Without Crutches

Several years ago now I wrote a story called “Without Crutches.” Ah, distinctly I remember, it was before the wonderful journal Glimmer Train closed down. I was going through one of my phases of actually reading journals before submitting, and I’d read a tale or two in said Train about characters with addictions.

Perhaps going back to the almost mythic Edgar Allan Poe, writers have struggled with mind-altering substances. Those of us who write see the world so differently and crave new experiences in an almost manic way. Alcohol, drugs, and even religion can lead that way.

“Without Crutches” was a story defending writing without using foreign substances. As the child of an alcoholic, this path looks quite dark to me. Besides, my imagination has a healthy libido. Yes, even sex can lead to altered states of consciousness. Of course, my story found no publishers.

I recently read about Stephen King. Actually, I read about him often. I hadn’t realized he had a cocaine period. I was disappointed. Must writers of the macabre indulge in drug-fueled voyages? Isn’t it possible to use the existential terror of just getting out of bed to drive this vehicle whose windshield is so dirty you can’t see clearly what’s in front of you?

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy the occasional drink and even sometimes get story ideas after having a beer. I don’t drink to inebriation, though. It’s too dangerous. And if my work ever gets noticed I don’t want someone to say it was an after-effect of some controlled substance.

Life is scary. I’ve never used drugs. They’re too scary. I don’t judge those who do, but as my stories show, religion can be just as dangerous. I’ve given up on finding publishers for “Without Crutches.” The story exists as a testimony, and that’s enough. The world can look distorted without being seen through the bottom of a glass. And we limp along.

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...

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. ...

Creativity

Maybe you’ve noticed this too. When you step away from fiction writing for a while, your creativity becomes flaccid. I’ve had to step away from this blog for a while because I was writing my sixth nonfiction book. God, I’ve missed fiction! Now that I’ve entered that phase of waiting for publishers to respond, I’ve turned my limited writing time back to fiction. I submitted a couple of stories this week and am waiting to hear about those as well. When you’re a writer, waiting is a way of life. Opening my software where I store my fiction stories, I was amazed by how many I found. Some of them are bad—so bad that they’ll never (rightfully) be published. Some are surprisingly good and have been sitting around while I finished up my nonfic. The vast majority, however, are unfinished. Some years back I realized that when I’m writing in the heat of inspiration but don’t have time to finish a story that I need to write down where I...

K. Marvin Bruce

Search This Blog