The First Time, Again

There is, I’m told, a natural progression to dating. If a girl doesn’t like you on the first date, it’s over. A second date is a hopeful sign and, barring unforeseen circumstances, a third date is likely.

Don’t take my word for it. I was never a proficient dater, and the girl I married was one I never dated. My first girlfriend entangled me in a tragic relationship that strung over two years and came to define my senior year in college.

No, this isn’t a dating advice column—you wouldn’t want to read one by me! It’s a metaphor. You see, I used to think getting published was like dating. Once you found an editor who “got” what you were doing, you’d be able to move forward. Progress.

I think of H. P. Lovecraft, who is now being taught at universities, and how he really only found one magazine that liked his work. I thought maybe I’d found that magazine in Danse Macabre, but then they started to be less-than-enthusiastic about my work.

It takes a lot of courage for me to submit something to a publisher. I’m growing a thicker skin, but rejection still hurts. I remember senior year all too well. I’ve published in maybe six free journals, and my work has been nominated for three awards. And I thought I was dating a new publisher.

Dali’s LoveChild liked my work. It was nominated for an award. My second piece was accepted without comment. I wasn’t thinking of my first tragic affair—I was looking forward. Then I submitted a piece of which I was particularly proud, only to receive a nameless pinhead letter.

The same thing had happened with Jersey Devil Press a few years back. You see, I’ve been looking for an editor who wants to continue the relationship. I never was very good at dating. I’m shy and understated and willing to do with very little. Girls don’t like that.

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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,

Gothica

The other day I asked a friend to define “gothic.” Heavy, dark, supernatural—these were a few of the words suggested. When autumn comes my thoughts turn gothic, and I’m always looking for good gothic things to read. I have blogged in the past about how reading literature that isn’t great is good. I’m serious about that. You can learn a lot by reading poor writing. Some gothic literature is more the former than the latter. Like Dark Shadows novels. Dark Shadows was running on daytime television when I was a child. As a teen I began to read the novelizations, by Marilyn Ross, whenever I could find them. Belles lettres they’re not. Gothic, most decidedly so. That’s why I keep coming back to them. They aren’t scary. In fact, they’re formulaic and predictable. But so, so gothic. Spooky mansions, the Maine woods, forlorn vampire, faded wealth. Even, yes, dark shadows. The stories create a mood I find difficult to locate elsewhere. Inspired by the most r

K. Marvin Bruce

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