Writing Rearranged

Jo March had her red cap (before such things were tainted) and writing nook. Those of us who write also have our habits. Thing is, circumstances change.

For the first time in over a decade I’m moving house. Most specifically, I’m moving from an apartment into a house. I’ll keep my day job, but I’ll be telecommuting—whatever that is. Here in my apartment I awoke very early in order to accommodate public transportation. My writing time has been very early.

Weekends have taught me that sleeping in disrupts writing. Indeed, my freshest time is way before dawn. My mind is sharp and alert. I’m productive. I’m energetic. I’m also not as young as I used to be. One of my more self-indulgent activities is to allow myself to sleep until 5 a.m. on a Saturday.

I wake up groggy, uninspired. I sit down to write, weary already. Only with great effort can I shove the pen. I really don’t want to sleep any more, but I don’t want to write either. I must have a fever!

This makes me fear for my new lifestyle. The few people in my life say they’d like to see me keep more normal hours. Not go to bed until 9 or 10. Be better rested. Better adjusted. And what of my writing? What will become of it?

Houses with writing nooks are not easily affordable these days. My new house has a gnarly, unfinished attic. It could have enough privation to make a suitable writing space. Freezing in winter, stifling in summer. I can see myself up there amid the storage boxes, hunched over my desk, bleeding out my soul in words.

Writing is all about habits. Mine, it seems, are about to change. There’s no way I’m going to be buying a red cap. But maybe I can learn a bit from Jo after all.

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

Makes the Wold Go Round

It’s all about the money. As any real writer knows, we write because we’re compelled to. I suspect it’s only after someone tastes success that s/he gets cynical enough to write for money. That doesn’t stop agents and publishers from trying, though. My Medusa novel was under contract with a publisher. This was about five years ago. After dallying around for a couple of years, the publisher cancelled the contract because the editor who’d signed it up had left the press. That’s hardly a legitimate reason; in fact, it defeats the purpose of a book contract all together. I’ve not been able to find another publisher since. Nearly every rejection letter says something along the lines of “It’s well written, but it’s not for us.” They mean they don’t see enough dollar signs. I’m not naive—I get it. I would, however, appreciate just a little compensation for the hundreds and hundreds of hours I put into my writing. Self-publishing is too much work on top of work. There

K. Marvin Bruce

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