K. Marvin Bruce

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...

One of the most challenging aspects of being a working writer is dithering.   Shilly-shallying.   Not being able to decide.   Is this story done yet?   Should I revise it for a tenth time?   When do I stop writing fiction and get back to non-fiction?   And all of this has to be decided for a mere half-hour of writing time a day. I’ve neglected this blog a little because I’ve been finishing up a non-fiction book.   To no one’s greater surprise than mine, an editor at Penguin is actually reading it.   You just never know.   Meanwhile novel number seven has been demanding my attention.   One through six haven’t been published yet either. Don’t forget the children.   Stories.   Lots of stories.   Some days three or four story ideas crowd into my head at a time.   And I only have half-an-hour to write.   Decisions, decisions! I’d pretty much decided to turn back to non-fiction for a while when I had an un...

Stress can be great for writing.   Having too little time to practice the craft, in some odd way, makes it flow more easily.   Take the case of the working writer on vacation. I sometimes feel bold enough to call myself a writer.   My job doesn’t depend on it, of course, but who finds meaning in their job?   My sense of purpose comes in the off hours.   Nevertheless, each day presents minimal opportunities to spend with my true vocation.   Then comes vacation time. Unstructured days spread out before me like a trail of breadcrumbs through the forest.   I have stories I’ve been working on for months.   I have at least two non-fiction projects going as well.   At last I will have long, open days when writing will flow and I’ll live in the gooey comfort of constant inspiration.   As if such things ever happen. Vacation is family time.   Writers—those of us who live alone in our heads—can’t simply separate ourselves f...

Perhaps the most difficult thing about being a working writer is deciding how to spend the limited time you have to write.   Since I had a completely non-lucrative life as a non-fiction author while working in academia I have found those who decide whether to publish you or not often consider your last book and its sale track.   That can be bad news for those of us who were once college professors. It’s not impossible for an employed professor to become a novelist.   Vladimir Nabokov was an entomologist and yet because of literature professor after writing Lolita .   Umberto Eco was an academic when he broke out with The Name of the Rose .   Carl Sagan published Contact .   The list could go on, but need not.   You get the point.   It may be difficult, but not impossible. I’ve written five novels since earning my doctorate, and three non-fiction books.   Of these only one has been published, and it is my least favorite of all.  ...

Do you admit that you’re a writer?  If it’s in your job description I suppose you do, but for many of us being a writer presents us with a dilemma.  Do you admit to your boss that you’re hoping to get paid for what you do off the clock? I have a friend in the publishing industry whose employer has strict rules about such things.  Any “employment” that takes away from work time has to be declared in written form and sent to the office that investigates conflict of interest.  If you’re a writer who’s paid to do something else you can already see where I’m going with this. Inspiration doesn’t obey time-clocks.  In fact, it almost always makes a mockery of them.  When you’ve arrived at work and punched in (i.e., booted up your PC) does that story idea obediently bed down until 5 p.m.?  Of course not.  Even after you’ve dug into today’s business, it’s probably playing like muzak in the back corridors of your gray matter.  It sometim...

I can’t help it.  Inside every man there’s locked a puerile little boy.  The other day I was on the website of the Catholic University of America.  As everyone knows, Catholics have some of the greatest hangups about sexuality in all of Christendom.  Like most universities, however, CUA has to appeal to both genders to make ends meet. In any case, I was looking over the undergraduate programs for a friend and the head picture struck me as impossibly funny.  All the more so because it was totally unintentional.  Over the past few years institutions of higher education have been using plenty of photos of coeds to attract the guys.  That’s just the way it is. In this photo, however, the two women have inscrutable smiles on their faces as one makes the universal “inches” sign with her fingers.  It doesn’t help that there’s a guy sitting right there, not looking their way.  On the blackboard behind, although blurry, is the word “tube....

The self-critical writer is an odd beast.  In fact, I sometimes wonder if I’m not working at cross-purposes with myself in trying to get published.  You see, despite all the “no”s I receive from editors, I am my own worst critic.  I put a lot of care into my stories—there’s nothing slap-dash there.  Yet when I watch movies I often groan at the state of the writing.  They’ve made it, and I haven’t. The same is true when I read novels.  I’ve read many—most by major publishing houses with “bestseller” splashed all over the cover that left me with a shrug and a yawn.  They get multiple book contracts.  I get rejection slips.  (Or I would if they still sent slips.)  They don’t even tell me why. I don’t really need rejection slips to critique my work.  I critique the hell out of it.  I go over stories time and again, like a rock tumbler, even after they were pretty good to begin with.  Such is a writer’s life....