Remembered Rapture

by bell hooks

  As my awareness of the publishing interest intensified, I encountered extreme cynicism from editors young and old about the vocation of writing. Most folks seemed to have no interest in artistic visions or an author’s relation to the craft of writing because the prevailing assumption was that any salable idea no matter how poorly thrown together could be shaped editorially into a viable commodity. From the moment I moved to New York I kept hearing from agents and editors that black writers were the “hot ticket.” Rarely did anyone talk about particular authors or their work; instead they talked as if anything a black person wrote, no matter how uninteresting, could be marketed. A black woman visual artist shared with me that an editor called her to find out if she had considered writing a novel. She shared that she had nothing down on paper even though this was one of her fantasies. On the basis of sharing her ideas she was offered a contract. Her ability to write was not considered at all important. Hearing this I was reminded of the editor who told me that “it is actually better to work with writers who lack skill as they are more willing to allow their writing to be pushed in the right direction”—the right direction being always the one that will sell.

  From the earliest years I spent in creative-writing classes at an elite university to my days as a professor of English at Yale, I found that my nonblack peers simply assumed black folks were not really serious about writing—or were rarely, if ever, great writers. The publishing industry seems to relish this assumption. It helps agents and editors to look at black writers and would-be writers as mere fodder for commodification. Words and bodies can be commodified in ways that do not reflect any concern with artistic vision and integrity. When young black writers who have not yet created a body of work, who may not even have a vision of what they hope to achieve in the writing, become more engaged with the process of making deals than fashioning words for the page their creativity is sorely diminished. If their primary concern is making money and not writing this diminishment will not have any serious impact. Yet some young writers who receive huge advances for work that then does not sell lose heart. They come away from this experience feeling as though they have failed when in fact the failure rests within the publishing industry.

  Like every black writer who has spent most of his or her writing life away from the world of publishing, I found it disturbing to arrive on the contemporary scene only to find that there are way too few black folks in the industry. Beginning with agents and on to every sphere of the publishing process, within the industry workers are mainly white. This is especially the case among the major power brokers. An institution or industry may be peopled predominately by white individuals but if those individuals have divested of racism then whiteness in and of itself does not mean that their choices of what to read and publish will be shaped by racist biases. The same can be said of gender. Unfortunately race, sex, and class biases continue to shape not only what is published (which books are pushed by companies) but how work is received. Whenever I read periodicals devoted to reviewing books I am continually amazed that white male writers from privileged class backgrounds continue to have such hegemony of presence.

  There are many black writers who believe that this situation will never change, that our work no matter how well written or important will never receive deserved regard and recognition within the existing structure. Certainly, it was disheartening to witness the biases informed by racism and sexism that surfaced when Toni Morrison won the Nobel Prize. While this deserved recognition should have been a marker of change, for critics intent on maintaining the status quo it became an occasion for vilification. Suddenly critics who had never felt the need to comment on the merits of Morrison’s work were seeking to discredit it. Her work was subjected to a type of mean-spirited criticism that was unlike that any other Nobel Prize–winning author had received. Sexist and racist biases were at the heart of all the trashing that denounced Morrison’s writing. There was no meaningful critique offered. Serious writing by black authors is always subjected to harsher critique than more frivolous literary contributions.

  The black writer who does not even try to feign interest in the craft of writing is more likely to be well received than anyone of us who embraces a vision of excellence. It is quite noticeable that anytime a young black writer receives a lot of money for a book deal this becomes a topic for the press to focus on. Embedded in such discussion is the assumption that some outrageously unfair practice of affirmative action is taking place where the minorities are receiving more than they deserve. In actuality, for every undeserving mediocre black writer, young or old, receiving a substantial book deal there are large numbers of equally undeserving mediocre white writers receiving deals as good or better. Publishers will put money behind a book by a black writer only after they have proven their sales potential. Unfortunately, good books by black writers often receive no serious attention financial or otherwise because they do not interest a fast-food, commodity-driven publishing industry. It is tragically ironic that an industry that for so long believed that black audiences did not constitute a market for books now accepts that this assumption was wrong even as it then markets to that newly acknowledged audience so much work that is simply on the level of substandard housing.

  Unscrupulous agents and editors do their part to persuade black writers (along with writers from all other groups) that it is better to focus on making money than to strive for writing excellence. Now that many of the students that I have taught at Yale and Oberlin work in the publishing industry, I hear from them firsthand accounts of rewriting material that comes to them hastily and poorly written. Young writers of all races whom I encounter see issues of ethics and integrity as concerns of the naive, of those who a young agent suggested to me are just not “hungry enough.” When I came to New York I believed that it would be possible to garner greater financial reward for work well done, acquire a larger audience for my work, and maintain my integrity as a writer. Experience has confirmed that all this is possible.

  It takes critical vigilance not to be swept away by all the forces of materialist greed that encourage any writer eager to be more successful to dispense with integrity in the interest of making the big deals. Writer Jeanette Winterson encourages authors to hold to that integrity in Art [Objects]: “Integrity is the true writer’s determination not to buckle under market forces, not to strangle her own voice for the sake of a public who prefers its words in whispers. The pressures on young writers to produce to order and to produce more of the same, if they have had a success, is now at overload, and the media act viciously in either ignoring or pillorying any voice that is not their kind of journalese. A writer needs to be unswayed by praise or blame and skeptical of the easy friendships and sudden enmities offered by the industry in which she now has to work.” Quiet as it is kept there are many writers who simply want to have the freedom to work on pursuing writing as a vocation without having to endlessly hustle for money or work at steady jobs all the time. Having enough to live on as a writer does not mean that one needs huge advances. Yet there is tremendous pressure for every writer to go for the highest remuneration possible as though this gesture proves that one is really serious or has really made it. When I have shared with agents and editors that I am wary of huge advances that bring with them lots of demands on one’s time as I seek to protect both writing time and time spent in contemplation and preparation for writing, they have dismissed these concerns as unimportant.

  Writers who do not have fantasies of making the big deals, of acquiring major fortune or fame from work need to be acknowledged if for no other reason than that younger writers can see that it is possible to be content as a writer doing one’s work and receiving a measure of recognition. Winterson’s insistence that we stay focused on work resonates with me: “The writer should refuse all definitions; of herself, and of her work, and remember that whether her work sells or whether it doesn’t, whether it is loved or it is not, it is the same piece of work. Reaction cannot alter what is written. And what
is written is the writer’s true home.” When one succeeds with writing cynical observers often assume that this is a sign that one is not primarily devoted to work. In my case, when critics wrote about my “success” they never mentioned the many years I wrote books in relative isolation, with no advances, without even regular royalty payments when the work did sell well. For me the heartbeat of it all has been and continues to be writing—not publishing, not selling.

  I know the value of a life informed by devotion to the art and craft of writing. That is the life I lived before coming to reside in a city where the impact of the publishing industry is so keenly felt in everyday life. Even when I sit at home in my flat writing, the buzzer may ring and a messenger will come to my door bringing me news from the industry, a request, a new book, etc. Now and then I relish this immediacy, but at other times it serves as a constant reminder that it’s about business, not books. The pleasure I received from the hard work of writing was much greater when I lived away from the workings of this industry. While I have no regrets about the time I have spent in the city learning more about publishing, pushing my own work so that I now have both a larger audience and greater opportunity for financial reward, I have already reclaimed a more reclusive space where the power and passion of writing, simply writing, prevails. In that space I do not obsess about audiences, advances, or critical reviews, I just give my all to the work at hand.

  To write with too much of a mind for business changes the nature and spirit of the words that come together on the page. Hedonistic materialism has the power to alter brilliant insights no matter how pure the original vision. Years ago when I first began publishing with South End Press the collective was deeply committed to accepting work that they believed deserved a hearing, especially writing that the mainstream publishing industry had turned away. Had material reward been their sole concern my work and that of many other writers might not have received the initial affirmation that served as a foundation we could build upon. After the success both critical and financial of my first book, I could have left the world of alternative publishing to try and make it in the mainstream. I stayed with alternatives for a long time to nurture and sustain my own belief that desire for material reward should never be greater than the desire to create writing that is solid, insightful, honest—writing that can move the reader, give them an experience of words, cultivated by tender devotion to the art and craft of writing.

  black women writing

  creating more space

  To many people, black women writers are everywhere—on the cover of Newsweek, the New York Times Magazine, on talk shows, on speaking circuits. Just the other day I was in a bookstore and the clerk who took my money for Paule Marshall’s novel Praisesong for the Widow told me if I intend to write a novel, this is the time—that “they” are looking for black women writers. “They” are the publishers and they are supposedly looking for us because our work is a new commodity. The invisible “they” who control publishing may have only recently fully realized that there is a market for fiction written by black women, but it does not necessarily follow that they are actively seeking to find more material by black women; that black women are writing more than ever before; or that it is any easier for unknown black women writers to find ways to publish their work. It is more likely that those black women writers who have been writing unnoticed for some time, who have already found a way to get their foot in the door or have managed to open it wider have managed to enter and can now find publishers for their work. Publication of their work reminds me and many black women writers/readers that our voices can be heard, that if we create, there is “hope” that our work will one day be published. I am always excited when I hear that another black woman writer has published (fiction or any other genre), especially if she is new and unknown. The more of us there are entering the publishing world the more likely we will continue writing. Yet we are not entering the publishing world in large numbers. Every time someone comments on the “tremendous” attention black women writers are receiving, how easy it is for us to find publishers, how many of us there are, I stop and count, make lists, sit in groups of black women and try to come up with new names. What we’ve noticed is that the number of visible, published black women writers of fiction is not large. Anyone who teaches courses on black women’s fiction knows how difficult it is to find the works of black women (they go out of print rapidly, do not get reprinted, or if reprinted come out in editions that are so expensive that students can rarely afford to buy them for their personal libraries and certainly cannot teach them in classes where many books must be purchased). The reprinted edition of Gwendolyn Brooks’s Maud Martha (first published in 1953) is one example. It is however better to have expensive reprints rather than no reprints. Books like Ann Petry’s The Street, Jessie Fauset’s Plum Bun, Frances Harper’s Iola Leroy, Kristin Hunter’s The Survivors and The Lakestown Rebellion are often not available. Yet all of these black women writers were or are well known and their works were or are widely read.

  I assume that publishing quotas exist that determine the number of black women who will publish books of fiction yearly. Such quotas are not consciously negotiated and decided upon but are the outcomes of institutionalized racism, sexism, and classism. These systems of domination operate in such a way as to ensure that only a very few fiction books by black women will be published at any given time. This has many negative implications for black women writers, those who are published and those who have yet to be published. Published black women writers, even those who are famous, are well aware that their successes do not ensure that their books will be on bookstore shelves years from now. They know that the spirit of new commodity faddism that stimulates much of the current interest in black women’s writing can dissipate. It is likely that these writers know that they must “strike while the iron is hot” and this knowledge produces the sense that they cannot always wait for inspiration, cannot linger too long between the publication of one book and the writing of another. They are often compelled to spread themselves thin—teaching, writing, giving talks in the interest of making a living but also in the interest of promoting awareness of the existence and significance of their work. These pressures, whether imposed or chosen, will necessarily affect the writer’s work.

  Black women writers who are not published, who are still nurturing and developing their skills often find it difficult to maintain the sense that what they have to say is important, especially if they are not in an environment where their commitment to writing is encouraged and affirmed. They must also struggle with the demands of surviving economically while writing. The difficulty of this process for black women has changed little through the years. For every one black woman writer that manages to be published, hundreds if not thousands cease writing because they cannot withstand the pressures, cannot sustain the effort without affirmation, or because they fear that to risk everything in pursuit of one’s creative work seems foolish because so few will make it in the end.

  Often new writers find that college creative-writing courses provide a positive atmosphere wherein one’s work will be read, critiqued, affirmed. Black women attending universities could and do find in such courses a place to strengthen creative writing skills. However, black students are rarely present in these courses at campuses where students are predominantly white. At some campuses where students are predominantly black there is often little or no interest in creative writing. Young black women recognize the precariousness of our collective economic lot (increased unemployment, poverty, etc.) and tend to look for those courses that strengthen their ability to succeed in careers. The promising young black woman writer who must work to provide or help provide for herself and family often cannot find the energy or time to concentrate on and develop her writing. Often black women in professions (teachers, doctors, lawyers, etc.) who are also writers find that the demands of their jobs often leave little room for the cultivation of creative work.

  Few black women have imagined
that they can make a living writing. I was thirteen when I decided that I wanted to be a writer. At that time I was primarily writing poetry and I realized that I would not be able to make a living with writing. I chose to study literature because I thought it would lead to a profession compatible with writing. When poetry was my primary concern I was fascinated by the work lives of poets who had professions but wrote extensively. Many of these poets were men—Langston Hughes, Wallace Stevens, William Carlos Williams. When I read about their lives I did not reflect on the supportive role women played in the lives of heterosexual male writers, who were probably not coping with domestic chores or raising children while working in professional jobs and writing (their female companions probably attended to these matters). Rare is the woman writer of any race who is free (from domestic chores or caring for others—children, parents, companions) to focus solely on her writing. I know of few black women writers who have been able to concentrate solely on their development as writers without working other jobs at the same time.

  In retrospect I can see that I was always trying to attend college, hold part-time jobs, and make a space for writing, as well as taking care of domestic matters. It has become clear to me that I was most free to develop as a writer/poet when I was home with my parents and they were providing economic support, with mama doing the majority of domestic chores and all the cooking. This was the time in my life when I had time to read, study, and write. They and my siblings were also continually affirming my creativity, urging me to develop my talent (after I did my small number of assigned chores). I often heard from them and other folk in the community that talent was a gift from God, and was not to be taken lightly but nourished, developed, or it would be taken away. While I no longer hear this message literally—that the ability to write will be taken away—I do see that the more I write the easier and more joyous a labor it becomes. The less I write the harder it is for me to write and the more it appears to be so arduous a task that I seek to avoid it. I think if any would-be writer avoids writing long enough then they are likely to “lose” the desire, the ability, the power to create.