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  The most interesting newcomer is a man who’s written a novel inspired by Paradise Lost. He’s read three hundred volumes in preparation for the task, having gone so far as to retrace Milton’s research on angels.

  I read passing mentions of this man over the course of several months. When he finally accepts a turn as taker of the minutes and later becomes part of the rotation, he elevates what for others is mundane reportage into a kind of art. He warms up by lambasting the shortsightedness of editors, quoting from rejection letters received by Kipling, Faulkner, Emily Dickinson, and William Golding. He muses over the definition of an essay. He includes in the minutes an article from a major paper on primary and secondary imagination and the craft of the novelist. He laments the narrowness of the Western canon. He reprints blurbs for a novel by Andrei Codrescu, who will be coming to North Carolina for a conference. He defines the differences among gothic, neo-gothic, and horror fiction. He bemoans the way bookstores divide fiction among genres, since his own novel, despite its classic roots, would likely be banished to the horror section, to be thumbed by raincoat-wearing perverts. When it appears that the money for the branch library’s renovation is in danger of being reallocated elsewhere, he lists the county commissioners’ addresses and phone numbers and encourages protest.

  As does anyone who bares his heart so freely, he occasionally oversteps his bounds. During one meeting, as I understand it, my friend Bryan Aleksich offers advice on avoiding a common computer problem. The newcomer subsequently writes five paragraphs in the minutes explaining how utterly wrong Bryan was, citing his own extensive computer training and ten years’ experience in the field. If I’ve read Bryan’s personality correctly, he’s more likely to appreciate the knowledge than to take offense at the correction. But all the same, the matter could have been handled better. And though I’ve never met the man, he gets my blood pumping with this quote from John Gardner he includes in the minutes: “One should fight like the devil the temptation to think well of editors. They are without exception … either incompetent or crazy.”

  Month by month, I follow his quest for publication as it assumes a familiar arc: he’s looking for an agent for his novel; he’s discouraged by the cost of hiring an editor to get his manuscript into shape; he finds an editor and is invigorated not only by her work but also by her offer to submit the novel to a friend of hers at St. Martin’s; he eagerly awaits word from the publisher and begins a sequel in the meantime; his optimism wanes as a month passes, then another; he receives a rejection notice; he sends a batch of queries to other publishers, apparently without much luck; he seems to reconcile himself to print-on-demand or self-publishing.

  Print-on-demand technology, a frequent topic of discussion at the writers’ group meetings, shows promise of being a great equalizer for the members. My friends envision the day when bookstores will be places where people go to have the books of their choice printed fresh on the spot. When there is no longer a need for standing inventory, the interests that control printing and distribution will no longer hold sway, since it will be as economical to print single copies of books by unknown authors as by John Grisham. Likewise, traditional rejecters like agents and editors will no longer stand between the members and the reading public. A new dawn is at hand.

  An exchange of e-mails after one of the meetings shows how swiftly reality hits home. The members have been discussing the costs charged by a couple of print-on-demand publishers. Steve Brown, who apparently did not attend the meeting and is reading the minutes a couple of days later just as I am, knows of a cheaper and better alternative and broadcasts an e-mail to the entire membership.

  Jack Pyle sends a reply to Steve, in which he points out the near-impossibility of getting one’s print-on-demand titles stocked in chain bookstores and the continuing second-class status of self-published writers.

  What follows is a lively debate between the group’s two dominant voices—sent to all the members—over the realities of new-technology publishing. Steve says wide distribution of one’s print-on-demand books is possible; Jack says it’s fantasy. They good-naturedly parse words in each other’s e-mails. To Steve, a buyer is someone who purchases books for a chain. To Jack, it’s someone who buys.

  Steve finally clarifies his position by saying it’s feasible to get print-on-demand books distributed if you convince the chains you’re a serious multibook writer and not a one-or two-book hobbyist. He says one of the main impediments to distribution is the refusal of many self-published authors to seek out editorial help. The result has been a high incidence of poorly written material. He tells of some chain stores where staff members entertain themselves by circulating self-published books in which they’re marked all the misspellings and other blunders.

  These comments draw fire from a couple of members who are one-book self-published writers but who emphatically do not consider themselves hobbyists and who care every bit as much about their craft as any multibook author does.

  Steve nimbly pulls his biscuits from the fire while still maintaining his position. He says he certainly wasn’t referring to the members in question, but that quality control is a serious problem in self-publishing.

  Among those who consider the print-on-demand option is Bryan Aleksich, indefatigable as ever.

  Bryan and I exchange letters now and then. He sends me tips on material for my new book and magazine clippings related to my old one. He’s taken to writing guest editorials, and he occasionally encloses samples of those. When he learns that the Hendersonville paper welcomes only two such editorials a year per writer—a limit he reaches by February—he begins writing for the Asheville paper, too. He submits accompanying illustrations, which are professional enough for the papers to run.

  As for his novel, it is named a semifinalist in one national contest and a finalist in another. He pays to have the manuscript scrutinized by three separate editors. He submits a twenty-page sample as part of a writers’ conference in Athens, Georgia. It comes to the attention of a senior vice president at Simon & Schuster, who asks to see the entire novel, then passes it to a subordinate. It’s returned a month later with a letter telling Bryan how close he came to publication.

  In the minutes from one of the writers’ group meetings, it’s reported that Bryan is hard at work on a dozen novels. This must be mistaken. To my knowledge, his Cold War story is the only one he’s ever written. He once told me that, instead of looking in the mirror and seeing someone who’s spent thirty-odd years writing a novel, he prefers to view himself as having written a dozen different novels from the same source material. That distinction was apparently lost on the minutes-taker.

  Bryan sinks twenty-seven hundred dollars into his print-on-demand venture. But when he receives the proofs, he discovers that his drawing at the front of the book, designed to stretch across the title page and its verso page, has been reduced to fit on the title page only; that the font for his chapter titles has been changed, and is now different from the font for the main text; that the margins are too narrow throughout the book; and that his brief statement at the end of the text describing the type font has been replaced by an author biography, which merely duplicates the author biography on the back flap. He’s so upset that he withdraws the entire project.

  Not to worry, though. Coming out the other side of triple-bypass surgery, Bryan is ready to begin submitting again. He finds a small publisher in the mountains that is happy to take on his Cold War novel. It’s due to be released about the same time as my own book. I hope this will bring a satisfactory end to his decades-long devotion. I have no doubt it’s a far better novel now than when he self-published it many years ago and took an electric drill to the unsold copies.

  I’m also pleased for Frankie Schelly, who once seemed so frustrated over her efforts at placing her social-issues novels. She finally foots the bill for At the Crossroads, which centers around four nuns who teach at a parish school threatened with closing. The writers’ group members like the novel but not the page
design. Frankie apparently agrees; a couple of months later, I read that she’s had it laid out again and reprinted. She then releases another novel, Chance Place.

  Frankie proves a tireless promoter, as everyone knew she would be once she got started. At the Crossroads is favorably reviewed in Library Journal, quite a coup for a self-published effort. It wins an honorable mention in a contest sponsored by Writer’s Digest, while Chance Place is a finalist for the International Hemingway First Novel Award—though it’s actually her second, by my count. She takes a shot at selling foreign rights at the Frankfurt Book Fair in Germany.

  Eileen Johnson continues traveling to Ireland. In fact, her writing inspires a couple of her readers to take trips there, too. After she publishes her regional history tracing Irish roots in Appalachia, and then her Irish cookbook, she undertakes a novel about the potato famine.

  Jack Pyle’s The Sound of Distant Thunder, once submitted to my company in manuscript form, is chosen Novel of the Year by the Appalachian Writers’ Association, an award previously won by Robert Morgan, Sharyn McCrumb, and Charles Frazier. Jack is now the author or coauthor of seven books ranging from moon-sign-gardening guides to a mystery novel to a short-story collection to a young-adult novel. He sends me a copy of his latest, largest, and most ambitious novel, Black Horse, White Rider, about a New York clergyman’s daughter who marries a philandering, slave-holding rice-plantation owner from Georgia.

  Steve Brown’s energy and creativity in promoting his books are a match for anyone’s. He has a series of three James Stuart novels, a pair of World War II novels, and three standalone novels. His Susan Chase mysteries now number six. They’re sold in stores, of course, but they’re also available through his websites, individually or in a complete set, autographed or not. And he’s forged a mass-market deal with one of the Simon & Schuster imprints for five of the Susan Chase books. Moreover, he’s savvy enough to have retained rights to the series. He’s pleased that he finally has a contract with a major house, but he still takes special pride in hand-selling his original Chick Springs Publishing editions.

  I’m browsing a mega-bookstore out of state one day. One of those catch-all tables toward the front is stacked with books organized by no apparent theme—The Art of War, Candide, Lolita, Kafka’s Metamorphosis, David McCullough’s biography of John Adams, a Jonathan Franzen, a Barbara Kingsolver, a David Guterson, a Garrison Keillor.

  But wait! There’s America Strikes Back—touted on the cover as “the exciting sequel to Of Love & War”—by Steve Brown. Hey, I know that guy!

  I think of writing or calling him when I get home, but I let the moment pass. He’d be thrilled to learn his book is keeping such company. Then again, there’s a good chance he knows already.

  When Charles Price travels on behalf of his novel published by my company, he has middling results.

  We finally agree on Freedom’s Altar as a title. One day, he is to give a reading at a large chain store. The events coordinator has set him up a lectern and a small array of chairs for listeners. But an audience is slow to materialize. The chairs have been pilfered from their customary places around the store, and browsers would like to have them back. Someone approaches Charles and asks to take one of the chairs. He’s not in a position to say no even if he would. Seeing the first person’s success, another customer is emboldened to remove a chair, as is a third. It isn’t long before Charles is alone at his lectern with neither listeners nor the means to accommodate them, unless they think to bring floor pillows.

  Should he begin reading to the empty space and hope his voice draws someone?

  Should he pack his stuff and try to sneak out unnoticed?

  The first time he wears his Western getup for a reading is at an independent store of excellent repute. He does have an audience that day, but when he’s introduced and stands to begin his presentation, he discovers he’s forgotten his glasses and can’t read a thing. The lady running the store offers hers, which he gladly accepts, no matter that their predominantly purple color and bright sparkles diminish the effect of his big hat, fancy boots, and shoestring tie.

  In Nashville, Tennessee, there’s a Confederate cemetery that holds the grave of one of the Curtises, the true-life family on whose lives Freedom’s Altar is loosely based. Charles’s visit to the grave is to be covered by local television. He waits forty minutes at the site, however, and the camera crew never shows.

  The shame in all this is that the book is as good as we thought. “Against a fascinatingly detailed backdrop of the decaying and lawless postslavery South,” says Publishers Weekly, “Price eloquently addresses questions of race and class and morality, poignantly exploring whether hope and loyalty can exist in a world where war has damaged lives irrevocably.” Booklist finds it “compelling” and “lyrical yet controlled,” while Kirkus judges it “well-written.” It claims the Sir Walter Raleigh Award, the state’s highest literary prize, an honor won over its fifty-year history by luminaries from Reynolds Price to John Ehle to Fred Chappell to Lee Smith to Allan Gurganus to Kaye Gibbons to Clyde Edgerton.

  Charles sends us a new novel. It’s a follow-up to Freedom’s Altar, and the third of his Price-Curtis novels stretching from the Civil War into Reconstruction.

  The manuscript is disappointing. Overly derivative of his previous work, it reexamines scenes from the first two novels and focuses on characters whose wads have been shot. It’s heavy on summarizing and explaining at the expense of storytelling, which is Charles’s strength. There’s none of the delight we got when the manuscript that became Freedom’s Altar showed up at our door.

  Except for one chapter, that is. It tells of the short-lived moonshining career of young Ves Price, the son of one of the principals in Freedom’s Altar. Ves is the kind of stupid person who’s dangerous because of his conviction that he’s clever. In the span of about twenty pages, he overcooks the mash, dumps barrels of moonshining by-products into a stream where they can easily be traced to the dangerous men for whom he’s working, samples the new batch too liberally, alienates an old girlfriend, and soils himself and exposes his privates in front of his true love. Since we met him as a boy in Freedom’s Altar, Ves has matured into a worthless, effortless fuckup, and we want to know what further damage he can do.

  We reject the manuscript. Using the moonshining chapter as our example, we tell Charles how he should have moved the saga into the next generation of characters and given them their own, new story lines. Should he ever consider doing so, we tell him, he’s welcome to send the manuscript back for another look.

  We don’t hold out much hope. We’re really asking for an entirely different novel. We’re suggesting he keep twenty pages and throw out four hundred.

  What comes back some months later reminds me why I go to work in the morning. Ves Price is still there, but his is only the second- or third-best story line now. The novel really belongs to a minor character from Freedom’s Altar, Hamby McFee, a headstrong mulatto who doesn’t fit among either blacks or whites but who remains bound to the land by a bitter, confused loyalty he wishes he didn’t feel. Hamby raises fighting chickens. His dream is to accumulate enough winnings to leave the mountains, while his reality is a life of labor that keeps afloat what remains of the Curtises, the local aristocracy gone to seed. The main thrust of the story is how he comes to accept his feelings for the Curtis clan, the only family he has, even to the extent of putting his life at stake for family friend Ves Price, whose greed has led him to inform on moonshiners for the Revenue, and whose incompetence has gotten him caught doing it.

  I’ve never known an author to take a suggestion and run with it so well, or to turn a book around so completely. It’s the best manuscript I’ve read in my time in the business.

  Informally, Charles refers to it as “the chicken book.” We publish it as The Cock’s Spur.

  “Lyrically written, character-rich and authentically atmospheric, the novel affords a deeply affecting insight into the aftermath of war,” says Publishers We
ekly. Charles is named Storyteller of the Year at the Independent Publisher Book Awards.

  Still, returns of the book are heavy. Reviews are fewer than for Freedom’s Altar, and save for Publishers Weekly, they’re in minor magazines and newspapers. Charles now has three novels, each superior to the last, yet his sales are stagnant.

  On both sides, there’s disappointment. We all feel—know—they’re good novels that should be finding an audience by now. Charles wishes we had a more sensible plan for promoting his books. Some on our staff wish he were a more enthusiastic salesman. There are no hard feelings, but when Charles writes a fourth and final manuscript in his saga, it’s mutually agreed that it’s time to part company.

  This one is called “Where the Water-Dogs Laughed.” The Cock’s Spur remains my favorite, but there’s no doubt the new novel is the most daring thing Charles has written, particularly in the way it pays homage to the Cherokee culture and world view. At its center is Northern exploitation of the Southern mountains, in the person of timber baron George Gordon Meade Weatherby. A full-time clear-cutter of forests and part-time hunter of big game, Weatherby grows obsessed in his quest to kill the preeminent bear in the high country. Wounded in the head and driven to rage by pain, infection, and hunger, the animal turns the attack on his tormentors. It is left to Hamby McFee, now aged, to track and kill the bear in the merciful, grateful tradition of the Cherokees and so begin to restore balance to the natural world. It is Hamby’s death scene, too.