Spreading the Sheet

I used to tell a young friend interested in writing that there’s no right or wrong way to do it. While I write in some form every day—lately it has been non-fiction—I have been wondering if I go about my fiction the right way. I wonder this because I keep a spreadsheet.

This spreadsheet contains information about every submission I’ve made: the date sent, to which magazine, word count, and response. I color-code everything so I can tell at a glance if a story’s still awaiting a publisher or not.

While looking at this spreadsheet recently, I noticed that it had been two or three years since I’d tried to get any fiction published. Well, apart from my novel (which is also on the spreadsheet); I sent it to an agent who turned it down earlier this year. What I noticed about my submissions is that they tend to happen in June.

I’m not a student and I’m no longer a teacher, so June has no special connection with free time. I do, however, tend to send out lots of submissions in a manic way, when my courage is running high enough to take rejections. I guess June is good for overlooking rejections. I also noticed that many of the journals on my target list had folded.

Literature, it seems, is a temporary phenomenon. I don’t believe there’s a wrong way to do it, however. I don’t think it helps to forget what stories I’ve edited, though. Problem is I have too many ideas and sometimes they take years to find completion, even in short-form. On a long drive yesterday I had three short story ideas. Who has time to write them all?

On one of Michael Stevens’ Vsauce videos he mentions the published notebooks of an author I’d never heard of. As he held up the book (published by Penguin, no less) I thought of how those of us who write are focused on the future. Yes, I dream of getting some money from my writing, but in the long term becoming moderately famous after death would be okay too. There’s no wrong way to do it, 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

Search This Blog