Lunch at Not Tiffany's

Creativity, as we who write know, begets creativity. I was reminded of this by having lunch with another writer in New York City. I use “writer” intentionally since major publishers have studiously avoided both of us, but we carry on, nonetheless.

New York has no dearth of writers’ groups and workshops and seminars. They work best for those who live in the city (unlike yours truly) and who have some spare cash (also unlike yours truly). Still, meeting with other creatives is what makes our work work.

Like the vast majority of writers, I work for a living. My job, with the added commute, takes up about 90 percent of every waking hour of the work week. My time for writing adds up to less than five hours per Monday-through-Friday, a pretty sad statistic. Meeting with other writers has even less than that.

Using a nom de plume, I suppose, doesn’t help. Some of my writer colleagues know who K. Marvin Bruce is, but most do not. I’m not sure if my recent lunch engagement even knows. I once told him, but he’s never read any of my published stories, at least not that I know.

I’ve pondered starting a local writers’ group. It would be nice to meet with others without having to drive to their meetings and shyly look at my feet while old friends chat. I might even find fellow writers for whom K. Marvin Bruce might actually have a face. It’s a risky proposition.

My job, you see, would suffer if anyone learned of my true identity. Like Clark Kent I must remain unknown. Unlike Clark Kent, I have no super powers. Truth be told, I don’t even know where Tiffany’s is. I work in New York City, I don’t play there.

One of these days I may be able to dispense with my pen name, throw off my mask, and meet my public. If I do it won’t be at Tiffany’s. And it will probably just be the two of us at a reasonably priced establishment where people bring books to lunch.

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,

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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