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.

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...

Creative Righting

Rejection of my writing is a rejection of my imaginative world. That’s why I was cheered by the acceptance of one of my stories this week. That makes number 31. I’ve been working on a lot of fiction lately, even as nonfiction book number 6 is going to press. The ideas are still there, and bizarre as ever, but publishing venues just aren’t welcoming. The other day I had lunch with a professor whose wife is also a professor. She just had her first novel published, and so he pointed me to her indie publisher. I went to their website to learn that they’re closed to submissions. I have to admit that my latest accepted story, “Creative Writing Club,” was probably given the green light because I know the editor. That seems like a pretty dicey way to get any notice, doesn’t it? You have to know the right people even in the low circulation world. My fiction is difficult to classify. It’s got speculative elements to it. ...

Patterns

There’s a pattern I’m noticing. For fiction publishers. Even if you aim low you’ll find it a struggle. Part of the reason is the pattern. Lots of websites list publishers. The smaller, hungrier presses either eventually close or get to a place where they require an agent to get in. That’s the kiss of death. Although my stories have won prizes, and been nominated for prizes, I can’t get an agent interested. I’ve queried well over a hundred, so the agent route is one of diminishing returns. This too is a pattern. Back to the smaller presses. I check many lists. What I write, you see, is highly idiosyncratic. It’s literary but it’s weird. Publishers don’t know what to do with it. If a smaller press published stuff like this, I’d find it. The pattern includes writers who never get discovered. Ironically, a number of editors of fiction literary magazines (mostly online) tell me they enjoy my wor...

K. Marvin Bruce

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