Since I was vaguely toying with the idea of quitting my job at Macmillan and trying to be a full-time writer, I worked hard for Leigh. His rules were simple: ‘There are two choices, but you must decide on one at the beginning of each season and stay with it for that entire season. We split the fee fifty-fifty and I pay for all travel and hotels. Or we split seventy-thirty and you pay all expenses.’ The problem was that if you chose the fifty-fifty deal he billed you into five successive nights in Buffalo, paid only one fare, and made a fortune. So next year you chose seventy-thirty, and you were one night in Buffalo, the next in Ames, Iowa, and right after that in Dallas, Texas. It was a horrible way to earn a living, which is why, after having left his stable, I never again gave speeches willingly, and if I was muscled into doing so, I gave away the fee before nightfall, usually to some black church. In obedience to that law, I’ve disbursed quite a few thousands.
However, if I were again a beginning author I would be on the road three or four nights a week, because it does put one in personal touch with people who cherish books and it is an honorable way to get started.
In my fourth year with Leigh I decided to leave the lecture circuit; the work was much too hard, what with my full-time editorial job at Macmillan, plus the fact that I happened to hear during layovers those two masters of the art of speaking, Bennett Cerf and John Mason Brown, and I realized that I could never equal them. But when I tried to quit, Leigh informed me that I was under contract and must perform as he wished. We fell into a deplorable dispute which was mostly my fault, but he proved intransigent, so I developed a ploy that drove him crazy. I would drive to the next afternoon engagement he had lined up for me, scout out the building to satisfy myself that I could make it from my parked car to the stage so as to arrive at precisely two-thirty, and then read a book sitting in the car while people ran back and forth to see if I had arrived and called New York to find out what the matter was. At the appointed moment I would eagerly walk onstage and try to give the best lecture the group had ever heard.
It was a mean trick and one I am not proud of now, but it began to work, because it left Leigh in a real bind. His clients vehemently protested my split-second timing for my arrival but they also reported that I gave one of the best talks they’d ever had and could they sign me up for next year, even if the fee had to be raised?
Things between Leigh and me deteriorated badly, and at one point he threatened me with a lawsuit unless I paid him the full commission on what he would have earned on the speeches I would have given. Unable to devise an escape, I paid and stewed as to how I could get out of this fearful bind. The moment of decision came at a night meeting in Seattle, where the audience was delighted to see me, but the program was somewhat delayed by a long speech from the chairman who was trying to prove that neither he, nor his daughter, nor his wife had stolen the club’s two thousand dollars. At one point he asked rhetorically, pointing directly at me: ‘Do I look like a man who would steal two thousand dollars?’ and I had to admit to the audience that he did not. He looked like an accountant, which he turned out to be. But then he roared: ‘Stand up, Betsy,’ and again he appealed to me: ‘Does my daughter look like a girl who would steal two thousand dollars?’ and now I had a very different problem, because little Betsy not only looked like a bimbo who might steal the two grand, but who probably had. When he appealed to me, I begged the question.
The problem of the missing money having been more or less settled, the distraught chairman proceeded to introduce me, and apparently his club had had an unbroken series of fine speakers—the hall was crowded and the fee was maximum—because he said in sonorous tones: ‘To this hallowed platform, which has been graced by William Jennings Bryan and Clarence Darrow and Herbert Hoover and Amelia Earhart, tonight we bring you—’ Then he looked at me in abject horror because he had not the slightest idea who I was. He recovered fast, and in a shout of triumph he cried: ‘—their worthy successor!’
That night I decided to end this foolishness, and when I returned to New York I stormed into Leigh’s office prepared to deliver a well-rehearsed ultimatum. ‘You have me, sir. I admit that for another year and a half I’m obligated to perform as you direct, the contract says so, as you claimed. But the contract, of which I have a copy here, does not say that I have to wear shoes when I speak, and it doesn’t stipulate that I cannot wear a bearskin coat, and it certainly doesn’t say that I have to put in the tooth that is missing from the front of my smile.’
Seeing the grim look on my face, he stopped me before I got well started. He leaned forward on his desk as if to grab something with which to beat me over the head and shouted: ‘Get out of here!’ When I stomped from his office, a free man, I tried but failed to slam the door hard enough to break the glass.
I have never been proud of that performance, but neither have I regretted taking strong steps to terminate my bondage. After we’d both cooled down I remained business friends with Leigh, and on at least a dozen occasions when foreign authors or old friends found they needed the services of a speakers’ bureau, I have recommended him: ‘He’s the best in the business.’ And on about the same number of occasions he has asked if I would like to come back to work with him: ‘With your ability to give a good speech and your favorable reputation with the clubs, I can get tremendous fees.’ I have declined. On my very last public speech for him—in Denver, I think it was—I did have a brief moment of regret. In the front row sat two fine-looking women who listened to every word I said, nodding in approval at the points I was trying to make, and I caught myself thinking during the questioning: It’s been rugged, but there have been moments of real meaning like this, when you bring important ideas to people who really want to learn. Besides, people in a hundred towns now know that I write books, so maybe it hasn’t been so bad. When the lecture ended, the two women were first among those who swarmed onto the platform. Their question was: ‘Mr. Michener, we’ve been wondering all through your talk. Where did you buy that handsome suit?’ And that was my farewell to the podium.
At about this time I said farewell to another old pattern of life. The head of Macmillan was in many ways a testy man. George P. Brett, Jr., was the son of that powerful man who had converted the insignificant New York agency of the traditional and very powerful London firm into an outfit bigger than the home office. Young Mr. Brett, as his son was called, had hired me personally after a nationwide search for an editor ‘who doesn’t have to be good, he has to be thirty-five’ to fill a managerial gap in the company hierarchy. Three names surfaced repeatedly, and I was third in line, but the first landed an important teaching job, the second became president of something, and I was left. In my hiring interview Mr. Brett had said repeatedly: ‘Remember, Michener, we are not an eleemosynary institution. We publish books to make money,’ but then he added: ‘And the only way I know how to do that is to publish the best books possible.’
In the subsequent eight years he had never spoken to me directly, for he did not suffer either fools or underlings gladly. In some ways Macmillan was unbelievable: there were two entrances to the handsome gray building on Fifth Avenue at Tenth, and only the upper echelon was allowed to enter by the imposing big door; lesser employees, and they were legion, entered by the small side door and punched a time clock. The unforgettable day sometimes came when an older editor, never Mr. Brett himself, would take a newcomer by the shoulder in a manly way and utter the precious words: ‘We’ve been watching you, Michener, and you seem to be one of us. You can use the big door.’
On a memorable night, the second time in my life that Mr. Brett spoke to me, we ate alone in the dark-paneled board room with the great forebears of the company looking down on us, and as our meal ended Mr. Brett surprised me by placing on the table before me, the manuscript of my second book, The Fires of Spring, and said: ‘Michener, I have bad news. We’ve decided not to publish this.’ Before I could speak he added: ‘My wife read it and did not like it at all.’
I did not know how to r
espond to this second devastating attack on my ability—New York’s leading literary agent, had fired me, and now George P. Brett, the president of Macmillan, was doing the same. I was stricken.
But that was not the end of our session, not by a long shot, because he now became avuncular, and, with the offending manuscript out of the way, said: ‘Michener, I’ve been watching you, listening to reports, studying the sales records of the books you’ve edited, and I’m convinced you have a brilliant future as a publisher. I want you to start immediately working closely with me with an eye to your becoming in due course the president of our company.’
I was so astounded that I could say little. This followed the pattern of every good thing that had happened to me since childhood. Kenneth Rufe has sought me out as one of his paperboys. The Willow Grove lawyer had come to me with his offer of a job. A wonderful teacher had submitted my name to Swarthmore for my scholarship. John Lester had come to the college to offer me a job at The Hill, and the same kind of thing had happened at George School, the Colorado school and Harvard. I had received my job at Macmillan without ever having known that I was in contention, and now a chance at the presidency—‘No promises, you understand’—had arrived like a bombshell. My attitude of being uncompetitive and simply trying to do as good a job as possible had again paid off, and I left Mr. Brett that night with his words ringing in my ears: ‘Michener, you really have no future as a writer but a tremendous one as a publisher.’
I have often wondered how my life might have turned out had not a totally unexpected phone call reached me the next morning when I was bleary-eyed after a night spent pondering the unexpected proposal from Mr. Brett. The call came from a man with a most persuasive voice who said: ‘Is this Mr. Michener, the writer fellow?’ When I said yes, the man introduced himself and said: ‘I come to New York regularly—from Philadelphia—and have been wanting to meet you for some time. Could we have lunch tomorrow?’ and I said yes. In this unusual way I met a much older man who would, by his wisdom, shrewdness and knowledge of publishing, modify and in a sense determine my behavior as a writer. Hugh MacNair Kahler had been a sensationally successful author of commercial short stories but had retired from that profession to serve out his days as fiction editor of The Ladies Home Journal, then one of America’s most prestigious monthlies.
When I met him he was a tall, fine-looking elder statesman, dignified in the aloof way one might expect of a Princeton graduate. But he also had a warm smile and a manner that enabled him to reach out and put at ease anyone with whom he was talking. In our first minutes together I thought: This man wants to like me and I shall do everything I can to make that easy for him, because I certainly want to like him.
‘Let me explain first who I am,’ he said. ‘I was one of the best writers in my field. Set an all-time record. Sold one hundred and twenty-three short stories in a row to the finest magazines. Saturday Evening Post, Women’s Home Companion, Collier’s, all of them. Once I got started, never one rejection. I knew what American readers wanted and, equally important, what the editors wanted. Formula writing? Maybe, but also some very attractive stories.
‘But that’s enough about me. I’ve sought you out, Michener, because I’ve read two of your stories, also your book on the war, and I can see that you have the golden touch that makes a man or a woman a teller of stories.’
In succeeding weeks he came often from his editorial offices in Philadelphia to New York in search of stories for his magazine, and during those visits he sought me out, counseling me on how to become a tough, disciplined professional. Once when I said airily: ‘I don’t believe I’d want to join a writers’ union,’ he exploded: ‘Damn it, son, you stand to make a fortune with your pen. Well, it’s the lucky ones like you who must pay dues to the writers’ groups to support those who can’t afford it. You must do everything in your power to strengthen the writing profession. You join the Author’s League tomorrow.’ And when I said offhandedly I didn’t think I’d need an agent, he used the same argument about responsibility to the profession: ‘I’ll find you an agent tomorrow. The money she makes from you will enable her to help other writers who bring in no income now, but may bring in a lot later—if they survive.’
It was a spring day, I remember, when Kahler took me to lunch at a fancy restaurant and introduced me to Maryland crabcakes, a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and a moral dilemma: ‘Michener, time to make up your mind. Bruce and Beatrice Gould, my bosses at the magazine and two of the best editors in the business, want to hire you. They’ve been reading your stuff, too, and listening to my reports as to what kind of person you are. They want to offer you an immense fee if you will read six issues of their magazine and type out a report on every item of fiction, stating whether had you been fiction editor you would have bought it for the magazine.’
Without telling me the fee the Goulds had in mind, he handed me six issues of the Journal, and I retired to my room and over a period of two weeks typed out some of the most detailed editorial comments the Goulds had ever received. On Kahler’s next visit he took me to lunch again, this time Dover sole bonne femme, and exciting news: ‘Michener, everyone at the Journal wants you, especially the Goulds,’ and he mentioned a salary several times what I was then getting. But before I could express my gratitude and astonishment he added: ‘No one was more eager to have you join us than me. I made them jack up the proposed salary so you’d be more likely to accept. You and I could be a great team.’ Then he cleared his voice and said with unusual firmness: ‘But I advise you not to take our job. More than ever I’m convinced you’re destined to be a writer. Don’t be an editor, be a writer.’
Bewildered as to what I should do, I made a phone call to the Century Club and asked to speak to John Mason Brown. When he came to the phone, I asked if I could come to see him.’
‘And who are you?’
‘An admirer. With a most difficult problem.’
‘Well, now …’
‘I’m a friend of Harold Latham,’ I explained, using the word friend rather loosely to cover my relationship to the austere, reserved chief editor of Macmillan.
‘Well then, come along.’
When I reached the club I spotted immediately the dean of critics, the urbane, gentle man beloved by women’s clubs. I spoke first: ‘Mr. Brown, several people have told me that in your lecture this year you’ve been referring to my book as if it had some merit—’
‘The title of your book?’
‘Tales of the South Pacific.’
‘Michener! Indeed I have been using your book, and with considerable applause from the audiences, I must say.’
Feeling that the ice had been broken, I said: ‘Do you think I could risk it, to chuck my job at Macmillan and try to become a professional writer?’
He was aghast at the impropriety of such a question, especially since we had never spoken before and he knew nothing of me. But he was, as those who remember him will testify, one of the kindest, most sensible men of his generation, and in the next hour he asked me every question whose answer might cast light on my decision: Did I have an agent? Had I saved my money? Did I know any editors of magazines? Did I have in my mind a rich backlog of ideas? Was I able to stick to a job after starting energetically? Was I really determined to become a writer? And the one he considered most important: ‘Tell me honestly, Michener, can you survive financially and emotionally if things don’t work out during the first three years?’
When I said yes, he shook my hand and said: ‘If I were you, I’d risk it.’ The next day with my manuscript of The Fires of Spring under my arm I boarded a bus, rode up Fifth Avenue and walked unannounced into the offices of Random House. I asked one of the editors, Saxe Commins, if he would like to publish the book that Macmillan had turned down, and after reading the manuscript he said ‘Yes.’†
By that act I made myself a writer.
The agent that my godfather Kahler picked out for me was one of the best, the inspired Helen Strauss, who would handl
e my business affairs for many years, and now she performed her first bold act in my behalf: ‘Jim, I think you’re ready to go up to Pleasantville to meet Dewitt Wallace, publisher of Reader’s Digest,’ and she led me on that excursion which so many young writers took to their advantage. The company offices so resembled the buildings of some time-honored New England college that I felt I was being led to registration by a caring aunt, and this impression deepened when I met Mr. Wallace, who seemed like a reticent dean of admissions.
At lunch in the corporate dining room, a quiet, relaxed affair, he introduced me to his senior editors: ‘This is the young man whose work we’ve been following so closely. No question but that he is destined to be one of our writers.’ When the junior editors nodded, which they were prone to do when he spoke, he turned to me: ‘We want to find a place for you on our writing staff.’‡ He made then, and a dozen times subsequently, some of the most generous offers a writer could have received, but I always told him honestly that I felt I would be able to write more effectively as a free lance. After he’d finally given up on having me as a staff writer he made a suggestion that through the years was the kind of bulwark few writers have ever had: ‘Jim, you and Mari are like my children. The only Democrats Lila and I know. I want you to go wherever in world you care to, write about anything that excites you, and Lila and I will pay all your expenses for as long as we live. Your only obligation will be to allow us first refusal of anything you write, and if we take it, we pay you regular rates for it, just as if you were a stranger.’
I never availed myself of that amazing offer, but there it remained, my security in years when I produced little or received little for what I did produce. Later, when it was apparent to the Wallaces that I was not going to join their family, they made a further gesture. Summoning my wife and me once more to High Winds, he said: ‘All the good that has happened to us has come because people like you know how to write. We pay you well, none better, but that doesn’t begin to cover what you’ve done for us. We want you to help us give away our money to projects that are worthy,’ and for many years, though I brought the Digest no profits, I helped disburse the profits that others had earned for them.
The World Is My Home: A Memoir Page 61