Black Books Were Her Business: Toni Morrison and Black Men Fiction Writers in Toni at Random
by JULIA MALLORY
in Spring 2025
Jillian M Rock, “theblues001,” 2025
There are times when you hold a book in your hands, and with each turn of the page, it feels like you have slipped into a secret portal that might not be possible if the book did not exist. Dana A. Williams’s Toni at Random: The Iconic Writer’s Legendary Editorship takes its rightful place among those books. There is a level of cultural caretaking that pays homage to the example set by Toni Morrison. In an era where followers of Morrison’s work can experience an abundance of clips across the internet of her decisive takes, Williams delivers substantive stories that reveal more about how Morrison’s ethos manifested in her work with Black writers. Whether her literary support system introduced her to writers or she sought endorsements, we come to understand the ways she tapped the collective to generate support and advance the projects of the writers she worked with.
Morrison took measured risks as an editor and worked meticulously to mitigate those risks. Williams informs us early in Toni at Random, “she was publishing books few other editors would have dared to take on and making it look easy” (3). Morrison was clear that endurance in the face of obstruction was required to advance Black literary agendas because while she might have been building rooms at the (Random) House, she knew that “the survival of Black anything depends on…the energies of Black people” (4). Her clear-eyed efforts signaled that she was committed to doing her part to support Black writers’ right to self-determination through storytelling.
One of the Black churches that used to exist near my house shared space with a decades-run Black literacy organization and had a quote on their marquee that has long since lived in my memory: “Love is more than a feeling, it's a commitment.” In Morrison’s example we see collective determination as evidence of commitment, which she argued, was what sustained change. A love of Black stories and Black books, and a belief in their value was not enough, it would have to be paired with our struggle to make them possible. As she reminded attendees at the Second National Conference of Afro-American Writers on April 24, 1976, “We are all we got!” (10). Layer by layer, Williams builds scenes from the conference that convey the importance of the Black literary lineage in attendance from Stephen E. Henderson to Haki Madhubuti. There is underlying tension at the heart of the interactions amongst peers, including the panel moderator Carole Parks and Morrison. We learn more later about the origin of the tension, which involved conflict about the widespread revival of the work of the late writer, Henry Dumas. We can feel the weight of what’s not being said. Yet, Morrison finds her footing, and her tenacity and talent take center stage as she offers what Williams describes as “a mix of trade secrets and challenges to wield untapped power and influence” (8). Morrison seemed to be clear about her work as she stirred up a pragmatic optimism of self-determination among the collective we.
The beauty of texts like Toni at Random is that one may be introduced to writers and works that they were once unfamiliar with. It sparked my curiosity about who has slipped from popular cultural memory. The writers whose words are calling for rescue from the dusty shelves of undeserved obscurity, or at a minimum should be known by a wider audience. Four writers that readers may be introduced to or reminded to revisit are Dumas, Wesley Brown, Leon Forrest, and John McCluskey.
Morrison’s cultural stewardship of these writers' works emerged in an era where there was outright hostility to the often overt anger of the Black Arts Movement from the traditional mainstream publishing establishment. However, it was not lost on Morrison that legitimate critique could be buried under discussions of craft and tactics, or style over substance. Morrison appeared to prefer work that found an ideal blend of each. Her acquisition choices seemed to say, protest, but make it poetic (and precise). As Williams notes, “Morrison imagined that fiction by Black authors could reflect the sophistication of Black culture in both style and content and that it could speak directly to Black people in affirmative ways rather than a response to whiteness” (111).
We learn that “Morrison was interested in thinking about the ways fiction told stories history would not” and could not. With the writers she edited, there was solidarity in storytellers that built bold worlds with Black Interiority as the guiding force (20). Morrison appreciated working with fiction writers whose work she found inspirational to her own practice and who were open to the process of polishing their work for the market. Put another way, their work should be interesting and they were interested in working with an editor (112). Forrest was one such writer. He was not new to writing for the public, with experience at ventures like the Nation of Islam's Muhammad Speaks. Morrison was drawn to Forrest’s fiction because he had managed to speak to Black issues without sacrificing an expansive creative approach to the work that neared experimental in its methods. Forrest’s debut novel There is a Tree More Ancient than Eden (1973), and subsequent offering, Bloodworth Orphans (1977), were supported by Morrison.
In her work as an editor with Forrest, we see her firm but affirming approach to editing. She is clear in what is not working: “this has to be drastically cut. It is quite out of hand.” But enthusiastic about what is: “I am continuously re-impressed with things I am discovering in the manuscript” (117). Morrison applied this approach consistently in her work with writers. Morrison was not the only impressed early reader of Eden. The strength of Forrest’s manuscript also earned him a rare review and foreword from Ralph Ellison.
Reading Eden, I could feel Morrison's fiction kin. Writers that build worlds that float just above reality, full of Black characters with bold insides. Writers that shared her stance of being the center and were disinterested in centering the white gaze, simply stated writers that “seemed to be talking to other Black people” (33). Williams' summary of Eden mentions a Black woman character who set fire to the family home and my mind instantly went to Eva Peace of Morrison’s 1973 novel, Sula. Morrison especially welcomed writers that she could learn from. On editing Forrest’s work, she would remark that it “sharpened her craft as a writer” (123). Eden was the first novel she edited and his novel, Two Wings to Veil My Face “would be among the last novels she would work on” when her time at Random House came to an end (129).
During this period of her work with Black men fiction writers, she would also support bringing to the work of Henry Dumas to a “hungry following” and wider audience (168). Dumas had been tragically was killed by a New York City Transit Cop in 1968. Impressed and inspired, Morrison remarked that “he was also the only writer I had read who had a future look and a backward look in the same text” (164). As mentioned before, Morrison was partial to writers whose work she could learn from and in Dumas she saw a “willingness to write against or beyond accepted literary conventions” (165).
Henry Dumas, Wikimedia Commons
While Morrison’s work as an editor was personally satisfying and culturally significant, it was not without its growing pains. Her work as an editor occurred when it was rare for a Black woman to be at the helm whether within an intracommunal institution or a large mainstream organization where marginalization of non-white, non-male voices was routine. And despite the significant contributions of Black literary organizations and a belief in self-determination, organizations could be shuttered without explanation. John H. Johnson’s abrupt closure of Black World, where Parks had served as managing editor was one such example. Morrison, no doubt, felt the impact of such decisions as she advocated at the 1976 conference that “there must be Black independent publishers” (7).
Williams also invites witness to the ways Morrison maneuvered the balancing acts required to manage her simultaneous careers as an editor and fiction writer. A description she would have likely taken issue with at the time, as she once told Parks, when confronted about her missteps in publishing Dumas’ work, “I don’t have a career, you know, I just work” (174). Unsurprisingly, there were multiple misunderstandings and confrontations over the course of her tenure as an editor at Random House. Although one can imagine these as the mundane fare of workplace woes, Williams includes them to provide a more balanced, complex, and fully human representation of Morrison.
Morrison’s earlier editing work, especially with Forrest, demonstrated the type of texts and authors she was interested in working with. She did not shy away from less conventional books, particularly books that defied the commercial expectations of what Black writers should be creating, including “quieter” books (179). Morrison considered the first manuscript she received from John McCluskey, published as Look What They Done to My Song (1974), as belonging to this category. Part of working with writers required that Morrison also prepare them for the volatility of the market. In Williams’ recall, we see Morrison assertively running moves from her publishing playbook to facilitate the success of the authors she supported. McCluskey was no exception. When sales were slow, she assured him that he wrote a good book and reminded him that her first novel, Bluest Eye, “sold a mere three thousand copies before gaining traction” (186).
Morrison liked to work with authors on at least a second book to grow their presence in the literary world and by the second book, they would have more name recognition, which would hopefully lead to more commercial success. Morrison championed books she believed in and worked hard to get others to believe in them, despite there not being a perfect formula for success. For instance, she brought out the work of Wesley Brown, and his book Tragic Magic (1978), which Random House published the hardcover version, “which went out of print until it was reissued in 2021” (188).
In exploring Morrison’s work with Black men fiction writers, Williams builds a compelling case that not only did Morrison have the “ability to edit all kinds of fiction” but that her work in the space demonstrated that the world of publishing was stronger “when every kind of author was giving meaningful opportunities for storytelling” (189). With Toni at Random, Williams has placed the expansive world of Morrison in our hands, not just for the sake of beautiful words or even meaningful memories, but so that we may move through the portal of possibility of Black letters, be reminded of our commitments, and press on.
Julia Mallory is committed to being a good steward of, and vessel for her ancestors' stories. As a storyteller, her foundational creative love language is poetry, and she moves between genres with a range of mediums from text to textiles. Julia’s written work has been widely published. She received the 2022 CUSP Prize for Fiction and the 2023 Mayday Micro-Chapbook Poetry Prize. In addition, she is a Poetry Editor for The Loveliest Review. Julia is also an emerging filmmaker whose work has screened from Toronto to Iceland. Her latest loves include creating stop-motion animated collages and building TEN OH! SIX, a multi-generational community space for collective learning, connection, and creativity. Julia is the mother of three children and is from the Southside of Harrisburg, which she affectionately refers to as “the lil chocolate city that tries.” For more information, visit www.thejuliamallory.com.
