K. Marvin Bruce

  A couple pieces of encouraging news, perhaps, dear struggling writers.   I had a couple short stories accepted for publication in recent weeks.   As a fellow writer recently said, “You've got to keep trying.  Somebody will like what you wrote.” That’s a bit of sunshine.   And it’s likely true.   But the stories:   “The Crossing,” about two men in a boat trying to cross the Atlantic, was accepted by JayHenge Publishing.   JayHenge is a small, but paying publisher.   I was flattered when they wanted it for their Masque & Maelström: The Reluctant Exhumation of Edgar Allan Poe anthology.   Being associated with Poe in any way feels good. The second story, “St. Spiders’ Day,” had been brewing in my mind for years—yes, this is a long game!   A friend pointed me to The Creepy podcast.   Since the story hadn’t been written, I followed their guidelines of what they wanted.   It worked. I recently heard a successful wri...

  Maybe you’ve noticed this too.   When you step away from fiction writing for a while, your creativity becomes flaccid.   I’ve had to step away from this blog for a while because I was writing my sixth nonfiction book.   God, I’ve missed fiction! Now that I’ve entered that phase of waiting for publishers to respond, I’ve turned my limited writing time back to fiction.   I submitted a couple of stories this week and am waiting to hear about those as well.   When you’re a writer, waiting is a way of life. Opening my software where I store my fiction stories, I was amazed by how many I found.   Some of them are bad—so bad that they’ll never (rightfully) be published.   Some are surprisingly good and have been sitting around while I finished up my nonfic. The vast majority, however, are unfinished.   Some years back I realized that when I’m writing in the heat of inspiration but don’t have time to finish a story that I need to write down where I...

  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...

  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 ...

The fall wasn’t catastrophic, but the fear was.   Terah had slipped only a few inches as his foot found a more willing branch.   Frozen a few moments with terror, he realized that the window would still be two feet beyond his reach, even if he could stand on the thin branches nearest it.   If he gave in to his fears and scrambled down the tree he’d be no closer to gaining access to his pack.   He’d walked nearly the entire footprint of the asylum and had seen no sign of access anywhere.   Clutching this branch like a frightened kitten he was mere feet away from a feasible way in.   Provided he could reach it, open it, and find a way in that didn’t lead to a straight drop on the other side. While inside he’d not been able to make out any detail on the clerestory level.   He’d climbed to the second floor, but the windows were up yet one more level than that and how far above the floor he simply couldn’t tell.   His indecision would kill him. Terah h...

There’s a certain freedom in being obscure.   Like with the murder.   Her name might’ve been Danielle.   That’s what she said, but then again, sex was seldom a matter of being honest.   Terah had met her in the classroom and although he knew the trope was tired—he’d been a writer—he’d also been a professor.   He’d known the subtle pressure of constantly refreshing populations of young coeds.   And hiring someone as an adjunct was an invitation to become a drifter. He wasn’t a predator.   He was just weak.   Besides, grandfathers on both sides had been teachers that’d married their students.   It’d been common in those days, and what made some time-honored family traditions illegal?   Shouldn’t that itself be illegal?   As long as both parties are mature and willing.   Such thoughts kept him company on the long January walk. Once out of the poisonous orbit of New York City, New Jersey was a pretty state.   Here in the ...

The cruel beauty of winter settled like frozen ashes on the ruined church.   There was something obscene about seeing faith exposed in such a naked state—once warmly felt and capable of erecting soaring cathedrals now reduced to failing to pay the mortgage on a relatively modest chapel in a small town until some squatter’s fire claimed it.   The half-hearted efforts of the weary Stanton Station fire-fighting volunteers left it smoldering on Epiphany. Terah Economy kept far from the scene, knowing it wouldn’t be difficult to trace the conflagration’s origin.   He’d never burn down a church intentionally.   His former career had been precariously canted in that direction, like a tallship in a typhoon.   Being homeless in Stanton Station was easier than it had been in New York City.   The handouts could be better in Midtown, and even for educated derelicts like himself the homeless shelters seemed less appealing than an appliance box over a subway vent on ...

Every day in Trump’s America the line between fiction and fact becomes effaced.   Not that that’s any excuse for neglecting my fiction, in fact it seems as good a reason as any to press on with it.   I’ve got a non-fiction book under contract and that keeps me away from my mistress Muse in the “fake news” world. It’s too bad, really.   I’ve got a seventh novel well under way and I’ve got a potential publisher considering one (at last) for publication.   The thing is, for a man being published is about the closest you can come to giving birth.   Months of gestation, after having seeds planted inside, and perhaps then you have something to say.   Something that will grow up beautiful. As someone who has written literally millions of words, I’m always amazed at how difficult it is to find others who want to read them.   The internet’s a crowded place.   My daily commute to and from work forces me offline for a few hours a day, and it i...

I’ve often wondered if it’s accidental that fact and fiction share consonants.  Oh, the vowels are completely different, and fiction ends with that trickster consonant n, but don’t let that fool you.  Things aren’t always as clear cut as they say. In some languages, I’ve been told, the meaning of a word lies in its root.  My friend Steve once told me that Hebrew words have “triliteral roots.”  That is, words based on the same three consonants, in that order, are closely related.  You can make a noun into a verb by taking the root and changing the vowels.  Maybe something similar is going on with fact and fiction. Jorge Luis Borges, I have to confess, hasn’t appeared in my reading as much as he should.  Many of his story revolve around the indeterminacy of words.  They change, they shift, they mean something we didn’t mean for them to mean.  And he sometimes uses Hebrew as an example. I don’t read Hebrew—English is difficult enoug...

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...

One of the tropes rife in the editorial world, regarding non-fiction, is “this should be an article instead of a book.”  This is a very disappointing thing for an author to hear.  After all, s/he spent years developing an idea into something long enough to be called a book, only to have it suggested s/he should cut it down. I write fiction, and I love to do so.  Once I’m in the  world I’ve imagined, it is difficult for me to break away.  In my day-job, however, I have written, and continue to write, creative non-fiction.  I recently managed to get one of these pieces up to 60,000 words so that I could call it a book.  A friend suggested maybe it should be an article instead. This is the dilemma of the writer seeking publication.  You have to meet the expectations of a publisher.  Nobody knows the piece as well as the author, and it hurts to cut organs away—body parts that your mind organically grafted into the body of your work. ...

The old adage says, "don't judge a book by its cover."  In actual fact, you can tell quite a bit by even a glimpse at the cover of a book.  Publishers put quite extensive resources into getting the cover right because people do, and should, consider the cover. First of all, a cover can tell you whether a book is serious or not.  Even as fiction writers, we want people to know whether our work is deadly serious or light-hearted.  The cover is the first clue. Book covers can also tell you if the publisher knows what they are doing or not.  Many self-published books are evident by their covers.  Others tell you that the publisher doesn't understand the intended readership. Consider a book, fiction or non, that has an actual person's face on it.  Often this is not a strong selling point.  Some biographies do this, and that may be the one case where a good subject photo works for the cover.  A poor one, however, can put readers ...