The lost manuscript has long been a source of fascination for readers and for writers. When an author’s work is beloved, there is an insatiable desire for more, and the discovery of a ‘new’ old book can cause quite the sensation. In the past year alone the publishing headlines have been full of excited reporting of treasures brought to life:

* Harper Lee’s novel Go Set a Watchman

* Beatrix Potter’s children’s book Kitty in Boots

* JRR Tolkien’s poem ‘The Lay of Aotrou and Itroun’

* Mary Shelley’s novella The Wind off the Small Isles

* Michael Crichton’s novel Dragon Teeth

Media reports are peppered with language like ‘lost’ and ‘undiscovered’. But in fact there is more to the story behind these works. Controversy surrounded the ‘discovery’ of Harper Lee’s 1950s manuscript; some suggest that the author, who long declared she would not release another book, was taken advantage of by those who would prosper from its release. Beatrix Potter’s book was reportedly ‘lost’, and yet it was safe in the Victoria and Albert Museum archives. Neither Tolkien’s nor Shelley’s works were unpublished, even; they were out of print. Quite simply, those words ‘lost’ and ‘undiscovered’ are geared towards marketing, playing on a fascination for what was once in the shadows and is now brought into the light.

Having established that a ‘new’ old book is fantastic for the publisher and its market, what of the author behind the book? This is a question that niggles at me whenever I read a headline declaring a new, fabulous find: did the author want that book found?

Take Kitty in Boots. The Guardian reported that this Beatrix Potter story was never finished; she sent it, incomplete, to her publisher in 1914, but then ‘“interruptions began” – and continued: from the outbreak of the first world war, to marriage, to sheep farming and colds’. We are told she ‘intended to finish the tale’, but by her death in 1943 she had not. As a writer, I am left wondering: did she honestly intend for that work to be published? If so, why did she not complete it in nearly 30 years? And how would she feel now, to see it published but without the illustrations she no doubt would have drawn for it, had she wanted the book to be shared?

How about Michael Crichton? His work Jurassic Park was a bestseller. So why did he keep to himself another story he’d written concerning palaeontology and fossils? His publisher, HarperCollins, clearly sees the book as the goldmine it will no doubt be: ‘Crichton’s many admirers and fans are going to be very happy,’ it declared in its press release announcing the novel’s acquisition. Why didn’t Crichton himself want it published in his lifetime in that case?

I am a writer; I have written nine novels now, five of which are published. I know well the writing process. I know that some words written are to be shared, and some words are not. I also know that a writer does not forget about a work; he or she only makes a deliberate choice to keep it private.

The question of respecting an author’s right to privacy when it comes to their literature is most pertinent in the ‘leaking’ of JD Salinger’s ‘The Ocean Full of Bowling Balls’, whose story interconnects to The Catcher in the Rye. Salinger had agreed to publish the work with Harper’s Bazaar, but changed his mind, and he gave the manuscript to Princeton University on the condition that they may not publish it until 50 years after his death (i.e. 2060). Yet in 2013 the manuscript was leaked, and read widely. A reviewer for the Guardian wrote, ‘One has to wonder why Salinger changed his mind about the publication of this story.’ Absolutely; and, I would add, a need to respect his right to control the publication of his own art himself.

What do you think of the issue of ‘lost’ books? If the infamous Hemingway manuscripts, lost in a Parisian train station in 1922, were discovered, should they be published? Perhaps, given that Hemingway made it clear publicly that he was devastated by the loss. But other writers surely have reason to wish their unseen manuscripts remain so. Thriller author Robert Ludlum, for example, lost his debut novel, written while a young man, and when he returned to writing years later ‘he was cured of his literary pretensions’ (source: the Guardian). No doubt he would not like to have his first attempt at writing published posthumously.

The crucial point is that to publish a ‘lost’ work is to contribute to a writer’s legacy. Which leaves the question: does anyone have the right to do so, other than the writer him-/herself?