At a time when universities are cutting funds for the arts it has become extremely difficult to publish serious books on literature and letters. The tortuous attempt to get my latest book into print provides a specific case history on the current state of academic publishing and reveals the problems that scholarly writers now face. As an experienced professional and widely published author I mistakenly thought, to paraphrase Samuel Johnson, the doom of man might be reversed for me. I tried to publish The Mystery of the Real: Letters of the Canadian Artist Alex Colville and Biographer Jeffrey Meyers. Edited, with Four Essays, by Jeffrey Meyers for more than two years. But my struggle, after many setbacks, eventually succeeded. I can now warn scholars to expect hostile readers and dispiriting negotiations, and suggest how to place a minor but significant book.
I naively thought that presses, especially in Canada, would be eager to bring out my correspondence with, and the first published letters of, their country’s greatest painter—the equal of his fellow realists Andrew Wyeth and Lucian Freud. The two major Alex Colville exhibitions in Toronto in 2014 and Ottawa in 2015 had sustained widespread interest in his art, and I had an endorsement from his daughter and executor Ann Kitz. She wrote, “I enjoyed reading this—I actually just sat there with my coffee and read it right through immediately—and am pleased.” She gave me permission, without a fee, to publish his letters and reproduce in color sixteen of his late paintings.
I tried to interest publishers in this book by describing its content: “I spent several days with Alex Colville (1920-2013) on each of three visits from California to Wolfville, Nova Scotia. I received seventy letters from him between August 1998 and April 2010, and kept thirty-sex of my letters to him. He sent me photographs and slides of his work and, in his eighties, discussed the progress and meaning of the paintings he completed during the last decade of his life. His handwritten letters, precisely explaining his thoughts and feelings, gave me a rare and enlightening opportunity to compare my insights and interpretations with his own intentions and ideas. He also discussed his family, health, sexuality, politics, reading, travels, literary interests, our mutual friend Iris Murdoch, response to my writing, his work, exhibitions, sales and meaning of his art. Alex’s letters reveal the challenges he faced during aging and illness, and his determination to keep painting as his health declined. He stopped writing to me when he became seriously ill two years before his death. In this context, the late paintings take on a new poignancy.” Alex, normally reserved and even reclusive, delighted me by writing, “I am touched by your friendship, which I think is as important to me as to you.”
I wrote to seventy-three firms: twenty-five Canadian (including four that had brought out books about Colville and another that had published two of my books), twenty-seven American and twenty-one English. There were four vanity presses, four trade publishers, forty-four small (mostly art) presses and twenty-one university presses. Most felt there was no market for letters, were not interested or didn’t bother to answer. Nine read and rejected it; four vanity presses offered contracts; and one accepted it.
London Magazine Editions, which had brought out two of my early books in the mid-1970s and then disappeared for decades, asked for a subsidy of £1,500. Though I frequently contribute to that magazine, I didn’t feel that the press was sufficiently well established. Peter Lang publishers wanted a subsidy for five copies of $3,500, which could be paid gradually--death on the installment plan--and slightly reduced if I waived the meager royalties. Austin-Macaulay in London, claimed (when I asked) that they were a conventional trade publisher rather than a vanity press. But they considered me “an unknown author” despite my fifty-two previous books, demanded in a handsomely printed contract a subsidy of £2,500 and refused my counter-offer to waive royalties.
Gaspereau Press, close to Colville’s home in Nova Scotia, had brought out Colville Tributes in 2011 and the editor knew the artist. This press did not use e-mail and, answering my overture with a handwritten letter, explained the two main obstacles to publishing my book. There was the high cost of reproducing sixteen color images and the impossibility of getting an essential grant if I was not a Canadian citizen and no longer connected to a university.
I’d originally left out my own much longer letters. But two small presses, which were interested in Alex and seemed promising, advised me to include my letters and add an introduction to our correspondence. Though I did this, ECW Press in Toronto was “not inclined to take on the project” and gave no reason for their refusal. Goose Lane in Fredericton, New Brunswick, adjacent to Nova Scotia in the Maritime provinces, had printed the handsome catalogue of his recent exhibitions in Ottawa and Toronto.
I sent the book to Goose Lane and the editor aroused great expectations by writing: “We have now discussed your manuscript at length. I think that the new version --with the addition of your own letters to Colville--is much improved and seems more rounded in many ways. Your introduction to the letters adds necessary context. We also know why [because of illness] Colville’s letters stopped so abruptly. I think that the letters provide a fascinating glimpse into Colville’s mind--his interests, his preoccupations, his reading habits, the artists that drew his attention and what he found interesting in their work, and much, much more. I think that there would be an appetite for the book, and I will be presenting it to our editorial board next week.” She clearly saw the merits of my book and I eagerly awaited her formal acceptance. But the fascination soon faded and she seemed to be talking about a completely different book when she delivered the fatal blow: “We find that there wasn’t quite enough new material to make this book as revelatory as we had hoped.”
I also wrote to several university presses in Canada. Ottawa insisted I spend several hours filling out a very long form and didn’t even read the book. Regina said they could not publish the book without a Canadian subvention. Toronto wanted a complete edition of all Colville’s letters, but didn’t recognize that such an edition would create a major problem. He wrote his letters in batches after completing a painting and inevitably tended to repeat the same thing to different correspondents. In any case, this would be a very big job and would take several years to collect, type and annotate them. I could not get a crucial Canadian grant and would not get a large enough advance to support me while I completed this work or earn nearly enough money in royalties to pay for my labor.
The university presses that read the book required outside readers’ reports and this caused a new kind of problem. Some of the reports were intensely subjective, contradictory, even self-contradictory, inaccurate, abusive and absurd. I was struck by the role of chance in this devious process, and by how a helpless author could have his good book derailed by reports that were obviously biased and unfair.
After experiencing endless delays and excuses and waiting for six months, I finally got two favourable reports and a contract from Wilfrid Laurier University Press in Waterloo, Ontario. The first report said: “There are many engaging insights into Colville’s character including some indications of his political views. There are also revealing comments about the significance of sexuality in art and life. It is rare to gain such an intimate insight into the relationship of two such knowledgeable correspondents. The letters are a new addition to the field and enrich our understanding of Colville’s later life.”
The second report stated: “This is an interesting and publishable manuscript that reveals an aspect of Alex Colville’s literary and intellectual interests that will enrich and widen his audiences. These letters are a unique and valuable contribution to the literature on Colville. Through them I learned a great deal of Colville’s love for literature and his keen intelligence. There are some real moments in the letters when Colville reveals himself both on a personal and intellectual level, where we can see the ‘working of his mind’ and of his keen interest in ‘life as a work of art.’ This text is an original contribution to the field and is an important aspect of both artist and scholar.”
Then, inexplicably, the editor delayed for another few weeks in order to get a third—and quite unnecessary—report, which turned out to be negative and caused even more problems. At this point I lost patience, broke with the press and wrote a blistering cathartic letter to the director:
I’ve published many articles and books, eighteen of them with twelve university presses, and have had good relations with hundreds of editors. Your editor is absolutely the worst one I’ve ever encountered. She kept me dangling in uncertainty for six months, all the while assuring me—quite unconvincingly—that the half-year delay to read 117 pages and make a decision was quite normal, that we were right on schedule, would reach an amicable agreement on the final text and publish the book in the spring of 2016. I did not believe any of this and she did not keep any of her promises.
Her final response to my book was worthless. She said she’d be happy to discuss her points, then suddenly changed her tone and insisted I submit to her orders. I could not accept her arrogant demands nor allow her to ruin rather than improve my book. I’m angry that she’s wasted so much of my time, but glad to be out of her clutches. What good is an acquisitions editor who wastes a lot of time and money on readers’ reports, alienates the author and fails to acquire the book?
Bloody but unbowed, I then moved on to Calgary University Press in western Canada, which had published a series of art books but severely cut down sales by offering all their books free on-line. The first reader’s report was extremely favourable: “The correspondence that Meyers had with Colville is immensely important and there is much to like in this manuscript, particularly for readers and scholars of Alex Colville’s remarkable art. The epistolary conversation between Meyers and Colville opens many uncharted avenues into Colville’s artistic process, his sources, and the relationship between literature and his work. In brief, the manuscript makes me think a good deal about Colville’s art in new ways.”
The second reader, hiding behind anonymity, was insulting and humiliating, envious and vengeful. He expressed considerable resentment that an English professor dared to write about art, though I’d published four books and eighty-five articles in that field; and that a mere American academic, no better than himself, had somehow managed to sustain a twelve-year correspondence and close friendship with the most distinguished artist in Canada.
Writers are always vulnerable to arbitrary and politically correct attacks, but I defended myself with a letter to my editor:
Readers’ reports are like a game of chance: you can never predict the often irrational outcome. Sometimes, as in this case, they contradict each other and seem to be describing two different books. It’s difficult to respond to (and ignore the insults in) this report. I think he misread my book and I don’t agree with his remarks. Since this will be the first publication of Colville’s letters, their content cannot possibly be ‘well known’ to anyone. I don’t rely completely on Colville’s view of his works. I have also interviewed his daughter Ann and read all the books about him when forming my own interpretations. I then asked Alex to respond to them.
I’m writing for a general audience and have no desire to engage in trivial quarrels with academic critics. The politically correct charge that Colville objectifies women in Western Star is too fatuous to argue about. I don’t agree with his irrelevant point that Alex was hostile to women. In fact, his wife and daughter, whom he adored, modeled for a great many of his pictures. The reader doesn’t seem to realize that this book is about my friendship with Colville, and how our correspondence and conversations illuminate his work.
It’s ironic--despite his hostile feelings and negative conclusion--that he praises many aspects of my book. He believes it conveys ‘a sense of Colville’s life’ and ‘appreciation of a good number of individual paintings’; it has an ‘accessible style,’ is ‘certainly readable’ and ‘helpfully annotated.’ He also offers two other ‘pluses’: the ‘texture of the letters themselves’ and the ‘comments on Colville’s most recent work.’ Surely this is more than enough praise from an antagonistic reader to merit publication. Considering the unexpected but gratifying approval of this report and the enthusiastic response of the other report, I trust you will publish my book.
The editor and director accepted my argument, were keen to publish and thought the editorial board would accept my book. But they were not able to successfully defend their own judgment. The board decided I had not responded sufficiently to the
negative criticism, which I disagreed with, and expected me to write the book the reader wanted rather than the one I actually wrote.
A friend recommended Open House publishers in London, which did not require a subsidy and had successfully brought out her book. But I ignored her warning that she later had a very bad experience with them and had published her next work with another press. The editor seemed keen on my book and even called me from London to discuss it. I then had the worst-ever experience of my entire writing life. Their reader turned out to be the very same author of the insulting report to Calgary. Without informing Open House that he’d already torpedoed my book, he sent exactly the identical report to them (and got paid twice for it). I showed the editor my response to this report and strongly protested that his behavior was unprofessional and immoral. But she refused to disqualify it and get another one, ironically insisting on “upholding their scholarly standards.” I guessed the identity of the villain who’d been selected as first reader by two different presses, but could not prove it.
Just as I seemed to have exhausted all possibilities and was about to give up, I consulted a Canadian friend who gave me the names of two small presses, Anansi and Exile, which agreed to read my precious book. At the same time I wrote again to the University of British Columbia Press, who’d previously refused to consider it. This time around, perhaps due to change of editors, they asked to see the book. So I suddenly and unexpectedly had three more publishers reading it.
After many hopes had been raised and dashed, success then came from an unexpected quarter in Eastbourne, England. I noticed a review of a Sussex Academic Press book in TLS, wrote to the publisher and got an enthusiastic response. He read the book immediately, accepted it the next day and wrote: “The letters have interest from two angles. The first intrinsic in the sense of the meeting of minds, the points of contact, current affairs, and the simple engagement of two people with shared interests. The second, how one’s personal reading and commentary, and particularly likes and dislikes, lead in the letters to a fantastic range of artistic and literary knowledge, which will inform the ordinary reader and allow them to increase their reading and viewing breadth.” I would earn only a few hundred dollars, but money no longer mattered. The press had many advantages: there was no need for a subvention or a Canadian grant, it had
an enthusiastic (though difficult) director who offered immediate acceptance, editing in the first week, publication in four months, color illustrations and an attractive book.
For my first book, published by Boydell in 1973, I received an advance of £50. For my latest book, published by Sussex Academic forty-three years later, I got more of a retreat than an advance—a dismal lack of financial progress in the current state of publishing. Nevertheless, I kept searching for publishers until I found the right one. My persistence justified my faith in my own work and my deep-rooted belief: every bullet has its billet.
Thirty-one of Jeffrey Meyers’ books have been translated into fourteen languages and seven alphabets, and published on six continents. In 2012 he gave the Seymour lectures on biography at the National Libraries of Australia. He’s recently published Remembering Iris Murdoch in 2013, Thomas Mann’s Artist-Heroes in 2014 and Robert Lowell in Love in 2016.
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