Why Manuscripts Are Worthless
The simple answer is that they can be replicated with a click of the mouse. They are not unique. Authors are contractually obligated to keep them on hand, in the event of a lawsuit involving plagiarism or libel. And there they sit until the author dies, and his heirs think they have a bonanza on hand. They usually discover that the entire stack is headed for the circular file, orphaned by modern technology. They will not acquire value a hundred years down the road, as long as they can be reprinted with a click of the finger.
Actually, manuscripts were once valuable-- if you were a Hemingway. A friend of mine, close to the Hemingway family, has had Sothebys sell some typescripts, and has gotten large sums for them. In the days of typewritten or handwritten manuscripts, they were indeed unique. Add the author's fame to that, and the manuscript became a valuable possession.
A handwritten manuscript was singular, and often contained the author's emendations. Typewritten ones would show the alterations. Pages would be retyped and shorter. Chapters would be retyped. Page numbers would be crossed out and redone by hand. Or an added scene would bear the page numbers 47a, 47b, and 47c. So the editor would get a manuscript that was disorderly: half pages, extra pages, pages with paragraphs whited out. Pages with sentences scratched out. The disorder would reveal the author's purpose, critical judgment, and cast of mind. A few of my early stories were created in that manner, and I gave them to a small museum. The rest, beginning with computerized preparation, have no worth.
Once computers came along, and the corrections could be written into material that would all be neatly printed out in a given format, the peculiarity of each story would vanish. Spellcheck, a perfidious friend, often made the stories even more anonymous. In recent times, the publishers' editors and copyeditors would edit the story, return it to the author, who would incorporate the changes in the manuscript, and send it back to the publisher as clean copy, which often could be typeset without interference. In short, the print scripts sitting in an author's office were finished editions. Nowadays, paper has largely been eliminated, and stories are e-mailed to publishers. If they want a paper copy, they make one at the publishing house.
I have a ton of the things rotting in my basement, there only because I am contractually obligated to keep them available. But my heirs will know what to do with them. I've let them know.
Actually, manuscripts were once valuable-- if you were a Hemingway. A friend of mine, close to the Hemingway family, has had Sothebys sell some typescripts, and has gotten large sums for them. In the days of typewritten or handwritten manuscripts, they were indeed unique. Add the author's fame to that, and the manuscript became a valuable possession.
A handwritten manuscript was singular, and often contained the author's emendations. Typewritten ones would show the alterations. Pages would be retyped and shorter. Chapters would be retyped. Page numbers would be crossed out and redone by hand. Or an added scene would bear the page numbers 47a, 47b, and 47c. So the editor would get a manuscript that was disorderly: half pages, extra pages, pages with paragraphs whited out. Pages with sentences scratched out. The disorder would reveal the author's purpose, critical judgment, and cast of mind. A few of my early stories were created in that manner, and I gave them to a small museum. The rest, beginning with computerized preparation, have no worth.
Once computers came along, and the corrections could be written into material that would all be neatly printed out in a given format, the peculiarity of each story would vanish. Spellcheck, a perfidious friend, often made the stories even more anonymous. In recent times, the publishers' editors and copyeditors would edit the story, return it to the author, who would incorporate the changes in the manuscript, and send it back to the publisher as clean copy, which often could be typeset without interference. In short, the print scripts sitting in an author's office were finished editions. Nowadays, paper has largely been eliminated, and stories are e-mailed to publishers. If they want a paper copy, they make one at the publishing house.
I have a ton of the things rotting in my basement, there only because I am contractually obligated to keep them available. But my heirs will know what to do with them. I've let them know.
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