Ethical Imperative of Editing

I know many editors. They are always hungry for good material, but in the course of their duties they have to turn quite a few writers away. Some of the writers, I’m assured, are just this side of insane. Some have probably never even considered suicide.

Editors are sometimes a writer’s worst enemy. I know deep in my confused web of consciousness that I am a writer. I have written fiction with a pathological insistence since before my middle school days. Six novels bear my name. Not one has merited publication.

I wonder about the ethics of editors. Who made them the gatekeepers of what is worthy of living or dying? Nine years of my life were spent in higher education, terminating in a Ph.D. that bears no street cred. How am I to convince an editor I’m no slouch? Disposable.

Anyone with server space and a few extra hours a week can be an editor. Yes, for just a little storage space, you too can turn others down. Feel like the big guy. I’ll just crawl back into my corner.

Some great ideas just won’t let me go. I awake at 3 a.m. unable to sleep for the ideas vying for the limited space in my diminutive brain. Instead of fighting, I struggle into the chill living room, warmed by the laptop I wear, and tap out my tales.

Most of us write, I suspect, because we can’t find stories like our own elsewhere. I try to figure out where to submit, but see that standard categories just don’t apply to much of my work. Nobody wants to publish what they can’t classify. The editors I know all agree on that point.

How do you become an editor? What courses in dashing dreams do you have to take? With each letter I’m made to feel that there are many, many writers I’ve never even heard of who are much, much better than me. I have nothing to say. Nothing to say.

Yet I can’t stop writing. If anyone knows the solution, please tell me. Don’t worry about the time, I’ll probably already be awake.

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,

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

Search This Blog