25 Years of Shadows and Song

Some stories never fade. They just learn a new name.

Left: the cover bearing the original title, HARLEM REDUX. Right: the cover with the current title, LYRICS OF A BLACKBIRD

Twenty-five years ago, I published a book called Harlem Redux, about a 1920s New York civil rights attorney who returns from the dead to investigate his sister’s supposed suicide—and finds a viper’s den of family secrets, betrayal, and long-buried lies. The story follows his search for truth through the wreckage of love and loyalty.

Harlem Redux didn’t arrive in this world the way books usually do. It didn’t stroll in with an agent and a tidy contract and a marketing plan. No, that book crept in sideways, same as trouble, same as a blessing you don’t recognize till years later.

Back then, I didn’t have an agent. I didn’t even have hope dressed up as confidence. All I had was a manuscript and the nerve to send it out. The second agent I wrote to—the second one—was Julie Castiglia. When she said yes, I thought I’d dreamed it. She was warm, encouraging. I thought the manuscript was good—but the fact that someone else did—that made a difference.

Right about then, life reared up and knocked me sideways. I was diagnosed with Stage 2 breast cancer. Julie told me to put the manuscript away, focus on getting well, give myself time and mercy. I appreciated the advice, but the truth is that the book became my refuge. It became the one place I didn’t feel sick or weak—and the only place where I still had a little control. That story held me together.

I finished it.

And Julie—steady, fierce, protective—took it out into the world, knocking on doors that never quite opened. Editors liked it “but.” Always that but. They admired it politely but passed with the kind of gentle no that bruises anyway. 

After a while she called me with what she presented as an option, though the two of us both knew it was more of a last resort. “You can publish it through iUniverse,” she said. I had never heard of iUniverse. Digital publishing? Uploading a book online like magic? It sounded like sorcery.

But it meant the book would live. So I said yes.

I uploaded the book. Hit publish. Then told myself nothing would happen, anyway, so I should focus on getting back on my feet. I had two small kids to take care of. They needed love and reassurance that their mom—who by then looked skeletal—was still going to be around for a while.

One day, out of nowhere, an email appeared in my inbox. It was from the Go On Girl! Book Club. I didn’t know them. Didn’t know they were a national force with chapters all over the country. All I knew was they’d found my book and chosen it as their Book of the Month. I wrote to Julie, casual as you please, saying, “Is this good?”

Julie called me back so fast I swear the phone rang in mid-sentence. She said, “This is huge. They’re major and they’re going to order your book across the country.” 

And just like that, the ground shifted. 

A week later, she called again—this time with incredible news. “Simon & Schuster wants to talk. Random House too. Are you sitting down?”

We set up phone calls. Both editors were thoughtful, smart, kind. I ended up choosing Simon & Schuster. Finally, I thought. I’m on my way.

I knew I was in for a ride. I didn’t know it would be a rollercoaster.

I’ve never been one for rollercoasters.

Nobody tells new writers the truth: that sometimes your editor leaves, and then the next one leaves, and then the next one after that, and suddenly you’re standing alone at the station with no conductor, no ticket, and a train that’s still got your name painted on the side.

My acquiring editor left.

The next one stayed long enough to shepherd the cover and layout. Then she left.

The third wrote me a lovely note and introduced me to marketing.

The book was about to come out. They used the cover I suggested, which felt like a victory. I flew to New York to meet with the head of publicity and talk about my book tour. Then I asked if I could see my editor. She blinked at me and said, “Oh… she’s gone.”

So, that was Number Three.

I contacted Julie, told her what was what and left the matter in her hands. Time to focus on the task at hand, the book tour. I didn’t know it then, but I was about to learn another reality of book-selling back then.

Lovely hotels. Good crowds. But bookstores were a shock. I’d introduce myself and offer to autograph stock. If it was sold out, as it often was, I’d ask if the store planned to re-order. Nope. Why not? A shrug. If they did have stock, I’d ask, “Where is it?” The response? A finger pointing straight to the back—all the way back—to the deepest recesses of the store. Past the mystery section. Past the new fiction. To the African-American section, where every black writer was shelved together like we were a genre of our own. Mystery, romance, psychology, essays, poli-sci—it didn’t matter. They put us all in the same corner.

I once asked a bookseller why. She smiled warmly, happy to be helpful, “We just wanna make it easier for your people to find you.”

My people?

My book hadn’t been written for a demographic box. It was written for anyone who wanted a damn good story.

Trying not to feel … let’s stay polite and say ‘deflated,’ I returned to New York. Julie had good news: the head of trade paperbacks had promised to assign me an editor. “You’ll hear from him,” she said.

And I did. He reached out and graciously offered to take me out to lunch. I was so excited. I was going to have lunch with my New York editor from a major New York publishing house. My, my.

Well, he turned out to be a young man in his twenties. Not exactly my image of a seasoned veteran who understood where I was coming from, but I told myself not to be hasty. Who knows? He could have chops. Give him a chance.

But as we talked, it became obvious that while he was polite, he was simply going through the motions. He knew nothing about my book. Nothing about me. Nothing even vaguely related.

Finally, I asked him what he usually handled. 

“Sports biographies.”

Really?

Yes, he was into them. Just mentioning the subject made him perk up ninety percent.

Any interest in mysteries?

Not really.

In historical fiction—or even fiction, in general?

Nope.

“So, how did you end up becoming my editor?”

He shrugged. Turns out he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Had stepped out of his office just as the head of trade paperback left his. His boss had looked around, seen him, and said, “You. Come here.”

That was our one and only meeting.

Four editors down and zero to go. I’d never heard of having your book “orphaned.” I learned about it then.

But mystery readers found Harlem Redux anyway. Book clubs—I love book clubs—they pulled my book out of that back-of-the-bookstore corner, passed it to friends, talked it up. The book lived because folks carried it forward.

Years went by. I learned that Simon & Schuster had put the hardcover into print-on-demand and priced it at fifty bucks a pop.

Fifty bucks.

Indie publishing had grown into its own by then. I reclaimed Harlem Redux, brought my baby home. Gave it a new cover, a new title, a fresh start—as Lyrics of a Blackbird.

It’s been with me ever since.

Twenty-five years is a long time for a story to travel. It’s changed names, changed jackets, changed homes. But its pulse—its ache—remains the same.

Somewhere, down deep, I’ve always felt there was more to the story. So, I’ve been writing the tale of the “other twin.” Those of you who read and remember Harlem Redux (alias, Lyrics) will know what I mean. Those who haven’t, I invite you to the party. The new book—part prequel, part sequel—traces the path that led to Blackbird’s tragedy, and what came after.

Some stories stay with you.

Some won’t let you go.

This one did both.

Thank you for walking this long road with me—whether you joined years ago or just wandered in.

Welcome to the night shift.

—Walker