One fragment at a time

These 10 beloved novels were published one chapter at a time

Back in the day, fiction wasn’t pre-ordered online and launched in bookstores with shiny, colorful covers. Instead, many of the titles we call literature classics were first printed in cheap paper magazines that flocks of readers returned weekly or monthly to: That was the only way to know how Sherlock Holmes solved complicated mysteries, or whether Jim Hawkins survived the pirates in Treasure Island. Here are 10 stories behind novels that made audiences fall in love, one chapter at a time.

The book that hooked young readers with the pirates’ genre flopped initially. When Robert Louis Stevenson's tale of seafarers and buried gold began running in the children's weekly Young Folks in 1881, it didn’t garner many fans. The story was printed under the pseudonym "Captain George North," and went out in seventeen installments spread across four months.

Even Stevenson's own wife, Fanny, disliked it enough that she argued against its ever becoming a book. But Stevenson pressed on and wrote a famous introduction charmingly defending the genre. The book was published by Cassell & Co. two years later, this time under his real name. The response was immediate: a bestseller, plus the template for how the world would picture pirates ever after.

Sherlock Holmes never wore a deerstalker cap in Arthur Conan Doyle's original text. That image came from illustrator Sidney Paget, hired to accompany the twelve stories that ran monthly in The Strand Magazine from July 1891 to June 1892.

The format itself was the real innovation: rather than one long serialized novel, readers got a complete, satisfying mystery every month, always featuring the same detective and his loyal Dr. Watson.

It worked very well. Subscriptions to The Strand climbed so sharply that Doyle was able to demand a raise before writing his next batch of cases. When George Newnes published the stories together as a book later that year, Holmes was already a household name.

Writer Jack London needed money fast, so in January 1903 he mailed off a manuscript about a dog named Buck to The Saturday Evening Post. The idea had come from the year he had spent in the Yukon. The editor liked it, but asked London to trim five thousand words.

He agreed, priced his labor at three cents a word, and cashed a check for $750 (roughly $28,000 today). The story ran over a summer across several issues of the Post, a magazine better known for genteel fiction than tales of sled dogs clawing their way back to savagery in the Klondike. Just twenty-two days after that first payment, the Macmillan publishing house bought the book rights for $2,000 (roughly $76,000 today). When the novel appeared that August, its first printing of 10,000 copies sold out immediately.

Tarzan's debut wasn't serialized the way most magazine fiction of 1912 was. Editor Thomas Metcalf ran the entire novel, uncut, in one issue of the pulp All-Story that October, an almost unheard-of gamble.

Edgar Rice Burroughs, a failed soldier and failed businessman turned struggling writer, received $700 (roughly $24,000 today) for it, enough to convince him he could write for a living. But when he brought Metcalf a sequel the following year, Metcalf turned it down, twice.

Burroughs took The Return of Tarzan to a rival pulp instead, which ran it as a conventional seven-part serial and paid him even more money than before: $1,000. Every Tarzan novel that followed stuck to that same magazine-first formula. The books didn’t arrive until 1914.

H. G. Wells spent seven years failing to get this story right. It began as a college magazine serial in 1888, and resurfaced incomplete in a newspaper called the National Observer in 1894. But it didn't find its final shape until editor William Henley asked Wells to expand it into a five-part serial. Wells agreed, was paid £100 (around $23,000 today), and watched the story run over 5 months in 1895. Readers liked it.

When book publications soon followed on both sides of the Atlantic, the American edition misprinted the author's name as "H. S. Wells," an error they had time to correct, since it has never been out of print.

The idea of a Martian invasion was handed to H. G. Wells by his brother Frank. During a walk through the English countryside, Frank idly wondered aloud what would happen if beings from another planet suddenly dropped out of the sky. Wells took it upon himself to imagine the answer and wrote it down.

For the story, the British magazine Pearson's paid him the current equivalent of $45,200, though the editor insisted on knowing how it ended before agreeing to run it. It simultaneously ran in Cosmopolitan in America, from April to December 1897.

It proved so popular that unauthorized versions soon popped up in American newspapers, including one from William Randolph Hearst. The authorized book followed in 1898.

In 1851, the abolitionist newspaper The National Era paid Harriet Beecher Stowe, a 40-year-old mother of six, the equivalent of $13,000 today) for a short antislavery narrative in three parts.

She kept writing and writing. It stretched into forty weekly installments over ten months, with readers so invested that they wrote in to protest whenever she missed a week. By the time the serial ended in 1852, publisher John P. Jewett had already arranged to release it as a book.

It sold 10,000 copies in its first week alone, 300,000 within the year in the U.S., and 1.5 million more across England.

Ray Bradbury didn't set out to write The Martian Chronicles. He'd simply been publishing Mars stories in pulp magazines throughout the 1940s, one after another, with no grand plan connecting them.

Then, on his last night in New York in 1949, a Doubleday editor coincidentally named Walter Bradbury asked what he intended to do with all those Martian tales. Could they be stitched into something resembling a novel? They reached an agreement, and Walter offered Ray $750 for the Mars book (roughly $10,500 today) as part of a two-book, $1,500 deal. Bradbury went home to Los Angeles, revised his old stories, and wrote new bridging chapters inspired by Steinbeck.

Leo Tolstoy never got to finish telling his own story, at least not in the pages where readers had been following it. Serialized in The Russian Messenger from 1875 to 1877, Anna Karenina earned Tolstoy an extraordinary sum of more than $300,000 today. That was more per printed page than rivals like Turgenev or Dostoevsky.

Then, just as the story was reaching its final chapters, editor Mikhail Katkov refused to print the eighth and last part. Tolstoy had written unflattering things about Russian volunteers rushing off to fight in the Balkans, and Katkov wanted no part of it. Tolstoy published the ending separately, as its own pamphlet, before the complete novel finally appeared as a book in 1878.

Virtually every major and minor novel by Charles Dickens was originally published in serialized form. While he was still serializing The Pickwick Papers, the book that made him famous, he was already contracted to deliver another novel entirely. Publisher Richard Bentley paid him £500 (roughly $97,400 today) for the rights to Oliver Twist, plus a monthly salary to edit Bentley's own new magazine, where the novel would run.

Between 1837 and 1839, readers got two or three chapters of Oliver's grim childhood each month, even as Dickens juggled a second serialized story on the side. Bentley published the complete novel in three volumes months before the magazine version had even finished.

BAD IDEAS

Crash and burn: The 10 biggest product fails of all time

Image: Steve Johnson

Not every innovation is destined to succeed. Some ideas might sound promising on paper but fail to meet real-world consumer needs. And these flops aren’t always easy to prevent— even the most successful companies make mistakes that end up costing millions. From the infamous Ford Edsel to Colgate-branded frozen meals, there’s no shortage of failed products that should have never left the drawing board. Join us on a journey through 10 of the biggest commercial failures of all time!

Image: James Yarema

In 1985, Coca-Cola made the bold decision to change its classic formula in an attempt to compete with the rising popularity of Pepsi. The new version, known as "New Coke," was sweeter and aimed at capturing Pepsi's younger customer base. Coca-Cola’s executives believed this shift would boost sales but completely underestimated the emotional attachment millions of loyal Coke drinkers had to the original formula.

Consumer outrage was immediate, and the company was flooded with angry letters, petitions, and protests, all accompanied by disappointing sales. Just three months later, Coca-Cola was forced to reintroduce the original formula under the name Coca-Cola Classic. The episode is now remembered as a cautionary tale about the risks of tampering with beloved brands.

Image: Peter Secan

Though you may have never heard of it, the Edsel was Ford's failed attempt to introduce a new automotive brand in the late 1950s. Marketed as the car of the future and named after Henry Ford’s son, Edsel Ford, the first model featured innovative elements like a push-button transmission and an overall modern design.

Unfortunately, it became a major commercial flop. While Ford executives expected it to dominate its price segment, consumers found the car unattractive and plagued by mechanical issues. The marketing hype had raised expectations so high that the car ultimately failed to live up to them, leading to one of the biggest automotive failures in history.

Image: Bruno Kelzer

Anyone with common sense would know that perfumes and Harley-Davidsons are not exactly a match made in heaven. The rugged, tough image of the motorcycle brand doesn’t align well with the idea of a pleasant fragrance—unless grease and gasoline are your go-to cologne.

Well, despite this being obvious, Harley-Davidson briefly ventured into the fragrance business in the 1990s. The ill-advised idea didn’t last long, as the brand’s consumers were confused by it, and the high-end fragrance market showed little interest. The result? The mismatched perfume was quietly pulled from shelves shortly after its release.

Image: Les Corpographes

While not a complete failure—similar devices made by other companies are still being made after all—the product never lived up to its inflated expectations. When the Segway was introduced in 2001, it was billed as a groundbreaking personal transport device that would revolutionize how people got around in cities.

And while the self-balancing technology was impressive, the high cost that came with it put it out of reach for most consumers. Additionally, city infrastructure wasn’t really designed to accommodate the device, making it impractical for daily use. The original Segway was discontinued in 2020, after almost two decades of poor sales.

Image: Rachel Loughman

Who in their right mind sees a can of baby food and thinks, "We can market this to adults, you know"? Apparently, Gerber's marketing executives did. In 1974, Gerber, a brand known for its baby food, made a puzzling attempt to target adults with "Gerber Singles," a line of pureed meals.

The concept was simple: convenient, single-serve meals for adults seeking quick nutrition. However, most people weren’t interested in eating what felt like astronaut food on a daily basis. As expected, the product flopped almost immediately, with consumers finding the idea unappealing and even infantilizing. It quickly became an industry joke and was swiftly pulled from the market.

Image: Bermix Studio

When companies rush to introduce innovative products for quick profits, they sometimes overlook the testing phase. In 1998, Frito-Lay launched Wow! Chips, a revolutionary product marketed as fat-free snacks made with olestra, a fat substitute that couldn’t be absorbed by the body.

While the idea of guilt-free snacking seemed appealing, the new component caused very unpleasant—and rather laxative—effects on people. The product quickly earned a bad reputation, and consumers avoided it. A few years later, most olestra-based chips were removed from the market.

Image: Christian Allard

What’s with well-established companies trying to venture into the fragrance industry? In the 1980s, Bic, a brand famous for its disposable pens, reliable lighters, and inexpensive razors, attempted to introduce a line of cheap, disposable perfumes. The idea was that consumers would buy fragrance as easily as they would a pen or lighter.

However, the concept of throwaway perfume didn’t resonate with the public, who typically associate perfumes with luxury and longevity. Additionally, the market for cheap perfumes was already oversaturated. Why would consumers choose a Bic perfume over other options? Sales were dismal, and the product quickly disappeared from shelves.

Image: Diana Polekhina

Sometimes companies give too much credit to the bizarre conclusions of hare-brained marketing brainstorm sessions, but rarely as much as when Colgate decided to enter the frozen food market in the 1980s. Colgate Kitchen Entrees offered a range of ready-to-eat meals, from lasagna to roasted chicken.

However, consumers were clearly put off by the idea of buying food from a brand so closely associated with dental hygiene. Unsurprisingly, sales were terrible, as the Colgate name universally evokes thoughts of toothpaste rather than appetizing meals. Remembered as one of the worst marketing decisions in history, the experiment was quickly terminated.

Image: Ivan Torres

You could excuse McDonald’s for trying to expand into the pizza industry. After all, their business is fast food, and pizza is one of the most popular fast-ish food items in the world. They tried their luck with the concept in the late 1980s by introducing the McPizza, hoping to capture a share of the pizza market.

However, the pizzas took too long to prepare, clashing with McDonald’s fast-food model. Additionally, customers didn’t really associate McDonald’s with pizza, preferring their classic menu items instead. As a result, the experiment was short-lived, and most locations phased out McPizza by the mid-1990s.

Image: Dylan Carr

Google Glass debuted in 2013 as a cutting-edge wearable device offering augmented reality. The futuristic glasses allowed users to take photos, access the internet, and receive notifications. Despite the hype surrounding its potential, privacy concerns emerged over the built-in camera, with fears that it could lead to covert surveillance in public spaces.

But what ultimately doomed the concept was its high cost combined with limited functionality for everyday users. More of a prototype than a finished product, Google Glass struggled to find a mainstream market. It was quietly discontinued in 2015, though it is still credited with advancing the trend of wearable technology.