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Dr. Dana Williams Discusses “Toni at Random" with Journalist Ayesha Rascoe
Dana Williams never meant to write a book about Toni Morrison. At least, not this book. But nearly two decades ago, while sitting in a graduate seminar taught by scholar Eleanor Traylor, Williams learned something that startled her: many of the most important Black writers of the 20th century, Toni Cade Bambara, Leon Forrest, Gayl Jones, Henry Dumas, had all been edited by Morrison at Random House.
“I said, ‘Huh?’” Williams recalled. “She was an editor? Like, so these books came into being because she acquired them?”
That moment set Williams on a long, uncertain path. It led her to write “Toni at Random,” a biography of Morrison’s career as an editor. The project stretched across nearly 20 years. It started with interviews. It grew into research trips, archival work and transcriptions of Morrison’s correspondence. Along the way, Williams held onto Morrison’s encouragement. “If I can help in any way, let me know,” Morrison had told her. That was enough to keep going.
Williams spoke about Morrison’s editorial legacy, the making of the book and the broader context of Black publishing with journalist Ayesha Rascoe at the D.C. Public Library.
Williams, now a professor and dean at Howard University, said that the first time she interviewed Morrison in 2005, she had written-out questions focused on the writers Morrison had edited. But Morrison had her own ideas. “She’s talking about everybody except what I want to talk about,” Williams said. “And there is just no way. There’s no way to be like, ‘Ma’am, I need you to stay focused.’”
It wasn’t until after the second interview that someone told her Morrison was editing her. “This thing has to be more expansive than just these fiction writers,” Williams realized. Morrison wanted her to see the full list, more than 50 books, and think bigger. From then on, Williams collaborated with Morrison to create an inventory of titles. Together, they mapped out the scope.
Throughout the process, Morrison was intentional about where and how the book would be published. Williams said it was crucial to her that the final book appear under a Black imprint. “HarperCollins is the larger publisher,” she said. “But Amistad is the oldest Black imprint in mainstream publishing. I really, really wanted to do it there.”
That choice also mirrored Morrison’s own experience. She had entered the industry through L.W. Singer, a textbook company in Syracuse, but was brought to Random House during a corporate acquisition. According to Williams, Morrison’s editor-in-chief saw something in her during a 30-minute meeting and decided to bring her along. “We don’t know why she gets chosen,” Williams said. “But there was something about her presence and her awareness.”
At Random House, Morrison took on authors others wouldn’t. She pursued Angela Davis’ autobiography less than three months after Davis was released from jail. Davis initially resisted, saying she was too young and didn’t have anything to say. But Morrison disagreed and kept pushing. “Somebody needed to tell the story the way that Angela Davis wanted the story to be told,” Williams explained.
Morrison also championed James Forman’s demands for reparations by editing a book by Yale law professor Boris Bittker. Bittker had written a legal argument supporting reparations for Black Americans, but balked at Morrison’s proposed title: “The Case for Black Reparations.” He wanted something more neutral. Morrison pushed back. If the goal was to bring the reparations conversation out of the margins and into mainstream debate, she said, the title had to meet the moment directly. When he resisted, she didn’t flinch. “Do you want this book to sell or not?” she asked.
Morrison’s strategic choices were shaped by both literary commitment and economic realism. As a single mother raising two young sons, she stayed at Random House long after her novels had brought her literary success. “She had done ‘The Bluest Eye,’ she’d done ‘Sula,’ she’d done ‘Beloved,’” Williams said. “But she talked about being a Depression kid. She said, ‘I need a check every two weeks.’”
That practical mindset extended to her acquisition strategy. Morrison was willing to publish difficult or commercially risky work, but she paid close attention to profit and loss statements. “If you want to do something that may or may not sell well,” Williams said, “you better make sure you’re doing something that sells extremely well so that you can get away with the other thing.”
That thinking was behind one of her most ambitious projects as an editor: “The Black Book,” a wide-ranging visual and textual archive of Black life in America. Morrison compiled it partly to refute what sales reps were telling her: “We can’t sell Black books across the street.” She aimed to create a book that could be sold anywhere. One that proved there was a market for Black history and culture in the publishing industry.
Morrison’s role wasn’t always easy. She navigated conflict with authors and with her own editorial staff. In one archived letter, she pushed back against a writer who challenged her edits. “I cannot be strong-armed,” she wrote. “It is simply an ineffective tactic because it makes me angry and uncooperative.”
She also had to contend with the industry's inherent volatility. Editors moved or were pushed out. Black staffers weren’t retained. Williams noted that at one point she considered whether she could finish her book at a Black imprint if there were no Black editors left. Eventually, Amistad’s Abby West came on board and shepherded the book to publication.
Some of the most difficult decisions came late. The final manuscript was 15,000 words too long. Williams had to make hard cuts. “There was one chapter I was holding on to for dear life,” she said. “That chapter was 9,075 words. I was 9,075 words over. I said, OK, universe.” That chapter focused on Morrison’s effort to edit books by white women, an attempt to engage critically with white feminism at a time when it largely excluded Black women’s experiences. Williams said she hopes to place that chapter elsewhere.
Still, the published book manages to capture the full reach of Morrison’s editorial work: fiction and nonfiction, political and cultural, famous names and overlooked voices. One of the books Morrison was proudest of, Williams said, was “Contemporary African Literature,” an anthology that broadened her editorial scope beyond the United States. “She reached behind her shelf and pulled it out and said, ‘Isn’t this book beautiful?’” Williams remembered. “I said no, I didn’t know it. And she handed it to me.”
Other editorial relationships were more fraught. Morrison was proud to have published Gayl Jones but devastated when that partnership ended. Jones’ husband once wrote to Morrison requesting a sample of her work as an editor, a letter that undercut the trust between them. Morrison couldn’t recover the relationship.
She was candid about the limits of her role. “I didn’t like all those books,” she once told Williams. “Some of them, you know, just a job.”
But her larger vision never wavered. She believed in the power of excellence to shift what publishers were willing to invest in. She called on Black readers to demand and support serious work. “If you buy the books,” she said, “good books will continue to be published.”
Williams hopes “Toni at Random” helps recover a time when literary quality and commercial possibility weren’t seen as opposing goals, when Black editors had the power to shape the record. Morrison wasn’t just acquiring titles. She was creating space, assigning value, and ensuring that Black voices were not erased.
“She said, ‘We must do our work,’” Williams recalled. And Morrison did hers, one manuscript at a time.
This event was held in partnership with MahogonyBooks. To watch the conversation, click below.