Infatuation, Technically

“Infatuation, Technically,” was technically published on the Danse Macabre blog this past week. This brief tale evolved out of experience working in a office where women are as difficult to get to know as they are arresting. But the story isn’t really about that.

If it weren’t for technology I wouldn’t be a published author (if what I can be called is such). I make my submissions online and I receive my electronic voice online. I look at maps online and I haven’t touched a phonebook in years.

But still. I’m still not convinced all of this technology is a good thing. “Infatuation, Technically” is about the love of technology. The human element is gone. I could be dating a clone and wouldn’t even know it. This food I’m eating never occurred in nature. That fly buzzing around my head is a drone.

A friend told me they are now printing cells with 3-D printers. What if we haven’t found all the dimensions yet? What if we live in a five dimensional world? What of those things we’ve replicated with only length, breadth, and depth? It’s like Flatland all over again.

I use technology daily. I fear technology daily.

My writing all used to be done by hand. It was organic, peaceful, and freeing. I sometimes couldn’t write fast enough to get the ideas down when a certain channel opened, a flood would follow. Now my fingers peck like hungry chickens. Chicken fingers.

Publishers tell us that many books rise or fall on whether or not their authors have an internet presence. Can you find me online? My email account says no. I miss my paper. Does anyone know where my pen is?

This cyberworld feels like an illusion to me, but now we’re getting online watches and phones and wallets. Even cars, I’m told, come with electronic keys.

The dinosaurs, I’m almost certain, gave no thought to meteorites. Life was all about being the top predator. When our fragile planet was shaken up some 65 million years ago it took awhile for the dust to settle. And when it revealed primates sharpening stones, you could see the next space rock appearing if you looked deeply enough into the sky.

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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

Neglectful Parents

If I was a parent I’d be accused of neglect. I have to say 2017 was the least published year of recent memory. Not that I’ve been neglecting my fiction, but I had a non-fiction book accepted and I work full-time and commute to that job—you get the picture. I’ve also had a personal epiphany. If you can write, you should get paid for it. I know a publicist (not my own; I don’t have one) and she says she won’t let her authors even write an op-ed if they don’t get paid. I guess I’d never get published then. My Medusa novel had a flicker of hope for a few moments. A publisher actually wrote back asking for the rest of the manuscript. That’s never happened before. Then the editor disappeared. Even called me by the wrong pseudonym. I’ve gotta wonder about that because the second half of the novel’s even better than the first. While looking for an agent for my non-fiction (couldn’t find one of those either) I came across several who said they liked quirky ficti

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,

K. Marvin Bruce

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