“Bill wrote it, and I was mad.”
17 William Street
Hank P. had an office at 17 William Street in Newark, New Jersey, the headquarters of Honor Dealers, his plan to organize gasoline dealers, which was failing fast. Besides a secretary named Ruth Hock, it had a big desk and some plush furniture. Each morning Bill W. rode over from Brooklyn, paced the office and dictated rough drafts while Ruth typed. He had no real outline, only a rough list of chapter headings.
Each chapter was read aloud at the New York group’s weekly meeting, in Bill and Lois’s parlor on Clinton Street, where it got “a real mauling.” Copies went to Dr. Bob in Akron, where they got nothing but support. Bill dictated them again, and Ruth retyped them, over and over.
Most of the text was Bill’s. Hank, the salesman, is credited with the chapter for employers. Dr. Silkworth’s letters went in at the front. And the chapter for the wives of alcoholics was written by one of the husbands. Bill introduced it as the wives of AA speaking to the wives of men who drink too much, and from there it speaks as “we”: “As wives of Alcoholics Anonymous, we would like you to feel that we understand…”
Lois W. had lived through all of Bill’s drinking. She offered to write the chapter herself. As she remembered it, he said no, because “it should be in the same style as the rest of the book.”
Decades later she still didn’t know why he had insisted. She was hurt, she said, more than angry.
It’s 1938, in a small office at 17 William Street in Newark, New Jersey. Bill W. paces the floor and dictates. Ruth Hock types. The office belongs to Hank P., whose business is failing fast.
Every chapter goes to the New York members in Bill’s parlor, where it gets torn apart, and Ruth types it again.
Most of the book is Bill’s. Hank writes the chapter for employers. And when the book needs a chapter for the wives of alcoholics, Bill writes that too, in their voice.
Lois offers to write it herself. She has lived through every year of his drinking. He says no. It should sound like the rest of the book.
Years later, she put it plainly. “Bill wrote it, and I was mad.”