Businessman’s Novel Twice As Long As ‘Gone With The Wind’

    Afraid no editor would take the time to read a two-and-a-half-foot thick manuscript, a wealthy Waco businessman mailed the first 300 pages of his record-breaking novel to an East Coast publishing house sometime in mid-August 1951.

Madison Alexander Cooper, Jr. was born in 1894 with, as he good-naturedly conceded, “at least a silver-plated spoon in my mouth.”  His father was a well-to-do grocer and prominent pillar of the Central Texas city, that would be “Matt” Cooper’s home for life.

After graduating from the University of Texas with a degree in English, he fought in France as a doughboy captain.  Returning in one piece to Waco, he honored his parents’ wishes by taking his rightful place in the family business.

Afterhours, however, the young executive pursued a very private dream.  He spent nights and weekends writing short stories and even sold a few to national magazines.  But those early efforts failed to meet his high standards, and in the 1930’s he moth-balled his typewriter.

Although Cooper kept his nose to the grindstone during the Depression, he did not neglect his first love.  He took three correspondence courses in creative writing from Columbia University, which inspired his switch from the short story to the novel.

Before putting a single word down on paper, Cooper thought his epic tale through from beginning to end.  Allowing ten years to write, ten years to sell and another decade to edit, he did not expect to see the book in print before 1970.

Cooper’s pet project was a secret he shared with no one.  His elaborate precautions were so effective than even his closest friends never suspected the plain-vanilla businessman was hard at work on the Great American Novel.

Cooper brought the imaginary town of Sironia, Texas to life in a study on the third floor of his turn-of-the-century mansion.  A detailed map of the fictitious place and a genealogical chart with the 83 main characters hung on the wall behind his desk.  Visitors were admitted to the sanctuary only by appointment, and prior to their entrance a large map of the Lone Star State was pulled down to hide the fantasy props.

Self-discipline enabled Cooper to change hats without derailing his train of thought.  “I can be in the middle of writing what I consider a poignant love scene,” he once explained, “be interrupted by a tenant whose plumbing has to be repaired, and then after arranging the repair I can return effortlessly to my interrupted scene.”

Learning from the bitter experience of a fellow novelist, who lost his life’s work in a fire, Cooper typed each chapter in triplicate.  He stored one copy in a closet, the second in a vacant store and the third in a bank vault.

After 11 years of tedious toil, Cooper entrusted the finished product to two student typists he swore to the strictest secrecy.  The finger-weary pair pounded out a manuscript two and a half feet thick!

Cooper was stunned speechless.  He knew his novel had run a little long but nearly 900,000 words?  That was more than the Old and New Testaments combined and twice the length of Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind.

Cooper convinced himself that no book baron in his right mind would wade through the 2,864-page manuscript.  So he sent the first 300 pages to Houghton-Mifflin in the faint hope of piquing the interest of the Boston publisher.

To the apprehensive author’s amazement, Houghton-Mifflin immediately asked for the whole enchilada.  Still believing the sheer size would result in rejection, Cooper mailed the next 500 pages.  The response was again swift and favorable, and the repeated request for the rest of the manuscript had an air of urgency.

Cooper summoned the courage to comply and anxiously awaited the verdict.  The publisher phoned in December 1951 to invite him to Boston to discuss the book, but the Texan got cold feet and begged off with the lame excuse that he was too busy to make the trip.

Weeks went by without a word from Houghton-Mifflin, and Cooper cursed himself for blowing the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.  He finally placed a long-distance call to Massachusetts only to discover that his book was a done deal and would be printed in its record-breaking entirety.

Enough readers bought the boxed, two-volume first edition at the unheard-of price of ten dollars to put Sironia, Texas on the New York Times best-seller list for 11 weeks.  Cooper basked in the glow of his hard-earned acclaim, which included several prestigious literary awards, and took pride in the fact that he had beaten his timetable by 18 years.

Wacoans naturally looked for their ancestors among the fictitious inhabitants of Sironia in spite of Matt Cooper’s emphatic assurance that he had not based any characters on real persons living or dead.  But when his files were deliberately destroyed after his death in 1956, folks could not help but wonder.

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