K. Marvin Bruce

I take courage from those websites that tell you how many times an author was rejected.   You know the ones.   Those written by naively optimistic sorts who say “your future is out there (just not with me).”   Still, I like them. The other day I counted.   My Medusa novel has received 57 rejections so far.   I believe in it, however.   I have been told by people that don’t even like me that I write well.   That should count for something, right?   And there’s that thing I can’t possibly tell agents: The book was under contract before.   See, you can’t admit such things.   You can’t say “The editor who accepted it responded ‘Loved it!’” and “they broke the contract when that editor left.”   I know that somewhere out there lives a publishing professional who got what I am trying to do with this story. Meanwhile, I continue to read.   I read a book recently that was really poor.   I mean, at times I had ...

The search for an agent continues.   As a working writer, my time is often limited to weekends.   Jobs, as many of you surely know, expand to fill the time between Sunday evening and Saturday morning.   They’re showing no signs of slowing down. I was excited that I had an entire weekend with no plans.   I was going to spend it redoubling my agent search, and writing up yet more stories.   I’d run into an agent’s page that actually asked for other finished works, published or not.   I would’ve thought all agents would be interested in how prolific prospective clients might be. Then I woke up sick on Sunday morning.   I don’t get sick often, and this wasn’t head cold sick.   It was a profound dizziness and nausea that happens to me from time to time.   The only thing you can do is hold your head still and try not to move your eyes.   Not very conducive to looking for agents. Of course this had to happen on what was on...

I’ve been spending a lot of time on literary agents’ pages.   One thing has become clear to me: to find an agent you’d better not have a regular job.   Well, unless that job is prominent, of course.   Professors, politicians, sports stars, actors—they can find agents with ease.   The rest of us, not so much. As I’m sitting here soaking in the proletariat pool, I’m contemplating looking for an agent for a story collection.   One of the things I noticed when doing all my agent hunting was that a few of them handle story collections.   Some writers made livings on stories: Edgar Allan Poe, Jorge Luis Borges, and H. P. Lovecraft come to mind. I’ve started reading collections of short stories again.   I really like the way a novel sucks you in and keeps you engaged for hours.   Our fractured lifestyles, however, often mean a collection of stories will get you through a compartmentalized day. As a writer I have written four no...

Blogger isn’t my native environment.   I can’t afford two WordPress sites, though.   Living a dual life doesn’t equate to having dual bank accounts, I’m afraid. I neglect this blog because I write non-fiction and conduct business as a normal human being with a normal name.   My normal job doesn’t allow for fiction publication, besides, I don’t want them to know what goes on inside my head. Trying to get the old Blogger site up to code has been a challenge, though.   Months ago I added other pages (see above) and wondered why nobody else could see them.   Turns out you have to have a kind of course in Blogger-ese to figure out how.   I think it worked. Why the additional pages?   Well, I’ve been querying agents again.   This is a great exercise for those of us who like to bang our heads into walls.   To get an agent you need to have a following.   To get a following you need to have an agent.   It’s a circle of ...

So, it’s the last day of 2019.   I awoke this morning to find a rejection letter in my inbox.   I say “good riddance” to this past year, although it had a little publishing success.   It was better than 2018 in that regard. I’ve got a young writing partner.   She hasn’t published anything yet, but she’s one of the natural best writers I know.   We encourage each other when the going’s rough.   She ended up in the hospital in 2019, and when visiting her she got me to submit some stories again.   Facing an illness will do that to you. Of the stories I sent in during 2019 two were accepted for publication and one won honorable mention in a contest (but alas, wasn’t published).   I sent out a bunch more late in the year and this morning’s rejection may be—it’s too early to tell—the last of blessed 2019. I don’t let my failures stop me from writing.   I’ve got a fourth nonfiction book under contract and nearly ready to ...

Several years ago now I wrote a story called “Without Crutches.”   Ah, distinctly I remember, it was before the wonderful journal Glimmer Train closed down.   I was going through one of my phases of actually reading journals before submitting, and I’d read a tale or two in said Train about characters with addictions. Perhaps going back to the almost mythic Edgar Allan Poe, writers have struggled with mind-altering substances.   Those of us who write see the world so differently and crave new experiences in an almost manic way.   Alcohol, drugs, and even religion can lead that way. “Without Crutches” was a story defending writing without using foreign substances.   As the child of an alcoholic, this path looks quite dark to me.   Besides, my imagination has a healthy libido.   Yes, even sex can lead to altered states of consciousness.   Of course, my story found no publishers. I recently read about Stephen King.   Actua...

Man is this blog dusty!   The neglect isn’t willful, I assure you.   The thing about being a working writer is, well, work.   That combined with the fact that there’s life outside the internet that demands your time. In any case, I’m chuffed that my story “Meh Teh” has appeared in The Colored Lens .   The title is a Himalayan word for what westerners call “yeti.”   As with most of my fiction, however, there’s a deeper story.   And deeper stories often involve belief. It’s funny how easily religion can turn off a conversation.   Yet, I was recently at a book festival where several of the more successful authors I met were quite open about their religious convictions.   Perhaps it’s hiding in plain sight.   Like a yeti. I have to admit that I’ve never been to Nepal, or even India.   I made it to a corner of Asia once in my youth, but I like writing about places I imagine.   I recall studying maps as a child so th...