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Readers are well aware of the celebrated works of African American fiction and non-fiction writers of the latter part of the 20th century through the early part of the 21st-such as , , , , , and , award-winning and best-selling authors whose successes are countless.

And while scholars have explored some of the historical periods that gave rise to contemporary African American writing, often overlooked are years leading up to the last century-and immediately following the 1896 , which legalized segregation.

In the book, McHenry focuses on these forgotten years-roughly 1896 through the first two decades of the 1900s-not because these decades marked success, but rather, because it was a period of publishing failure.

This is perhaps most clearly illustrated through the story of the writer and activist , one of the book’s focal points, whose challenges McHenry argues helped spur the success of the African American writers we’re familiar with today.

“Terrell wanted to pave the way for Black writers to be writing fiction as a norm and for these fictional forms to become as acceptable as journalistic forms,” McHenry explains.

“Whereas her journalism appeared in African American print sources throughout the first decade of the 20th century, her archives at the Library of Congress are full of the unpublished short stories she wrote and sought to place in the nation’s elite literary magazines,” McHenry continues in her book. “The collection also includes a dispiriting series of rejection letters from the publishers of these magazines that made clear to her that she lived in a political climate unsupportive of literary ambitions like her own.”

Yet she says these failures were “both foundational and, as much as we regret it today, also necessary.”

“This whole body of work that I look at, this body of work that includes practitioners and projects and authors and authorship as a concept, is like infrastructure,” says McHenry, who previously penned (Duke, 2002). “It is a backbone of Negro literature, a backbone of what we now think of as African-American literature-and not in the way that I think a lot of people look at earlier time frames and say, see, ‘This was the roots of the Harlem Renaissance.’ This isn’t the roots of the . That’s something different. This is the roots of an appreciation for literature and literary culture, and of a substantial audience for Black literature. It’s a much more broadly laid infrastructure or scaffolding for literature as we now know it.”

(Note: In the new book’s introduction, McHenry writes, “To use the word ‘Negro,’ as I deliberately do in this study, is to evoke a particular moment in which African Americans embraced the word, insisting that its first letter be capitalized as a means of both controlling its meaning and signifying the recognition and respect due to people of African descent.”).

NYU News spoke with McHenry about the book-and, specifically, how African American writing of the post-Reconstruction era had a purpose that stretched beyond the printed page.

You write that writer and publisher had come to believe that journalism, his profession, was “ineffective” in achieving progress for African Americans-and especially so in stemming the tide of lynching, which was widespread in the early part of the 20th century. As an alternative, he and others, including Mary Church Terrell, turned to fiction as a weapon. How did this come about?

Both Terrell and Fortune were combating the realities of fiction of the time-the broad, sweeping narratives that had been created about Black people, about Black sexuality, about Black bestiality, and about Black criminality. These narratives romanticized the antebellum South and helped to fuel the stereotypes that are familiar to us now, and their roots lie in part in the post-Reconstruction period. The false narrative that led to and made lynchings so widespread was, of course, that Black men were raping white women: the narrative of Black men’s insatiable sexual desire for white women led to what was a rampage of lynchings. These racist narratives were attractive and they were much more powerful than any facts that were communicated in the form of journalism.

And I think that what both Fortune and Terrell figured out was that the narratives had to be met with narratives-they couldn’t be met with facts; even if those facts provided overwhelming evidence, they weren’t attractive in the same way. In her public campaign, had tried to combat lynching with facts. She was outspoken and fiery and energetic, and she carefully researched her subject, using sources compiled by white people that were published in newspapers white people considered reputable. She came to realize that lynching had taken a deeper hold in this country than could be overcome by facts communicated through journalism.

So I think Terrell and Fortune’s turn to fiction had to do with trying to create equally powerful narratives of Black life, of Black community, particularly of the problems and the challenges of segregation and discrimination-of being unable to ride in railcars without feeling threatened, for instance. But in the short term, the problem was that no one would publish those narratives. What people wanted was narratives that showed Black people to be ridiculous or comical or unintelligent or violent.

How did these writers persevere?

One way to look at Terrell’s fictional stories is as ineffectual: they were never published and they never were read by large numbers of people.

They never had the impact that she wanted them to have, the impact that she felt they could have had. On the other hand, Terrell created an audience for her stories. She insisted that they be read by magazine editors, I think, as a way to make future failures by Black writers less likely.