Literary Legacy & The Shredder

from Jacqueline

It was when I published my first book that I came across the phenomenon known as the “modern first edition.” At least, that’s what I believe is the correct terminology. I had a few bookstore events lined up – as a first-time author my publisher correctly thought I shouldn’t tour; after all, if no one had ever read my books, the most I could hope for were people running into the store to get out of the rain. And what if it was a sun-filled day? Doomed and crushed first time author. In any case, it was at one of these events, when someone said, “Signature only, and date please,” that I realized that there were people out there collecting copies of the first edition of my first novel. These same people were ecstatic when I told them it was the real first edition, and not just the first American edition. But I guess I just didn’t get it. “Are you sure you don’t want me to say, “For Jenny?” I’d ask, and they would look at me in horror. I guess I had never noticed that shelf of books in my local bookstore, behind locked glass doors: recent first editions.



Now, of course, I know more about the collectors of modern first editions, but I still don’t quite get it. To me, a first edition has a certain look about it – it’s bound in a deep burgundy cloth cover with gold-blocked lettering, it has a fine ribbon book marker and the front piece announces that it was published in 1849, or thereabouts. Or it might have a bold dust jacket with cowboy-movie lettering, and even I would think that perhaps I would pay the money for that copy of a Hemingway or a Steinbeck. But parting with more than the cover price of the book for a Winspear? Hmmmm.



The issue of value and worth of literature came up again a few months ago, when I met a man who is a dealer in modern first editions. A more delightful and knowledgeable person would be hard to find, in this business. His catalog was impressive and included a good number of mystery authors. I was more than taken aback when he said that he would be delighted to “place” my literary archive. He had recently placed the archive of a major mystery author (I really shouldn’t mention the name) with a university of some stature. I laughed and said, “Oh, no ... I mean, who would want to read my scribbles?” I guess I didn’t want to admit that half of my literary archive was in brown paper grocery bags in the garage under two old saddles, and the rest had been shredded because I thought they might ignite and burn the house down. Plus, I really didn’t want anyone ever to see my scrawling corrections. In fact, I was ready to heave off the saddles and take the rest to the shredder. And there’s not much that survives the occasional purging of unwanted stuff from my computer.

This week, however, I realized that I might not have been taking this issue of value as seriously as might. I was chatting to my editor, going over some last minute questions regarding the manuscript of my next book, when she happened to say, “Oh, at least it will be one for the archive.” I laughed, “Oh, no, that’ll go the way of the rest of my papers – straight through the shredder.” And the line went quiet. Silent, until I said, “I think I’ve just said something really bad.” I heard a deep intake of breath. “Well, Jackie, don’t do that any more. No shredding or deleting. You need to protect your archive.”

So, dear reader, what say you? What do you think about literary legacies and first editions? For my part, with all this paper and the books stashed in boxes in the garage, I think I could end up being one of those old ladies who the paramedics can’t find in her own house. And frankly, I can’t imagine anyone wanting my dog-eared marked-up manuscripts, whether on paper or nestled within the confines of a memory stick.