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.

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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

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,

Gothica

The other day I asked a friend to define “gothic.” Heavy, dark, supernatural—these were a few of the words suggested. When autumn comes my thoughts turn gothic, and I’m always looking for good gothic things to read. I have blogged in the past about how reading literature that isn’t great is good. I’m serious about that. You can learn a lot by reading poor writing. Some gothic literature is more the former than the latter. Like Dark Shadows novels. Dark Shadows was running on daytime television when I was a child. As a teen I began to read the novelizations, by Marilyn Ross, whenever I could find them. Belles lettres they’re not. Gothic, most decidedly so. That’s why I keep coming back to them. They aren’t scary. In fact, they’re formulaic and predictable. But so, so gothic. Spooky mansions, the Maine woods, forlorn vampire, faded wealth. Even, yes, dark shadows. The stories create a mood I find difficult to locate elsewhere. Inspired by the most r

K. Marvin Bruce

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