Frölich Geburtstag

No writer really works in isolation. Although my favorite time of writing falls daily between 3:30 and 5:00 a.m., I am not alone. In my head are the many other writers I’ve read, and those from whom I’ve learned my penurious craft. Today marks the birthday of Franz Kafka, one of my literary heroes.

My experience of trying to find publishers has been a kafkaesque trial from time to time. I learned to write by reading those who’ve written before—Poe, Melville, Austin, Kafka. Their rich writing, it seems, had a place in a past that no longer exists.

Something few editors appreciate is the metaphorical and ironic style of writing I employ. Anyone who reads Moby-Dick and comes away thinking it is a novel about whaling has no subtlety whatsoever. To write about life’s great questions, you need a vehicle. Melville chose a whale, and Kafka chose a bug. Today, unless your style is flashy and full of sparkly panache, you’ll remain self-published.

I know some editors personally. Individually they seem like decent people. Give them the power to declare the death-sentence on your writing, however, and they become merciless demigods. Apart from the few writers who’ve had the connections to make their art known, most of us scribble away in obscurity.

Kafka did not live long enough to grace the world with the kind of output from which it clearly would’ve benefitted. The Existentialist writers have always been among my favorites, for their experience is parsimonious. Life does not make sense. Through their writings I hear their wisdom echoing from the grave. Blessed were the publishers who recognized substance when it came across their desks.

The world in which we find ourselves eschews the writing of those with education at the feet of solid teachers. The hours we’ve spent curled up adoringly at the feet of Poe, or Hawthorne, or Brontë have been the kindest lessons life could offer. When class is over, and publishing becomes a business rather than a cultural mainstay, we will all come back to Kafka with wonder in our eyes.

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...

Creative Righting

Rejection of my writing is a rejection of my imaginative world. That’s why I was cheered by the acceptance of one of my stories this week. That makes number 31. I’ve been working on a lot of fiction lately, even as nonfiction book number 6 is going to press. The ideas are still there, and bizarre as ever, but publishing venues just aren’t welcoming. The other day I had lunch with a professor whose wife is also a professor. She just had her first novel published, and so he pointed me to her indie publisher. I went to their website to learn that they’re closed to submissions. I have to admit that my latest accepted story, “Creative Writing Club,” was probably given the green light because I know the editor. That seems like a pretty dicey way to get any notice, doesn’t it? You have to know the right people even in the low circulation world. My fiction is difficult to classify. It’s got speculative elements to it. ...

Patterns

There’s a pattern I’m noticing. For fiction publishers. Even if you aim low you’ll find it a struggle. Part of the reason is the pattern. Lots of websites list publishers. The smaller, hungrier presses either eventually close or get to a place where they require an agent to get in. That’s the kiss of death. Although my stories have won prizes, and been nominated for prizes, I can’t get an agent interested. I’ve queried well over a hundred, so the agent route is one of diminishing returns. This too is a pattern. Back to the smaller presses. I check many lists. What I write, you see, is highly idiosyncratic. It’s literary but it’s weird. Publishers don’t know what to do with it. If a smaller press published stuff like this, I’d find it. The pattern includes writers who never get discovered. Ironically, a number of editors of fiction literary magazines (mostly online) tell me they enjoy my wor...

K. Marvin Bruce

Search This Blog