Following Instructions

I have another blog. That one, under my real name, has fewer readers than this one. Unlike the piece you’re reading at the moment, this is an occasional note. I post on the other blog daily. Interestingly I’ve had publishing professionals tell me that’s what they like to see. Funny.

Perhaps it doesn’t seem like much, but coming up with discrete, intelligent (I hope!) things to say every day, for over a decade, should demonstrate willingness to work hard. When I started the other blog I had lots of followers. Now I have few.

I know, I know! If I were in your place I’d be saying, “Maybe your writing sucks.” Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn’t. The point is without someone willing to help we all spin in obscurity.

Someone I know online recently published a book on a topic in which I also publish. He has tons of followers. I don’t. He also has a university post and thus an institution behind him. That’s the difference, I suspect.

The idea of being a voice crying in the wilderness is attractive. To a point. By my calculations I have spent tens of thousands of hours writing. When pieces get published the editors gush over how good they are. Then they disappear.

I’m pretty critical of myself. Most writers are, I think. (Critical of themselves, I mean, not critical of me, although they could be!) We deal with rejection on a massive scale, all the while being told to believe in ourselves. We must be made of rubber.

I’ve got about six stories out for consideration at the moment. Several more are written and awaiting that rare week with two weekends in a row to get the time to send them out. I’m not even allowed to tweet on work time.

Writing’s a tough business. I spend far more money on books than I earn by publishing. It would seem that this rusty wheel is bound to turn sometime. On either blog will do.

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

Neglectful Parents

If I was a parent I’d be accused of neglect. I have to say 2017 was the least published year of recent memory. Not that I’ve been neglecting my fiction, but I had a non-fiction book accepted and I work full-time and commute to that job—you get the picture. I’ve also had a personal epiphany. If you can write, you should get paid for it. I know a publicist (not my own; I don’t have one) and she says she won’t let her authors even write an op-ed if they don’t get paid. I guess I’d never get published then. My Medusa novel had a flicker of hope for a few moments. A publisher actually wrote back asking for the rest of the manuscript. That’s never happened before. Then the editor disappeared. Even called me by the wrong pseudonym. I’ve gotta wonder about that because the second half of the novel’s even better than the first. While looking for an agent for my non-fiction (couldn’t find one of those either) I came across several who said they liked quirky ficti

K. Marvin Bruce

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