Greasing the Wheels

Writing’s my retirement grease. If I have to explain the concept to you, obviously you’re not up to date on the Simpsons. Well, come to think of it, it’s been a few years since I’ve watched it myself.

Willie, the groundskeeper at Springfield Elementary is saving the grease from the school kitchen’s traps for his retirement. Homer, on one of his get-rich-quick schemes, has been collecting spent grease to supplement his income. When he targets the school, Willie spies the truck sucking up the goo and cries out “My retirement grease!”

Daily work is not only non-satisfying, it’s also time-consuming. I sit at work thinking how there’s little to do and I could be getting so much writing done while I sit, staring at a screen, waiting for an email to pop up. I don’t make enough money to retire. My plan had been to die on the job, but then I realized, if I could make money on my writing, I’d have some grease.

Right now the lubrication is coming from non-fiction. I’ve actually got two non-fiction contracts on my desk and my poor fictional self is suffering. There’s no future in non-fiction. Agents only want clients with high profiles and university posts. Those of us who are working stiffs only get agency attention when we break through the glass walls, ceiling, and floor. Shattered glass everywhere. Retirement grease flows.

You see, I’m not making a bid to earn a living as a writer. I’m realistic enough to know that’s impossible. I would, however, like it to be my retirement grease. Otherwise it’s die in an unfulfilling job, waiting for an email to pop up. Is there anything so wrong with wanting to supplement your income a bit?

My last non-fiction book earned less than $100 in royalties. That won’t even pay for one week’s commuting bill to work. Willie is my guide. I grew up working-class, just like he did. And he knows the value of some retirement grease.

Comments

Working Through It

The thing about being a working writer is you don’t have time. Between working nine-to-five and trying to eat and sleep, and write, of course, the week is shot. Weekends are spent doing the errands that you can’t do during the week. I should probably have known better than to join a local writers’ group. Their meetings, although only once a month, are all-day affairs on a Saturday. I generally don’t have all day Saturday to spare. I work all week and I need groceries and the occasional Target run. And I haven’t yet learned to go a week without eating. This is actually the third writers’ group I’ve joined. One was not too far from home, but not terribly helpful. They met on Saturdays, but in the morning only. Nobody seemed interested in what I was writing, so I stopped going. The second one was about an hour away. They also met on Saturdays. Their big thing was having lunch together after the meeting. ...

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...

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. ...

K. Marvin Bruce

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