Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

F. Randall Dortmund’s parents had worked in publishing–specifically, in remainders–so he grew up surrounded by books that no one wanted to read. In the 1920’s and 1930’s, that worked out to writers of high Victorian prose and Gothic melancholy romances. Surrounded by reams of the stuff, Dortmund imbibed it all deeply and came to feel that those old authors were being wrongly overlooked in a cynical and overly practical age.

So it’s scarcely surprising that, when he came of age, Dortmund would write the sort of book he wanted to read. Toiling away in business school with a vague notion of taking over the family business, he wrote novel after novel of his own curious blend of chaste Victoriana and towering Gothic melodrama. His family connections were enough to get the first few published, but in 1947 that wasn’t what most people wanted to read.

The later postwar era, though, saw an explosion of interest in Dortmund’s work, enough that he was able to support himself as a full-time writer. His books shed some of the most irksome features of the 19th-century works they emulated–and all the more palatable to modern readers as a result–but were utterly chaste, with mainly psychological, internal, and melancholy conflicts with precious little blood. They were regarded as suitable reading for all ages.

One would have thought that the counterculture movement that followed would have spelled the end of Dortmund’s popularity, but his books soon became newly popular in an ironic sense, with many readers delighting in the innuendo that could be found in his naive prose. This led the author to accentuate those features to an extent bordering on parody, alienating many earlier readers but gaining new ones.

There is much speculation on how Dortmund’s private life and sexuality influenced his later writings, but he was notoriously aloof and private even as he made himself available for regular public consultations with fans (the “Dortmund circle”).

When he died from a combination of pneumocystis pneumoni and Kaposi’s sarcoma in 1984, Dortmund’s executors found one last novel in his private safe (with instructions that it be published immidiately), along with a signed press release to be issued on the author’s death.

The press release ready, simply: “Be kind to animals, love one another honestly, and dream gothic dreams.”

Literary magazines come and go with alarming frequency, especially in this internet age where the requirements for establishing one have been greatly reduced. But rarely are the failures as spectacular as “Damascus Lounge.”

Its editor, Simon Wise, was well-connected in the city art scene, the scion of an important family, and a respected if not well-known author in his own right. The journal’s premise, soliciting only fine literature that contained, referenced, or promoted radical social change, struck a chord with the wealthy literary elite and guaranteed financial backing from numerous donors. Even before publication of the first issue, a combined physical and digital volume, there were enough stories from prominent or influential authors lined up to sustain the journal for months.

Yet it only produced two issues, one on February 1 and one dated March 1 that actually dropped on February 29. Simon Wise was accused of using the literary magazine as a Ponzi scheme, relying on volunteer labor to produce and edit the texts while pocketing donations and subscriptions.

“People come to the city from all over hoping that it’ll inspire them,” said Blair. “Like a change of venue will have flip some magic switch and they’ll suddenly become the next Kerouac.”

“You’re saying it doesn’t?”

“I know it doesn’t,” Blair snapped, taking a fresh belt of Irish latte from a cafe mug. “I’ve lived here long enough and seen enough starry-eyed people come and go to know that if you can’t write your great novel in Podunk, Arkansas, you can’t write it here.”

“But you moved here to become a writer, didn’t you?”

“That’s different. Back home there were maybe one or two people having their creative dreams crushed by reality; here there are loads of them. Scads. I go to three or four cafes a day just to drink that atmosphere in. It’s research, observation–their pain plus my writing equals something people want to read.”

Shawn tossed the manuscript onto his desk. “I’m gonna be honest with you, Marilyn. It’s good, but it’ll never get picked up.”

Marilyn cocked her head and gave her editor the best ‘you’re-making-no-sense’ stare she could muster. “One doesn’t seem to follow from the other, Shawn. If it’s good, it should be able to be picked up, right?”

“Listen,” Shawn sighed, puffing out his cheeks. “There’s exactly two kinds of young adult literature that sell these days. And this isn’t either one of them.”

“It’s unique!” Marilyn protested.

“The publishers are looking for the next Harry Potter, or at least a knockoff good enough to inspire a major motion picture,” Shawn said. “Kids discovering secret powers and fighting evil, preferably with just enough spice so people with public hair might read it as well.”

“But a more realistic…”

“Right, that’s the other kind,” said Shawn. “Hard-hitting novels about kids coming to terms with things. No kid in the universe will ever read it on their own, but it’ll win awards and get assigned as a course reading and maybe even cook up a little sales-boosting controversy.”

“I think that…”

Shawn tapped the manuscript with a bony finger. “This is too in the middle. Realistic kids, underground killer squids, sibling rivalry, multidimensional travel? It’ll never sell.”