Three Month Kiss of Death

It was one of the nicest rejection letters I’ve received. “It’s not you. It’s me.” You get the picture. I’ve lost track of how many times this book has been rejected. A friend of mine in publishing tells me that publishers are hungry for content. I’ve got six pretty good novels lying around with very little interest shown.

Perhaps I suck as a writer. I don’t really think so, though. You see, i read a lot. On the order of three hours a day a lot. Some of what I read sucks. I recognize suckiness. I don’t produce it.

And yet when I submit to a publisher they want three months to consider my work before rejecting it. You’d think I’d have learned the lesson by now. If they don’t write back the next day, so excited they can’t stay in their seats, I’ve failed to sway them. At least that’s how I imagine it must go.

This particular novel—the first I’ve seriously tried to publish—is an orphan. It had been accepted for publication. The editor wrote back and said, “I love it!” Exclamation point included. A contract was sent, signed, and countersigned. The deal was reneged, because, it was said, of the market.

Meanwhile I read another book that sucks. This one was on the best-seller list of a very prominent newspaper. I have to wait another three months for some editor to decide that thanks, but no. You don’t have what it takes, kid.

I’m not really a kid any more. Embarrassingly old to be starting out as a writer. I finished my first novel in 1987. I never tried to publish it. It sucked.

I recognize suckiness when I see it, even if it’s my own. I also recognize real potential. Maybe I should be an editor. The old joke goes, “what do you call a writer who actually has a job?” I’ve already given the punchline.

So this week, after three months of waiting, the newest rejection letter came. I’ll spend the weekend researching Indies who have a sense of humor and adventure. Agents are coy. You’d think there was a wealth of good material out there. I’ve read best-sellers. I know better.

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Working Through It

The thing about being a working writer is you don’t have time. Between working nine-to-five and trying to eat and sleep, and write, of course, the week is shot. Weekends are spent doing the errands that you can’t do during the week. I should probably have known better than to join a local writers’ group. Their meetings, although only once a month, are all-day affairs on a Saturday. I generally don’t have all day Saturday to spare. I work all week and I need groceries and the occasional Target run. And I haven’t yet learned to go a week without eating. This is actually the third writers’ group I’ve joined. One was not too far from home, but not terribly helpful. They met on Saturdays, but in the morning only. Nobody seemed interested in what I was writing, so I stopped going. The second one was about an hour away. They also met on Saturdays. Their big thing was having lunch together after the meeting. ...

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...

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. ...

K. Marvin Bruce

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