Will Write for Money

I suppose I should get over it. I feel mercenary about writing for money. Almost as if I’ve sold out. What a strange way to announce my first story accepted for publication for pay. Don’t get me wrong—I’m absolutely thrilled. I’ve received prize money for my writing before, but getting paid to have someone publish it is new.

This past week two bits of good news arrived on the same day. My story “Meh-Teh” was accepted by The Colored Lens, and they’re a paying venue. Simultaneously my story “Creative Writing Club” received honorable mention in Typehouse’s second biennial short fiction contest. I literally had to go for a jog after opening the emails just to clear my head.

You see, I’ve been writing fiction for forty years. I sent my first story in for publication a decade ago. It won a contest. Then the rejections began rolling in. I’ve lost track of how many there have been. Indeed, in this latest batch of stories I’ve sent out, I’ve already received multiple rejections. Two acceptances on the same day was almost like going to the miracle store.

Not only that, but two of the three stories recently accepted are Breck stories. Long before I knew that Stephen King had made up Derry, Maine, I had invented a town called Breck, in New Hampshire, where many of the weird things in my stories happen. I have maps of Breck and a list of well over 50 characters who live in the town, all of them in stories I’ve written. (I have a tremendous backlog.)

I’ve always wanted some of these Breck stories to see the light of other people’s eyes. It’s a kind of affirmation for the world-building I like to do. The laws of physics don’t always strictly apply in Breck. Monsters live there—inhuman, some of them. In fact, the narrator of my novel lived there.

A certain cynicism attends being paid for writing. Like an artist has sold out. Still, considering the many thousands of hours I put into my writing, it seems like a little pay is only fair. Besides, I still write what I want to write, whether anyone pays me for it or not. I guess I’m not so mercenary 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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