The Power of Media

Last week I posted about a list on GQ of books you’ve never heard of, but should read. Like most curious folks, I looked up one or two on Amazon. It was then that the power of media struck me.

Amazon’s feature “Frequently Bought Together” listed another of GQ’s books next to the one I was searching (Mary McCarthy’s The Groves of Academe, from 1952). Just coincidence? I scrolled down.

There, in the “Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought” section, no less that four of the other books on the GQ list showed up. I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but it was clear that people were going through the GQ list and buying up the books. I searched for one on BookFinder. By the time I clicked the link, it was gone.

I’ve often felt that people who have an institution behind them (even be it GQ) have a built-in way of succeeding as writers.

My own mention of Sherlock Holmes compels me to mention The Hound of the Baskervilles. I recently read this Holmes adventure for the first time. And time may not have been on its side. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle largely invented the detective novel (following the lead of Edgar Allan Poe, of course). But it is difficult to fool people these days.

At points in the narrative it was clear that Doyle had left out crucial information that the reader would need to solve the crime. Holmes seemed petulant, and at times self-congratulatory. The reader was unable to get the benefit of the writer’s privileged knowledge. Even more egregious was when, at the end, Watson asks a question Holmes can’t answer since there is a gap in his story logic.

I was hoping the book would be moody, set in Dartmoor as it is. Still, knowing the impossibly erudite nature of Sherlock Holmes and his amazing abilities, it was not hard to see through it like so much Exmoor mist.

Still, it was fun. And I learned something from my own clues. If you can comb your hair and get GQ to notice you, you’ll definitely sell more books.

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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