Revise and Resubmit

As a self-taught writer, I frequently second-guess myself. (Funny phrase, second-guess.) I don’t know what’s normal, so when I receive a rejection note, I suppose the problem must be with me, not with the place I’m seeking to publish.

I have a friend who is an editor. He tells me that if a work has promise, he’ll advise the author to revise and resubmit. This shows that there’s something worth pursuing, and it is only if it fails to impress the critics two times around that it is passed altogether.

In the fiction publishing world, I’ve received a revise and resubmit suggestion only twice (both from Jersey Devil Press). The first time the editor really like what I was doing and worked with me to get it into the form he wanted. The second time they turned down the revised piece and haven’t published me since.

It is my usual practice, after a piece is rejected, to rewrite. As my writing partner Elizabeth says, in a byte of internet wisdom, “All writing is rewriting.” I miss the phrases I cut, knowing that they flowed, unrefined from my brain to the keyboard. They seemed right at the time. The end result, however, is sometimes better and once in a while I see what was wrong.

Most editors don’t take the time to help authors. Vague suggestions of “I didn’t find this believable” (not surprising, since it’s fabulism) or “I felt no sympathy for the protagonist,” may say more about the editor than the author. I just don’t know.

Since I’m self-taught, and not a member of any writing clubs, I have to assume my writing’s the problem. I revise and resubmit, but this time to a different magazine. Ironically, my most rejected pieces are those that get nominated for prizes.

I’m not sure that I should be doing all this rewriting, but I have maybe a dozen stories completed and awaiting publication, and I’m not getting any younger here. So I take out my metaphorical scissors and go to work. Who knows if the results will be better or worse? Certainly not me.

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,

The Same Old Story

After a story is rejected from a literary magazine—a rather frequent occurrence—I always revise it. For stories rejected half a dozen or more times—a rather frequent occurrence—the stories can shift substantially. In a version of the old saw that “this is the axe used by George Washington to chop down the cherry tree; it has had five new handles and three new heads,” I wonder if the story is the same after such revision. I write in the flush of inspiration. The story comes to me roughly complete. The literati say “no,” and I assume the fault must be my own. I knuckle down and start trying to revise to their liking. The action changes. The ending changes. The characters change. Is it the same story? Is the fault that my addled brain seems to have trouble telling a story someone wants to read? Is it the curse of an internet that makes writers of anyone with fingers to type? I started writing fiction four decades ago. If I’d tried to start publishing then, perhap

K. Marvin Bruce

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