Why I Won’t Publish Nellie Bly’s Racist Novel

When I found the treasure trove of novels by Nellie Bly hidden in the pages of the London Story Paper, I did not start transcribing them in their chronological order. Instead I farmed out the most legible ones to friends while reserving the hardest to discern to myself, postponing the transcribing of the middle-ground ones, neither illegible or perfectly clear.

This was fortunate, because it left her seventh novel, Dolly The Coquette, for the end of the queue. I had finished nine of her novels when I started transcribing and editing Dolly.

Instantly I knew I had a problem on my hands.

By the time she wrote Dolly in early 1892, Bly had already settled firmly into her formula of breathless romantic melodrama. A headstrong woman meets her love, is parted from him, and through a series of misunderstandings, cliff-hangers, and stunning reveals, they are eventually reunited. There is always a fortune-hunting scoundrel and a scheming temptress who together work to undermine the lovers’ happiness. A maiden always attempts suicide in a body of water, and most often the villain dies a justly awful death after confessing his sins.

Since the formula was so standard, Bly attempted to entertain both her audiences and herself by changing her settings. Whether it’s picturesque Bar Harbor or a paper-box…