Blue Collar Writer

A lifetime in higher education has taught me that connections, not authenticity, make a writer. At least in society’s eyes. If you can afford the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, doors will be thrown open for you. Don’t you dare being born a nobody, though.

I’ve been writing since I was a teenager, unconnected, in a small town. My teachers praised my work but really had no experience with publishing. Stories moldered away in a dilapidated cardboard box stuck in a ratty, unused upstairs room until the bulldozers threatened and I had to haul them away.

I grew up without much. I had an armload of books for friends and I wrote tales that no one ever read. This kind of thing doesn’t get you a job. In a small town with no bookstore—or even a library—I never heard of literary journals; I didn’t even hear of journals period until I got to college. First generation. Thoroughly confused. Nobody has to teach you how not to know anything.

All this reminds me of high school awards ceremonies. The over-performing kids with well-connected parents shine. Those who truly deserve recognition, who pull themselves up by their own metaphorical boot-straps, but who don’t preen and strut in front of others, or fondle balls adeptly, sit quietly in back.

The A-list hires the ghostwriters to make their autobiographies interesting. Writing is a lonely profession, and one with precious little recognition. As the writer moves from job to time-consuming job, only wanting time to polish their art, those who are connected end up on the New York Times bestseller list. Everybody cheer. Cheer for the privileged.

In higher education there is a movement now to hire “authentic” underprivileged academics. Those of us who fit that bill can’t even publish in working class literary journals because we’re too tainted with success. The way it feels to me is that I have hundreds of stories to tell, but nobody’s listening.

Call it sour grapes. Call it sweet lemons, for all I care. Those who have no choice but to write will also have no choice but to be overlooked.

Comments

Dusty

My, this thing is dusty. My fans—hi, Mom!—perhaps believe me to have perished in the pandemic. No, it was nonfiction’s fault. Since the pandemic began I’ve had two nonfiction books published and have written a third. With a nine-to-five job something’s got to give. Unfortunately it’s been fiction. Well, the groundhog didn’t see his shadow yesterday, so it must be safe to come out. I shuffled away the rejection notes and began submitting again. I’ve got a backlog of weird stories and maybe some new publishers have emerged? The thing is, don’t you just hate it when you’re in the mood to submit and some lit journal has its window for submissions firmly shut? My last story, “ The Hput, ” was published about three years ago. Oh, I’ve submitted since then, but with no traction. Well, it is winter. I’ve got a lot of stories lined up. I’ve been sending them out again, dreaming of making a dime at what I love doing best. When you’ve been writing for half a century, you l

Neglectful Parents

If I was a parent I’d be accused of neglect. I have to say 2017 was the least published year of recent memory. Not that I’ve been neglecting my fiction, but I had a non-fiction book accepted and I work full-time and commute to that job—you get the picture. I’ve also had a personal epiphany. If you can write, you should get paid for it. I know a publicist (not my own; I don’t have one) and she says she won’t let her authors even write an op-ed if they don’t get paid. I guess I’d never get published then. My Medusa novel had a flicker of hope for a few moments. A publisher actually wrote back asking for the rest of the manuscript. That’s never happened before. Then the editor disappeared. Even called me by the wrong pseudonym. I’ve gotta wonder about that because the second half of the novel’s even better than the first. While looking for an agent for my non-fiction (couldn’t find one of those either) I came across several who said they liked quirky ficti

Too Much Writing?

Has this ever happened to you? Have you written a story that you’ve completely forgot? Not only completely forgotten, but made unfindable? I play games with my stories and sometimes the joke’s on me. Okay, I suffer from graphomania. I write constantly. I do try to keep organized—I use a spreadsheet that has all my submissions on it. It has rejection/acceptance dates (mostly rejection). Lots of information. I decided to list on it every story, whether finished or in process. There are far too many (mostly in process). When I finish a story I often submit it. If I get burned, I’m shy about resubmitting. I often rewrite at this stage. Then, when I feel brave enough, I try again. The spreadsheet is color-coded. There, in the color that indicates finished and ready to submit is a story cryptically titled “The Password.” I don’t remember this story. I can’t recall what it was about or why I thought it was ready to publish. Looking through my electronic files,

K. Marvin Bruce

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