When the rejections began rolling in, there was a universal theme. All the editors of the big publishing houses had taken the time to read my new memoir, and they all emailed my veteran literary agent to say how great the story was, or how well-written it was, or how intelligent the format, interesting, clever, funny, heartfelt, profound, etc. Yet all these wonderfully complementary messages ended with, “But…”
I have faced none of the disadvantages that are so advantageous in the publishing industry today.
My agent kept apologizing to me and I was feeling sorry for her. As they always do, excuses ran the gamut. Several editors, however, were very honest about why they would not publish my book. One suggested that if I rewrite the book and omit the fact that I grew up in an area that was all white, she will consider it. After all, as she explained, that is offensive. Here is a direct quote from another. “If Neal was BIPOC or gay, I’d publish this in a heartbeat.”
I get it. We all love stories of overcoming adversity. I believe most avid readers are sympathetic to those who face challenges concerning race, identity, and sexuality. I too support the LGBTQ+ community and equality for all. So, it could simply be basic economics—supply and demand. Having a mathematical mind, this makes perfect sense to me.
There’s the historical context as well. For centuries, the literary industry, like every industry, was rigged against minorities and folks with perceived abnormal lifestyles. For too long it was a world of straight white men promoting other straight white men. But people in the publishing industry have led the charge to change that, and that’s a wonderful thing. Anytime you want to move the needle of status quo, you have to push hard in the opposite direction. They did that. They’re still doing it.
Memoirs by authors who fit into this niche now dominate the landscape. When the reviews for these books come pouring in from all the major newspapers and review organizations, there is a central theme. The recurring word in all these reviews: “Brave.” The author was brave to go through what they did and very brave to tell their story.
Hence, every “privilege” I was born with as far as most facets of life are concerned, is a handicap as an author. I grew up in a town that was all white and the dozen small towns nearby consisted of only white people as well.
At a time when gay sex was still illegal in some states, I was never attracted to boys. Heck, even girls took a backseat to baseball. So I’ve never known courage of the kind where your very identity could put you in danger.
If I could go back to the womb, perhaps I could plan better. Unfortunately, that is just the reality of my childhood. Hence, being that kind of brave can never be an option for me. But there are other kinds of brave.
We lived in a shack in the woods with no electricity, no running water, no bathroom, no heat, and no insulation. Not even interior walls in the bedrooms. We shared the little shack with many pets—gray, furry, with big teeth and long pink tails. Wild animals crawled into our house and under my covers at times.
My dad’s temper exploded into violent episodes dozens of times each day. I was seven years old the first time I stepped between him and Mom. It wasn’t to be a hero; I just thought it normal since Mom had done this for me many times. Anytime I could deflect Dad’s wrath from my mom or sisters, I would. (READ MORE: CRT and the Threat to the American Family)
Growing up on a small farm in a small rural area meant I had no concept of the real world. Most things in life perplexed me. But I’ve never thought to question my identity or gender. Hence, what the publishing world sees as real bravery has eluded me.
I had to raise hogs beginning at age eleven, and not the cute little family-friendly pigs that dominate Tik Tok today. Most of ours would kill you if given the chance. I had to learn how to castrate, ring noses, and for one huge 400-pound sow who was extremely dangerous, I had to reach inside her to retrieve her piglets when she was having trouble with delivery.
But I’ve never done drugs. Before Nancy Reagan told me to, I always said, “No.” To this day, I’ve never done illegal drugs and rarely done legal ones. I just didn’t realize I was cheating myself out of the opportunity to overcome addiction and be a hero to others while aiding my future writing career. (READ MORE: Edmund Morris, Nancy Reagan, and Life)
Either through fate or choice, I have faced none of the disadvantages that are so advantageous in the publishing industry today. None of the things I experienced are defined as heroics in the modern literary world. And that’s okay. I never wanted to be a hero. I never claimed to be a hero. But I also didn’t plan to be such a straight, white Okie from Muskogee that it made being the right kind of courageous impossible and deemed my words irrelevant.
I guess we all look back over our lives and question many of our decisions. But when a new memoir comes out from one of these “brave” writers, and the numerous editorial reviews harp on that bravery, it is especially depressing to realize how wrong I did everything without even trying.
It reminds me of the scene from Cheers where Dick Cavett, playing himself, explained to Sam Malone that his biography about overcoming alcoholism and being a womanizer wasn’t enough anymore. He added that publishers today were looking for drugs and homosexuality. (Note: this was 1983.)
Sam’s response sums up my entire life. “Sorry I didn’t get out more.”
Neal Wooten is a widely published author. His memoir With the Devil’s Help: A True Story of Poverty, Mental Illness, and Murder (Pegasus Crime/Simon and Schuster) is being made into a ten-part scripted miniseries.
