Silence of the Sheep

Writing keeps me sane. Writing drives me insane. Often the only stability that I have in a tortured world is my writing. Of course, writing doesn’t pay. Long ago I made myself a note inside the cover of my commonplace book: “whether published or not, I am a writer.”

A factor that is difficult to include in this equation is depression. Like many writers I live in a miasma of low-grade depression much of the time. It even fuels my art. I write my most humorous material when I am despondent. There is a depression that is debilitating, however, and even causes writing to become a strain.

“There is a wisdom that is woe,” Herman Melville wrote, “but there is a woe that is madness.” Yes, Herman, I have been there with you. At times it is so dark that I can only glimpse Poe or Lovecraft as my guides, distantly ahead. In the twilight we find each other.

Since being released from my contract with Vagabondage Press, I have wrestled in the grip of depression. I have never planned to make a living from my writing, but I very much would like to see it read. It is like trying to give away your soul but finding no takers. It may be cheap, but it is the best I’ve got.

Not that it stops me from writing. I continue to complete short stories and I’m in the midst of the next novel—this will make number six, unpublished. Out there is one editor who loved my Medusa story. I don’t know that editor’s name and the publisher won’t tell me. Writing must be a labor of love, for no one gives breaks in this business.

When this Damoclean cloud hangs over me I ponder how this internet has delivered the death thrust to writing. It is impossible to be found amid the endless clutter. A weak soul gasping out in not heard among the bravado of the over-confident.

Whether published or not, I am a writer. And if I find my way not from this valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for in space no one can hear you dream.

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

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,

The Same Old Story

After a story is rejected from a literary magazine—a rather frequent occurrence—I always revise it. For stories rejected half a dozen or more times—a rather frequent occurrence—the stories can shift substantially. In a version of the old saw that “this is the axe used by George Washington to chop down the cherry tree; it has had five new handles and three new heads,” I wonder if the story is the same after such revision. I write in the flush of inspiration. The story comes to me roughly complete. The literati say “no,” and I assume the fault must be my own. I knuckle down and start trying to revise to their liking. The action changes. The ending changes. The characters change. Is it the same story? Is the fault that my addled brain seems to have trouble telling a story someone wants to read? Is it the curse of an internet that makes writers of anyone with fingers to type? I started writing fiction four decades ago. If I’d tried to start publishing then, perhap

K. Marvin Bruce

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