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 My novels lie unpublished, and most of my stories unseen.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Voices of the unheard come to life in the unpublished.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. When you’ve been writing for half a century, you l

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,

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

K. Marvin Bruce

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