Famous Neighbors

Those few who read my fiction generally comment on my satire. Those who actually know me might call it cynicism. Whatever one may choose to label it, it is a sense that things in our entrepreneurial world just don’t make sense.

I’ve held a number of jobs in my life and have come to realize that just about all of them have a single purpose: to help those above me get wealthy. I’m a daydreamer, not a corporate climber. And yet I wonder what might happen if wealth had to face reality.

A number of years ago I read about a sitting president (I can’t remember who it was, but it was before Obama) who couldn’t even guess near the price of a loaf of bread. Those above us, it seems, have forgotten what it feels like here on the bottom.

When the swamp monsters move in, those of ample means don’t know what to do. Discrimination is frowned upon. Yet, clearly, they can’t let monsters be monsters. And so “Famous Neighbors” (Defenestration) came to be.

The protagonist, à la Stephen King, is a writer. He is, of course, a successful writer. I’ve been reading how some of the most “notable” writers of today have obscenely grotesque bank accounts. I have to believe their art suffers.

Go ahead, call it sour grapes. I warned you I was cynical.

I write because it is who I am. Although I’ve been producing fiction since the 1970s, it has earned me a total of $15; $5 net. My novels lie unpublished, and most of my stories unseen. I am the swamp monster.

Voices of the unheard come to life in the unpublished. I follow the best seller lists, but not religiously. Not too much profound makes its way very high. I’ve known romance writers who make a living off of it. And they can call themselves writers.

I wonder what the magic formula is. How do you get an editor interested in your work? Maybe you need to show up on the doorstep. Just be yourself. Swamp monsters will always get attention.

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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