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. When you’ve been writing for half a century, you l

Too Much Writing?

Has this ever happened to you? Have you written a story that you’ve completely forgot? Not only completely forgotten, but made unfindable? I play games with my stories and sometimes the joke’s on me. Okay, I suffer from graphomania. I write constantly. I do try to keep organized—I use a spreadsheet that has all my submissions on it. It has rejection/acceptance dates (mostly rejection). Lots of information. I decided to list on it every story, whether finished or in process. There are far too many (mostly in process). When I finish a story I often submit it. If I get burned, I’m shy about resubmitting. I often rewrite at this stage. Then, when I feel brave enough, I try again. The spreadsheet is color-coded. There, in the color that indicates finished and ready to submit is a story cryptically titled “The Password.” I don’t remember this story. I can’t recall what it was about or why I thought it was ready to publish. Looking through my electronic files,

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

K. Marvin Bruce

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