Stages of Not Publishing

Psychologists, I’ve read, have come to doubt Elizabeth Kübler-Ross’s fives stages of death and dying. Writers, it seems to me, know quite a bit about these topics, and they hold true to my experience. I may not be typical in having so little time to write, but I do emote.

So the latest literary agent has turned down my once accepted, and multiply-rejected Boeotian Rhapsody for publication. I can’t believe it (stage one) at first. The agent’s description seemed to match my genre so well. Sometimes just opening email is a shock.

Why is this so damned hard? A number—very small, admittedly, but a number nevertheless—of short fiction publishers like my work. They don’t publish books, of course. Still, why can’t anybody give me a chance? I guess I’m at stage two.

I consider writing back to the agent. Maybe making my case. This, however, is the kiss of death in publishing. Agents like quick, clean, and no commitments. Bargaining (stage three) is definitely out. I start casting about for other publishers, wanting to show my chops—maybe Amazon publishing? Oh, but they don’t take unsolicited submissions. Get an agent.

Depression always seems to be the longest stage. That period of intense introspection, beyond the everyday introspection, that asks what is wrong with me that publishers find me so repulsive. I have a friend who works in non-fiction publishing. They’re happy if they sell four hundred copies of a book. Write engaging fiction and you’d better have a name like King or Patterson to even get a chance.

Finally I begin to see that this morning is just like any other. Gray and empty. Rather like my protagonist comes to realize. In fact, I’m pretty sure that she went through all five of Kübler-Ross’s five stages too.

But then again, psychologists tell me that the stages are just a fantasy. So is my novel. So is my novel.

“The truth is that writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial.”

—Virginia Woolf

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

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

Creativity

Maybe you’ve noticed this too. When you step away from fiction writing for a while, your creativity becomes flaccid. I’ve had to step away from this blog for a while because I was writing my sixth nonfiction book. God, I’ve missed fiction! Now that I’ve entered that phase of waiting for publishers to respond, I’ve turned my limited writing time back to fiction. I submitted a couple of stories this week and am waiting to hear about those as well. When you’re a writer, waiting is a way of life. Opening my software where I store my fiction stories, I was amazed by how many I found. Some of them are bad—so bad that they’ll never (rightfully) be published. Some are surprisingly good and have been sitting around while I finished up my nonfic. The vast majority, however, are unfinished. Some years back I realized that when I’m writing in the heat of inspiration but don’t have time to finish a story that I need to write down where I’m going with it to remind myself later. I

K. Marvin Bruce

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