K. Marvin Bruce

Most writers give this advice to those of us who wish to join the guild: read.  Read lots.  Read constantly. While it’s not always possible to read all the time, I do spend at least a couple hours most days behind a book.  I know not everyone likes to read, but I read a tremendous number of books.  Of course I don’t keep count, but the total is in the thousands rather than the hundreds. When you read, you learn.  Yes, I read for entertainment, but I also learn at the same time.  I learn how to write.  And how not to write.  I learn what works, and what doesn’t.  I love to read. An ethical issue has been nagging me.  Aren’t those who read required, if so enabled, to give something back?  If there’s anything I enjoy more than reading, it’s writing.  I could write until I drop dead with no regrets. It is my obligation, is it not, to offer back some of what I’ve taken?  I’ve borrowed ideas, thoughts, and dream...

I know many editors.  They are always hungry for good material, but in the course of their duties they have to turn quite a few writers away.  Some of the writers, I’m assured, are just this side of insane.  Some have probably never even considered suicide. Editors are sometimes a writer’s worst enemy.  I know deep in my confused web of consciousness that I am a writer.  I have written fiction with a pathological insistence since before my middle school days.  Six novels bear my name.  Not one has merited publication. I wonder about the ethics of editors.  Who made them the gatekeepers of what is worthy of living or dying?  Nine years of my life were spent in higher education, terminating in a Ph.D. that bears no street cred.  How am I to convince an editor I’m no slouch?  Disposable. Anyone with server space and a few extra hours a week can be an editor.  Yes, for just a little storage space, you too can tur...