite a performance ... a tale that is convincing, suspenseful and touching—all in a modest degree, but it is enough ... The skill shown here is awesome ... Mr. Keyes runs his maze at least as well as Algernon and Charlie run theirs, which is exciting in itself ... And affecting too ... how otherwise explain the tears that come to one's eyes at the novel's end?
I was dizzy. I read it again and again. Tears came to my eyes. I choke up even now, thinking about it.
Thank you, Mr. Eliot Fremont-Smith, wherever you are.
The novel has since had hundreds of reviews, all positive. Only that first—the Virginia Kirkus Bulletin—was negative. "Why does it still hurt? I want to forget that first pain of novel-birth. But it is not a bastardization!
Well, maybe my reliving it now will get it out of my system or, at least, numb the pain.
Of course, I should have known better than to care. I know better now, but knowing is different from feeling. From time to time, I share with my students Turgenev's thoughts on "Public Approval and Reward."
Poet, set no store by popular applause. The moment of extravagant praise will pass, and you will hear about you the judgements of fools and the laughter of the cold multitude. But do you stand firm, calm and undaunted.
You are a king and, as such, just live in loneliness. Tread freely where the spirit of freedom leads, endlessly perfecting the fruit of your chosen thoughts, and seeking no rewards for noble deeds.
Your work is its own reward: you are the supreme judge of what you have accomplished. With greater severity than anybody else you can determine its value.
Are you content? If so, you can afford to ignore the condemnation of the crowd.
Easier said than done. I can almost sense the pain and disappointment behind those words. Turgenev, I suspect, must have gotten some lousy reviews.
On the same day as the New York Times review, Cliff Robertson called to tell me he'd just finished taping an interview for the Merv Griffin Show, displaying the novel and announcing his forthcoming movie version.
The Merv Griffin Show didn't air in Detroit until three weeks later. By coincidence, on the same day, the Detroit News published a favorable review by my colleague's friend, Phil Thomas, that began: "Charlie Gordon will break your heart."
What more could a writer ask for?
Only one thing.
Proud papa that I was, I went to the book section of Hudson's main department store in downtown Detroit, and tried to appear nonchalant as I sauntered through the book section looking for Flowers for Algernon.
Not a single copy.
When I introduced myself to the book buyer, he seemed surprised that the salesman had never mentioned it. He would order some copies, but now that the publicity had passed, he said, it wouldn't do much good.
When my friends and colleagues phoned to say they couldn't find copies of the book, I started calling stores. That sinking feeling again. Except for the Doubleday Bookshop in the Fisher Building, which had promptly sold out its stock of three copies, none of the other bookstores had ordered a single copy. Their managers all said they were annoyed that they hadn't been alerted to a "local" author.
I complained to my editor, "What good are reviews and publicity if there are no books in the stores?"
I'll never forget Dan Wickenden's response, and I pass it on to other writers as a cautionary tale.
"Dan, you don't mean to tell me that you didn't get in touch with the bookstores in Detroit and tell them about it."
"No," I said. "I'm kind of shy. And I didn't think it was my job."
"Dan, you shouldn't hide your light under a bushel"
For what it's worth, let me point out that ever since—wherever I travel—I talk to booksellers. If they have copies of my books, I ask if they would like me to sign them. They usually do, and then affix stickers to the cover, saying: AUTOGRAPHED. It helps sell books, and they rarely return them to the publisher. Experience toughens us.