Publishing Miracle 14: Breakout

by Ronald R Johnson

I’ve been telling you about the various factors that made the novel Magnificent Obsession a bestseller. Unlike most successful books, however, it took a year and a half for this one to make it to the top. On April 18, 1931, eighteen months after its release, Publishers’ Weekly ran a notice about it: “A book which was published in November, 1929, has for some time been appearing on the best seller lists of mid-western stores, and this month its percentage brought it up among the leading twenty-five books of fiction. This is MAGNIFICENT OBSESSION, by Lloyd C. Douglas.” It wasn’t in the Top Ten yet, but the quiet path it had taken earned it respect, even from New York critics.

The prestigious Saturday Review of Books called Magnificent Obsession “a readable and refreshing story, with an unusual message.” “The idea of achieving a magnificent personality is not new,” the reviewer said, “but Dr. Douglas’s method is quite different from that of the personality racketeers, and no commercialism soils it.”

Surprisingly, The New York Times had already reviewed the book soon after its release (1/12/1930). On the whole, it was a good review, correctly summarizing the book and saying, “For those with curiosity concerning obsessions, flavored with love and adventure, Mr. Douglas’s book will prove pleasant reading.” There is only one negative remark, and it is difficult to interpret: “Even for those who have a large appetite and enjoy a varied menu, Magnificent Obsession should prove an ample though rather indigestible repast. Besides romance and mystery, it concerns itself with medicine, chemistry, psychology, ethics, religion, alcoholism and altruism, and above all, with the ‘Major Personality.’ Incidentally, a formula for success and happiness is propounded.” (That word “indigestible” would seem to be a negative assessment of the book, perhaps meaning that Douglas tries to do too much; but everything else the writer says is positive.)

The Times mentioned the book again a few years later (1/17/1933), at the start of a story about 1932’s bestsellers: “The year’s marvel, the wholesalers say, was The Magnificent Obsession, which placed sixth on the fiction list after lesser sales during three years on the market.” (It had moved up from the Top 25 in April 1931 to the Top Ten overall by the end of 1932.)

Nothing works like success. Now everybody reviewed the book. That meant, of course, that some would attack it, especially in cities where it had done well. In Kansas City, for example, a frustrated reviewer lamented, “Almost everything is wrong with The Magnificent Obsession. It is poorly constructed, the characters are unreal, the dialogue is not natural, the style is bad, and the plot is unconvincing. It does not even tell a good story.” The headline of the review was, “Why Publishers Go Mad.”

Kansas City Journal Post, Sunday, April 19 (no year).

In Birmingham, Alabama, an entire page was devoted to the subject. A local minister defended the book, but two critics from the paper trashed it on literary grounds. One of the critics called it “the most vulgar book I have ever been forced to read.”

But others were pleasantly surprised by the book.

Emily Newell Blair, the book review editor at Good Housekeeping, wrote in December 1932 that, although many people had urged her to read it, she had avoided doing so because she thought it would be a boring religious tract. “What was my amazement to find it, first of all, a corking good story with something happening in every chapter to hold your interest, characters which were actually alive, and a real plot. It was, in fact, a really good novel, entirely apart from the theme which has made its appeal so wide…” That theme, in the hands of a less gifted writer, would have ruined the story, she said. “That it does not spoil this one is almost proof that the author has practiced what he preaches; namely, that man may enlarge his personality and do anything he wishes if only he will adopt the philosophy of life discovered by the doctor in the book.”

With these words, Blair went farther than any of the book’s other reviewers, even among Christian periodicals. Not only did she claim that the book had technical merit but she also proposed that its author was illuminated by the very power that the book talked about. Then she took the next step that this implied: she wondered “why the thousands who have already read this book are not already practicing it.” Although she was surprised to find it “a really good novel,” she understood the challenge implicit within it. “Indeed, if its message were believed and practiced generally, it would change the world.” Although she was an editor at a secular magazine, she well understood what Douglas had accomplished and she challenged her readers, wondering why more people were not trying the experiment. “Perhaps they are,” she added hopefully.

Over the past dozen posts I’ve described the path Magnificent Obsession took from relative obscurity to the Top Ten bestsellers nationwide. What I find most interesting about its slow ascent is that it illustrates what is now a publishing truism: advertising alone doesn’t sell books; word of mouth is much more effective. There are many different reasons that people become motivated to buy a book, but as is so often the case, Magnificent Obsession got people’s attention by the “buzz” generated through a number of channels: religious, social, and professional. But first, of course, there has to be something in it worth talking about. Magnificent Obsession had that in spades.

And it changed Douglas’s life. I’ll talk about that in my next few posts.

Salvage: Starting Over

by Ronald R Johnson

As I explained in an earlier post, Douglas’s novel Salvage was meant to be in line with the New Fiction of the 1920s, especially the works of Sinclair Lewis. Douglas had already written the first two chapters that way. There would be no moral. In the New Fiction, novels weren’t supposed to have morals. Characters were introduced; they were thrown into a set of realistic contemporary problems; and they must either sink or swim – and, in many cases, the protagonists of the New Fiction would end up sinking. Douglas was too much of an optimist to let that happen to the characters in Salvage, but he was also attuned to the type of novels being written in the 1920s, and he knew there could be no heavy-handedness on his part. He must let his characters “work out their own salvation” (as he said in a letter to his cousin Edith Kirkwood, 11/16/1932, in “Correspondence, Undated,” Box 1, Lloyd C Douglas Papers, Bentley Historical Library, University of Michigan).

Up until January 1928, they didn’t.

Douglas checked in on them periodically throughout 1927 but was disappointed to discover they had made no progress since he had last looked in on them. None of them knew what to do; they just sat there waiting for him to tell them. “As if I knew,” he said later (“Pygmalion,” The Kiwanis Magazine, December 1938).

Granted, he had nudged Bobby Merrick a bit in Chapter Two, by way of the head nurse Nancy Ashford, until Merrick decided to devote his life to medicine. But after that, Merrick was supposed to be on his own. To Douglas’s disappointment, he needed more help than that.

On January 20, 1928, Douglas’s daughter Betty suggested that he base the rest of the novel on the subject he had preached about that morning. Although Betty may not have known this, her suggestion amounted to taking the work he had done over the past few months on his non-fiction project, Exploring Your Soul, and inserting it into the as-yet unwritten chapters of Salvage.

This posed a technical issue: how to take information from one book and insert it seamlessly into another book, especially when one was non-fiction and the other was a novel. Douglas’s solution to this problem was ingenious: he turned the non-fiction material into a coded diary, which Merrick and Nancy Ashford would decipher and discuss.

But there was a much bigger technical issue with Betty’s proposal: it would mean making the rest of the story “didactic.” In other words, it would point toward some lesson that the reader was supposed to learn. Ever since the onset of the New Fiction in the 1920s, that was no longer deemed acceptable by the arbiters of literary taste.

Like any good novelist in the 1920s, Douglas did not want to be labeled “old-fashioned.” He had never been old-fashioned in his preaching, and he certainly didn’t want to be an old-fashioned novelist. Besides, in the literary world of the 1920s, that would mean the kiss of death. Douglas had no intention of ruining his reputation before he had even begun.

So he used a number of literary devices to avoid the problems of earlier didactic novels. Instead of quoting scripture, he makes the scripture lesson a mystery to be solved; and when Bobby and Nancy are on the point of quoting an actual Bible verse, he cuts them off mid-sentence. The characters draw attention to the fact that they are about to learn a scripture lesson, and they protest loudly. And rather than making them learn against their will, Douglas has them try the experiment that the scripture suggests. Yes, one could say that the end result was “a didactic novel,” but it was brilliantly conceived, and executed with a playfulness that is absent from the didactic novels of any earlier age.

But there is another technical issue that Douglas didn’t take seriously at all: the fact that the first two chapters of the book lead the reader in one direction, and the rest of the book, from Chapter Three onward, goes in another. He left the first two chapters the way he had written them prior to January 20. He didn’t find it necessary to rewrite them in light of his new idea.

In Chapter Three, Dr. Hudson’s young widow, Helen, puzzles over the conversations she is having with people who have come to pay their respects to her late husband. Dr. Hudson has done much good in the lives of many people, but he has sworn them to secrecy. All these people share a strange vocabulary. Those to whom he loaned money, for example, say that he wouldn’t let them pay him back. “I have used it all up myself,” he told them.

This is the real beginning of the novel, as Douglas conceived it from January 1928 onward. This is what the book is all about.

You might reply, “Oh, but don’t the first two chapters introduce the characters and prepare us for what’s coming?” My answer is, “Yes and no. They introduce the characters, but rather than preparing us for what’s coming, they give us a different set of expectations.”

Let me show you why I think this is a problem.

I’m jumping ahead of the events I’m narrating, but here are two representative samples of how the book would later be reviewed in newspapers and journals. Can you spot the interpretive dilemma these samples illustrate?

Sample One: “a young waster… is saved from drowning at the cost of the life of a famous brain surgeon” (The Congregationalist).

Sample Two: “Surgeon number 1 leaves a manuscript in cipher behind him when he dies and surgeon number 2 translates it, assisted by a nurse” (Winnipeg Tribune).

I ask you: Which of these two summaries has captured the essence of the novel?

Based on Douglas’s intentions from January 1928 onward, I would have to say that Sample Two wins the prize; but most summaries of the book agree with Sample One instead. In fact (although this is also jumping ahead), the book would be converted to the silver screen not once, but twice (in 1935 and again in 1954), and in both cases the moviemakers would assume that Sample One was the essence of the book (as well as the last three chapters).

In other words, the first two chapters attract so much attention to themselves, it becomes very difficult for readers to understand what Douglas was actually trying to do. As it turns out, many people got the message. But many others didn’t.

Then again, Douglas would go to great lengths to make his meaning clear, even devoting an entire chapter to emphasizing the purpose of the book. I’m referring to Chapter Eighteen, and that will be the subject of my next post.

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