Zora Neale Hurston and an unidentified man probably at a recording site, Belle Glade, Fla., in 1935. (Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division)

On Tuesday, Amistad Press, a division of HarperCollins, will release Zora Neale Hurston’s long-unpublished first book, “Barracoon: The Story of the Last ‘Black Cargo,’” edited by Deborah G. Plant. In late April, Vulture published excerpts from the book, which the magazine said had “languished in a vault” since 1931. I’m thrilled by the publication of Hurston’s short book on such an important subject — but I wish that we could stop talking about unpublished manuscripts in such terms. In many cases, it’s not, as such language suggests, scholarly neglect that hides these works from the public eye. Instead, the trouble begins with onerous and excessive copyright protections, protections that are meant to profit the Walt Disney Co. more than they are intended to enrich our understanding of American literature.

It’s a problem that I’ve come to know well. Over the years, I’ve brought out — as a scholar or as an editor — previously unpublished work by Walt Whitman, Mark Twain, Robert Frost, Jack London, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Ezra Pound, and, yes, a group of Hurston’s unpublished writings, edited by Pamela Bordelon. When I was selecting from the Hurston materials that Bordelon had collected, now nearly 20 years ago, I also obtained a copy of the typescript of “Barracoon” from the Smithsonian Archives. I knew about the typescript from reading Robert A. Hemenway’s description of it in “Zora Neale Hurston: A Literary Biography,” which had been published in 1977. The typescript was thin, just over a hundred pages, with a few emendations and additions in Hurston’s handwriting, but it seemed complete and worthy of note. I looked into getting it published — but the rights to the work were unclear. Had the writing been conducted as part of Hurston’s fieldwork for the Federal Writers’ Project — making it a government work-for-hire and public domain? Or was it a separate literary work controlled by her estate? No one seemed to know, and no one was too interested in finding out. Unable to get answers, I eventually gave up on the effort.

Now, according to the Vulture introduction, the Zora Neale Hurston Trust has new representation, interested in getting unpublished works into print and monetizing those archives. That’s great, from a reader’s perspective, but it also reveals a larger problem where scholarship of literature between World War I and II is concerned. It’s mostly due to the Walt Disney Co.’s efforts to protect ownership of a certain cartoon mouse. Over the years, the company has successfully worked to extend copyright restrictions far beyond the limits ever intended by the original authors of America’s intellectual property laws. Under the original Copyright Act of 1790, a work could be protected for 14 years, renewable for another 14-year term if the work’s author was still alive. In time, the maximum copyright grew from 28 years to 56 years and then to 75 years. In 1998, Sonny Bono championed an extension that would protect works created after 1978 for 70 years after the death of the author and the copyright of works created after 1922 to as long as 120 years.

This worked out great for Disney — which, not coincidentally, was founded in 1923 — but less so for the reputations of authors who produced important work between the 1920s and 1950s. Because copyright law became such a tangle, many of these works have truly languished. Here, Hurston is the rule rather than the exception. I have a file that I’ve kept over the years of significant unpublished works by well-known writers from the era: William Faulkner, Langston Hughes, William Carlos Williams, Hart Crane, Sherwood Anderson and Weldon Kees, among others. The works aren’t really “lost,” of course, but they are tied up in a legal limbo. Because of the literary reputations of those writers, their unpublished works will eventually see the light of day — whenever their heirs decide that the royalties are spreading a little too thin and there’s money to be made from new works. But other important writers who are little-known or unknown will remain so because they don’t have easily identifiable heirs — or, worse, because self-interested, or even uninterested executors, control their estates.

Take, for example, the case of Lola Ridge. In 2011, former poet laureate of the United States Robert Pinsky, in a column for Slate, called Ridge “a terrific poet,” and more than that “an early Modernist, radical in her politics, and an ardent feminist.” She was, by his estimation, a link between William Blake and Crane, but Ridge’s poems had mostly been out of print for nearly 70 years, in part because her body of work straddled the 1923 divide between public domain works and works controlled by copyright — and, for 40 years, the executor of Ridge’s estate claimed to be working on a volume of collected poems as well as a biography, so she was unwilling to let any other scholars lay claim to the work. In 2007, Daniel Tobin published a slim volume of Ridge’s public domain poems. Nearly a decade later, enough time had passed that Ridge had been dead for 70 years, making it possible for Terese Svoboda to publish Ridge’s correspondence as part of her magisterial biography. Now, Tobin has released an expanded edition of Ridge’s poems, including those from a volume published in 1927 (which were renewed but are now public domain), along with unpublished juvenilia. But the last two books published during Ridge’s lifetime, “Firehead” (1929) and “Dance of Fire” (1935), remain tied up. The net effect is a slow-drip rediscovery, which has largely hampered efforts to restore Ridge to her rightful place in the canon.

The point is: Copyright laws rewritten by major corporations to preserve income from nearly century-old creations have all but erased a generation of less famous writers and unknown works by well-known writers. It is an effect that extends the life span of biases that have long silenced female writers, minority writers and working-class writers. “Barracoon,” to return to the original example, was rejected for publication in 1931, because it was deemed too vernacular by Hurston’s editor. Current copyright law unintentionally conspired to unnaturally extend the duration of that wrongheaded judgment for decades. That is why I bridle at the description of works like “Barracoon” as “lost.” They are not lost — they have always been here — but they have repeatedly encountered power structures that block their publication. It’s time for that to change.