The Ethics of Reading

Most writers give this advice to those of us who wish to join the guild: read. Read lots. Read constantly.

While it’s not always possible to read all the time, I do spend at least a couple hours most days behind a book. I know not everyone likes to read, but I read a tremendous number of books. Of course I don’t keep count, but the total is in the thousands rather than the hundreds.

When you read, you learn. Yes, I read for entertainment, but I also learn at the same time. I learn how to write. And how not to write. I learn what works, and what doesn’t. I love to read.

An ethical issue has been nagging me. Aren’t those who read required, if so enabled, to give something back? If there’s anything I enjoy more than reading, it’s writing. I could write until I drop dead with no regrets.

It is my obligation, is it not, to offer back some of what I’ve taken? I’ve borrowed ideas, thoughts, and dreams from other writers. Don’t I owe to readers a synthesis of what I’ve read?

I think of publishing as a kind of obligation. If I write the world’s greatest novel, but don’t show it to anyone, I’ve only accomplished nihilism. I need to try to get it published. Publishers, of course, don’t share my sense of obligation.

This past week I had the great news that my story “Angel Hunter,” published in Deep Water Literary Journal, has been nominated for a Best of the Web Prize. I’m insanely happy when any of my stories get any notice at all. I’ve been nominated for a Silver Pen and Pushcart Prize. Still, not many journals will consider the obligation of publishing.

I don’t write to pander to the crowds. I write because, if there’s a god, this is what that god made me to be—a writer. An occasionally nominated writer.

In this world of increasingly thick cobwebs, becoming noticed is harder and harder. Million and millions of webpages are more entertaining, flashy, and trite. I’m overthinking this, I’m sure. But then, I read a lot. It is an occupational hazard.

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

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

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,

K. Marvin Bruce

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