Haunted by Existence

I get the feeling not many people are truly haunted. I know I am. The reason I get this feeling is that my fiction, which clearly reveals evidence of haunting, is always a hard sell. I can’t give it away, at times.

You see, some of us are haunted by life. I recently read a biography of one of my childhood heroes, Rod Serling. The biographer said he wasn’t a haunted man, he just played one on TV. Not that I want anyone else to be haunted, but I felt a little let down by that assessment.

Is there something wrong with admitting being haunted? Like the stigma of mental illness? Why are people so afraid of those who are haunted? I’ve always felt drawn to them. You’d think the internet might be where we could find one another.

Yet I had behind a pseudonym. Why? I’m afraid. I’m afraid to lose my “real job” that I don’t enjoy. Afraid that my family will find out what’s in my head. Afraid that people will reject the haunted along with the specters that do the haunting.

My fiction is what I call existential horror. Others have done it much better, I know. Jorge Luis Borges. Thomas Ligotti. Edgar A. Poe. But they found publishers. They have fans. Until you do you suffer alone. A submission for publication is a cry for help, as Ivan Klima surely knows.

Until you get a publisher nobody knows you’re haunted. It may be that there’s simply no money in it. Tell that to those who make horror films such a success. It takes those who’ve squarely faced existential horror to write it effectively. If life doesn’t make you afraid, as Grandpa said, it’s because you’re not paying attention.

So I continue my haunted existence. What else can I do? The agents and editors blithely send their lissome rejection notes. They are not haunted people. Those of us who are know each other.

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. ...

Patterns

There’s a pattern I’m noticing. For fiction publishers. Even if you aim low you’ll find it a struggle. Part of the reason is the pattern. Lots of websites list publishers. The smaller, hungrier presses either eventually close or get to a place where they require an agent to get in. That’s the kiss of death. Although my stories have won prizes, and been nominated for prizes, I can’t get an agent interested. I’ve queried well over a hundred, so the agent route is one of diminishing returns. This too is a pattern. Back to the smaller presses. I check many lists. What I write, you see, is highly idiosyncratic. It’s literary but it’s weird. Publishers don’t know what to do with it. If a smaller press published stuff like this, I’d find it. The pattern includes writers who never get discovered. Ironically, a number of editors of fiction literary magazines (mostly online) tell me they enjoy my wor...

K. Marvin Bruce

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