“What made you think that we would buy stock in a book not yet written?”
Hank’s idea
In the early fall of 1938, the trustee Frank Amos sent Bill W. to Eugene Exman, religious editor at Harper & Brothers, with the two chapters Bill had written. Exman read them and asked if Bill could write a whole book in that style. Harper, he said, might advance him $1,500 in royalties.
Bill was elated, then uneasy. If the book became the fellowship’s main text, an outside publisher would own it. He would owe Harper the advance. And if publicity brought a flood of letters, there would be no money to answer them. The trustees were all for Harper. The meeting ended without a decision.
Then Hank P. got into it. A former Standard Oil executive, sober about two years, he had red hair and, Bill wrote, “at least one new idea a minute.” Forget the trustees, he said: form a company and sell shares to the members. To Bill’s amazement, Exman agreed that a society like theirs ought to publish its own literature.
Hank’s prospectus set shares at $25: a third to be sold for cash, two-thirds to Hank and Bill for their work, and the author’s royalty to the Foundation. He attached a chart of the profits on 100,000, 500,000 and a million books. He named the company Works Publishing, and when Bill objected that it wasn’t even incorporated, Hank turned up with a pad of blank stock certificates from a stationery store.
Not one share sold. Then an editor at the Reader’s Digest said he was almost sure the magazine would run a piece, and that night they started again, on the installment plan. Soon 200 shares were subscribed, $5,000 in all, and Charles B. Towns lent $2,500 more.
It’s the fall of 1938, in New York. An editor at Harper and Brothers thinks his firm might advance Bill W. fifteen hundred dollars to write a book about the alcoholics.
Bill worries. If the book becomes the fellowship’s text, an outsider will own it.
Hank P., a red-haired salesman two years sober, has a better idea. Publish it ourselves, he says. Sell shares to the members. He names the company Works Publishing. When Bill points out that it isn’t even incorporated, Hank buys a pad of blank stock certificates at a stationery store and types the company’s name across the top. Twenty-five dollars a share.
The New York drunks laugh at them. Who buys stock in a book that hasn’t been written? Not one share sells, until Hank thinks of a way to make the book look like a sure thing.