K. Marvin Bruce

What makes a story scary?  I suspect that the answer depends on the asker.  You see, I think of my stories as scary.  Whether other people do, I don’t know. When I look for a scary story I’m not looking for gore.  Properly speaking, I’m not looking for fear either.  Mood, creepiness, and the strange are far more appealing.  Frisson at the atmosphere.  Poe, I suspect, isn’t too scary these days.  He knew how to set a mood, though. I recently read Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery.”  I’ve heard a lot about this story and since it is still under copyright I had to find a book that contained it.  It wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be. Don’t take me wrong—I am a fan of Shirley Jackson.  She was able to deliver as The Haunting of Hill House and We Have Always Lived in the Castle show.  “The Lottery,” however, didn’t scare me.  It was interesting, a nice short story, but not fearful. I find my hackles rising when a story intimates a young person is in danger.  Particular

Ten percent, in the context of the Bible, is a tithe.  The old laws say that you owe God ten percent of your income.  Some religious people today still pay it. I was reading an article recently that featured another ten percent.  This applied to writers.  Although an unscientific survey—including information from Duotrope—this article suggested the acceptance rate of fiction writers is ten percent. That means, and I’m no math guy, that a piece has to be submitted an average of ten times before it is accepted somewhere.  This helps explain, but not assuage, my lack of success when it comes to getting published.  It’s normal. This has been on my mind lately since  Interview with the Gorgon  is getting more than ripe.  I stopped trying to find publishers some five years ago when it was under contract with Vagabondage Press.  They took a long time killing it—with no kill fee—leaving me in a scramble to find another publisher. I’ve contacted lots of agents, but agents are o

How many novels must one man write, to paraphrase Bob Dylan, before you can call him an author?  I’ve completed six, none published, and I’ve got another well under way.  My business card, however, nowhere indicates that I’m an author. Being a writer is more than an occupation.  It’s an identity.  Like the vast majority of writers, I work for a living.  Long hours.  Long commute.  Heavy eyelids.  Sloped shoulders.  Weary sighs.  My boss thinks of me as an employee.  I think of myself as a writer gathering information. For me, there’s an ethics about it all.  I spend a lot of time reading.  Years, if I add up all the hours.  Am I not morally required to give something back?  I’ve written, sweated over, edited, and polished my novels.  Yet they sit on my hard drive seen by my eyes only and the even harder eyes of alabaster editors. Such is a writer’s life.  I’m not really looking for the big time.  I’d like to send my fiction out there for the (I hope) hundreds, or may

“The Last Train from New York” is a story I wrote while working for a New York publisher.  Being unemployed was on my mind, and the story is a metaphor for a loser trying to find his place.  This past week I heard the glad news that “The Last Train from New York” has been accepted for publication in Corvus Review .  This makes eighteen stories published, and also marks another literary magazine that seems to think I’m capable. That may sound gratuitous on my part, but I assure you it's not.  Like many writers I suffer from lack of self-esteem.  All the advice givers say to take rejection lightly, but as someone who puts a lot of effort into each piece I decide to send out, how can I not take rejection personally?  When I do get a hit, it makes my day.  Week, even. Only a writer understands how publication is validation.  Someone who has a louder voice than me—a longer reach—says yes, this guy has something interesting to say.  Part of the problem is my stories are ofte