Silence of the Titans

The internet has filled the world with noise. Communications specialists tell us that it is important to distinguish signal from noise since signal is potentially useful information. Ah, but the internet is so vast! SETI would have more chance of finding signal in an infinite universe.

So when I heard from my contracted publisher that Passion of the Titans, my first novel accepted for publication, is being released back to me, my breath caught in my throat. Perhaps I should’ve heard the signal earlier. Accepted last summer, it was downgraded to an ebook release this spring, and then finally cancelled.

Wheat and chaff are very different from one another. As are sheep and goats. Signal and noise are far more ambiguous.

Like Edgar Allan Poe, and probably here the likeness ends, I have read many inferior bits of literature that have engulfed public demand. Has anybody ever tried to praise the literary merits of Fifty Shades of Grey? I had trouble getting myself to pick it back up.

Sex sells, but only if you get it into the right hands. Passion of the Titans is funny, sexy, and smart. Maybe that’s a bad combination. Maybe it’s just noise. Somewhere out there on the internet is an editor who liked it. Maybe it is time to hit the delete key and find out what Christian and Anastasia are up to. Fifty guesses...

I’m not the greatest writer who ever lived. Nor am I the worst. Why is it so fucking hard to find a publisher who likes the authentic voice and wry observations of a quiet guy who looks myopically at life, and wishes he could join the game?

Passion of the Titans was to be published by now. Instead, I am back at the starting gate. Only I’m exhausted already. And frustrated. And what is this constant ringing in my ears?

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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