My warm thanks to radio producer, biographer, musical historian, book reviewer and man about town, Chris Bourke, for bring to my attention the following fascinating piece which appeared in the New York Times on May 16, 2007 and which somehow I missed at the time.
It is still worth another airing seven months later.
Should be read by all authors and publishers!





AN AUTHOR'S NIGHTMARE by Dick Cavett
“You should sue your publisher.”

Those attention-getting words were uttered by a man who was invariably referred to as “the grand old man of Chicago book dealers.” That, rather than “hello,” was his greeting when my co-author and I once entered his shop.
His place had the familiar scent of a real old-fashioned bookstore for book lovers, enhanced by carpeting and the traditional brass bell that tinkled as you opened the door.
“I ordered 50 copies of ‘Cavett,’ H.B.J. sent me nine copies, and I sold them all that morning,” he said. He was referring to Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, our publisher. “It’s three weeks now that I can’t get any more copies out of your publisher. People come in for it every day. Do you have a good lawyer?”

How could this be? How could they not send the books?It was Christmas buying time, the book had made The New York Times best-seller list, and Chris Porterfield and I were in Chicago doing a media blitz. We did the Donahue show (then in Chicago), and Irv Kupcinet’s show and Studs Terkel’s and made numerous other Chicago radio and TV appearances. How could the book not be in a popular bookstore? Any comfort from thinking maybe this was an isolated case quickly dissolved. “And the Kroch-Brentano chain of stores,” he said, emphasizing the word “chain,” “can’t get it either.”

He told us where to find one of those stores, and we went there. “Nice to see you,” said the department clerk. “It’d be even nicer to see your book. People are driving us crazy.”
(If this were a ’40s movie, the picture would start to undulate, and the music would tell us we’re going back in time.)

Authors telling me similar stories began to play back in my head, but not having been an author when I’d heard them, I’d paid scant attention. Some had been famous people, but some not so famous. The typical author might have been a guy who spent three years writing a book in his humble apartment while his wife taught night school to make ends, if not meet, come into closer proximity. Then suddenly, delight: The book got good reviews. But the publisher did the typical poor job of distributing it, and still another potential best-seller was strangled in its cradle by the incompetence of the publishing house. People with such stories often said, “Nobody knew my name, of course. This wouldn’t happen to you.” (Ha!)
(Screen becomes wavy again and we are back at the “Cavett”-free book counter.)

I felt the vein at the left of my forehead begin to pulsate — a sign my staff would watch for during taping of a show. It was an infallible indication that I was getting irritated by a guest.
“May I use your phone?” I asked the nice clerk. I called H.B.J. and asked to speak to Mr. Jovanich, the tall, erudite, handsome head of the company who had urged and encouraged and wined and dined me, ultimately seducing me into doing a book. The seduction included long, pleasant, chatty lunches with him at Lutece, an elegant (et très cher) French eating joint. Lunch included fine wines selected knowledgeably by my host. Mostly we dined alone, but once we were favored by the presence of the elegant, witty and still knock-out-beautiful Paulette Goddard. (We aren’t in Nebraska anymore, Toto, I thought.) All boded well for the book.

“Hello, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich.”
“Bill Jovanovich please.”
“Mr. Jovanovich isn’t in.”
(Temple throb increases.) “Where is he?”
“He’s in Europe, I’m afraid”
“Don’t be afraid. Where in Europe?”
“I’m afr… I believe he’s traveling right now.”
“Who’s running the store while he’s gone?”
“The president of H.B.J.”
“Let me have him.”
“He’s at the Yale Club right now.”
“Are you equipped to reach him there and put him on the line with me?”
“Is this an emergency?”
“I’ll say.”
(Our camera cuts to the Yale Club locker room. Men in and out of towels parading about.)
Attendant: “Locker room.”
“Mr. [I cannot recall his name] please.”
“He’s in the steam room.”
“Get him out.”
“Yes sir!”
(A suspenseful pause.)
(The President of H.B.J., presumably holding his towel in place with his free hand): “Hello, who’s this?”
“Dick Cavett. In Chicago. I’m in a Kroch-Brentano store. They’ve all been out of ‘Cavett’ for weeks. What the hell is the excuse for this? Are you not allegedly a professional enterprise?”
At that moment, a nice lady came to the book counter and asked for … you guessed it … “Cavett” and registered disappointment. I put her on the phone, saying, “Tell this man your problem.”
She: “I haven’t been able to find Mr. Cavett’s book anywhere in Chicago. I’m going to have to buy Lawrence Welk’s book instead.”
Me (taking the phone): “How fast can you get the books here?”
(I forget what he said, but it was unsatisfactory.)
“What about overnight air express?”
“Yes, Dick [the pointed way of saying one’s name by the annoyed]. That would be expensive.”
“As expensive as not selling the book for three weeks?
“Before you return to the comforts of the steam room, I’ll make this easy for you. If the books aren’t here by tomorrow morning, I’ll cancel the Dinah Shore Show, the Carson Show, the Today Show and all the rest of this so-called selling tour and come home. Your hapless company has one book on the best-seller list and you can’t manage to distribute the goddamn thing. You must be very proud.”
(I hung up, as loudly as possible this side of breakage.)

The books winged their way to the Windy City the next morning, worth their weight in air express fees. I did the other shows, the book sold pretty well despite H.B.J.’s best efforts, and life resumed.

It was in telling this tale to Calvin Trillin that I learned of his ongoing project, “An Anthology of Authors’ Atrocity Stories About Publishers.” Even if he got a publisher and the book came in at under 60 pounds, they’d fail to get it to the stores. That practice, I’ve been told ever since my battle of Chicago, continues, like Bush’s war, to this day.

My friend and prolific writer of books Roger Welsch, who made overalls chic on “CBS Sunday Morning” over the years with his “Postcard from Nebraska” (which Johnny Carson told me was the only “must see” on his personal televiewing list), recently was asked to do a book signing — a semi-pleasant aspect of book promoting. The author sits in a bookstore framed by stacks of his work and signs them for chatty purchasers. Roger said he got slicked up and drove a good distance to Grand Island, Neb. He entered the bookstore and became a bit uneasy, because nothing resembling a crowd was in evidence.

In fact, nothing resembling even a person was there, except for the lady who ran the place. “How nice of you to come!” she effused and went and got the store’s copy of his book from the window for him to sign. He drove home.
When asked to sign now, he asks politely if “book” is plural.

Footnote:Dick Cavett, famous in the US for The Dick Cavett show is also an author of two books and has made several guest appearances in movies. He also blogs for the New York Times/ where the above piece first appeared.