K. Marvin Bruce

I spent about six months of 2015 writing a creative non-fiction book about my experience of commuting.  Amusing anecdotes from my time on the bus were sprinkled in among accounts of my youth, which, in retrospect, involved commuting too. Like most of my writing much of it was “getting the job done” writing—telling the story.  Not every sentence can sparkle.  Amid the prose, which I hope was lively, were some very clever bits, if I have to say so myself.  And likely I will.  I gave the manuscript to a friend to read. By her guarded response I could tell the book really didn’t work.  I’d spent my precious writing time for half a year pouring, polishing, and preening.  All for naught.  If even your friends don’t like it, there’s no point in sending it out to be eviscerated by strangers. Depression sank in.  I’d already imagined finding an agent for it.  Accolades coming in on my wit.  What I had only rhymed with wit. T...