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.

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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