I haven’t submitted anything for publication for several months. Once the courage wears off, after having had some success, it seems that I’ve become thin-skinned again. Part of the reason, I suppose, is that I’ve had pretty good success with non-fiction. But I really want to write fiction. One idea, and it’s not something I figured out, is that submitting to contests is a good idea. Somehow knowing that hundreds of others are also trying makes it seem less like rejection if I lose. I can say, “there were hundreds of others—chances were small to begin with.” I really have no idea how many submissions your typical magazine (print or electronic) gets. I do know that a number of editors don’t get my style, or what I’m trying to do. It’s not really horror. It’s more weird fiction. But literary. What’s wrong with the literary weird? To me, the unusual or uncanny is what I’m looking for when I read a story. I’ve read too many where nothing interesting happens (and yet t
When I bought a house (not on any royalties from my writing, mind!) I looked for a place with a writing nook. In order to work remotely I had to prove that I had a dedicated office since, well, the man doesn’t like competition. The writing nook was supposed to be separate. This requirement automatically ruled out modern houses. New houses have no space for books—they’re designed around entertainment centers and home theaters. We needed an older place. We found something from the 1890s. Perfect. I tried writing in our downstairs office. It’s where my wife put the desktop computer—really, there was nowhere else for it—and it has no room for books. It’s also very cold in winter. Then I tried the attic. It’s sufficiently creepy and it’s full of books. It’s even colder than the downstairs study in winter, however. And, to get to the bathroom (I write very early in the morning), I have to creak down the stairs and through the bedroom to get there. Between the cold a