Dead but Dreaming

One of the most challenging aspects of being a working writer is dithering. Shilly-shallying. Not being able to decide. Is this story done yet? Should I revise it for a tenth time? When do I stop writing fiction and get back to non-fiction? And all of this has to be decided for a mere half-hour of writing time a day.

I’ve neglected this blog a little because I’ve been finishing up a non-fiction book. To no one’s greater surprise than mine, an editor at Penguin is actually reading it. You just never know. Meanwhile novel number seven has been demanding my attention. One through six haven’t been published yet either.

Don’t forget the children. Stories. Lots of stories. Some days three or four story ideas crowd into my head at a time. And I only have half-an-hour to write. Decisions, decisions!

I’d pretty much decided to turn back to non-fiction for a while when I had an unexpected email. A publisher actually wants to see the whole manuscript of my Medusa novel, Interview with the Gorgon. For those who haven’t read my past posts, this novel was under contract with a publisher about six years ago. Then they dithered.

The editor who’d accepted it for publication left the press. They decided they didn’t want to do it. No kill fee. No thank you. Just “my name is no.” Funny thing about it is, since then many presses—after I went out and bought their books just so I could make comparisons—also said “not for us.” Getting this email was completely unexpected.

I used to be a professor at Breck University. Now I profess nothing. I work for a faceless corporation in New York City that publishes non-fiction books. Getting to and from work takes three hours a day. Sleep takes a few, too. Writing is the orphan child of my time.

I’ve never given up on Medusa. I’ve never given up on this blog. To read me is to love me. Even if your name is no. If only I could make up my mind.

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

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

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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