K. Marvin Bruce

  Rejection of my writing is a rejection of my imaginative world.   That’s why I was cheered by the acceptance of one of my stories this week.   That makes number 31. I’ve been working on a lot of fiction lately, even as nonfiction book number 6 is going to press.   The ideas are still there, and bizarre as ever, but publishing venues just aren’t welcoming. The other day I had lunch with a professor whose wife is also a professor.   She just had her first novel published, and so he pointed me to her indie publisher.   I went to their website to learn that they’re closed to submissions.   I have to admit that my latest accepted story, “Creative Writing Club,” was probably given the green light because I know the editor.   That seems like a pretty dicey way to get any notice, doesn’t it?   You have to know the right people even in the low circulation world. My fiction is difficult to classify.   It’s got speculative elements to it.   Quite often it deals with clashing worldviews.   I thi

  There’s a pattern I’m noticing.   For fiction publishers.   Even if you aim low you’ll find it a struggle.   Part of the reason is the pattern. Lots of websites list publishers.   The smaller, hungrier presses either eventually close or get to a place where they require an agent to get in.   That’s the kiss of death. Although my stories have won prizes, and been nominated for prizes, I can’t get an agent interested.   I’ve queried well over a hundred, so the agent route is one of diminishing returns.   This too is a pattern. Back to the smaller presses.   I check many lists.   What I write, you see, is highly idiosyncratic.   It’s literary but it’s weird.   Publishers don’t know what to do with it.   If a smaller press published stuff like this, I’d find it. The pattern includes writers who never get discovered.   Ironically, a number of editors of fiction literary magazines (mostly online) tell me they enjoy my work.   They don’t run presses that publish story collections, however.

  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’m going with it to remind myself later.   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.   When you’ve been writing for half a century, you l

  I recently submitted my Medusa novel to a publisher I found because they approached me to review one of their books.   Now, my nonfiction blog isn’t a big deal.   With only a couple hundred regular readers I’m sure it didn’t lead to sales.   The book, honestly, wasn’t that good. Still, the website was friendly and welcoming.   As I filled in the proposal form I was honest, as it asked me to be.   How many copies, it asked, do you think your book will sell?   Be honest, it advised.   I put a number, realistic, that my own publisher would’ve been satisfied with.   Most books, truth be told, sell less than 1,000 copies. When they sent their rejection note a week later they said that I wasn’t well enough established as a fiction writer.   In other words, I couldn’t bring in enough money.   I’m not established enough?   How are you ever going to get established if even a small publisher like that won’t give you a chance? Here’s the inherent dishonesty in the system.   I’m not famous—I’m

  Sometimes life’s too busy to be leading a double life.   My fiction writing has once again been suffering because of nonfiction.   Funny how that goes. I have my fifth nonfiction book coming out this summer and a sixth written in draft form.   The real problem, however, is the nine-to-five job.   As a professional, it’s expected that the eight-hour day be more like ten.   And what with basic survival, and social time, writing both fiction and non can be a challenge. In a spate of optimism I submitted three or four stories back in the summer, with predictable results.   I finally got brave enough to submit my Medusa novel again.   This one has quite a history, starting with being under contract in 2012. I’ve had a few nibbles since the publisher pulled the plug after an editor left.   Hey, as a professional I know that’s not a very professional thing to do!   Publishers that don’t live up to their obligations, well, let’s just say they don’t thrive. Just recently, though, I saw that s