The brainchild of a disheveled literary agent out of New York, ‘The Library of Unpublished Novels’ is continued disappointment to its creator. Intended to be a trove of hidden gems, Mick McDowell (formerly of McDowell Literary), has endeavored to do right by clients of ‘The Library,’ paying them a (reduced) lump sum for all rights to any novel that has been unsuccessful on the market for more than two years. The printed copies of these book are hardcover and smyth-sewn and seated on shelves in an expansive, but under-visited venue in rural Wisconsin (where rent is cheap).
Unfortunately, the books are largely trash and few, if any, of the rights turn a profit or break even. Those that have made money (via limited print releases from McDowell himself or lowballed movie rights) are not any better than the others, in fact, they tend to be virally bad, generating profit solely from creative masochists. When ‘The Library of Unpublished Novels’ get any attention at all, it is almost always the wrong kind of attention and McDowell himself is inevitably painted as a bully, making money from the woes of failed authors.
He does what he can to tell people the truth.
There is no money. No prestige. He has nothing but this monument to failure.
But sometimes his clients get to hold their books.
And that’s something.
-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside
