Who Gets to Decide?

Some years back, I remember, there was not inconsiderable clamor over J. K. Rowling’s confession that Professor Dumbledore was gay. Having been teethed on po-mo fare, this struck me as very odd indeed. Yes, Rowling had invented the character, but he was dead by the end of Harry Potter’s series, and his sexual orientation seemed a moot point.

Having written a few novels myself (don’t run to the bookstore, fantasy readers, for only one has been accepted for publication), I know how attached writers grow to their characters. We are their gods, creating them, nurturing them, punishing and sometimes killing them. We know them better than anyone. Or do we?

Every thought takes on a life of its own. Writers think worlds into being. The problem with thinking worlds into being is not dissimilar from being a parent. You bring a new creature into life, but that child has a life of her own. You can only make decisions up to a point.

So it is with fictional people. We who write create literary children, but then we pass them off to our readers. With publication we pass off our rights to deciding the future of our characters. No matter how intricately we present them, they will grow in the minds of others, taking on the attributes they decide.

Often I have read the description an author offers. That brunette described so vividly in carefully crafted prose becomes a blonde in my head. That man who weighs 250 pounds, I have slimmed down to 175. The homely girl is beautiful in my head.

Is Albus Dumbledore gay? Once the final Harry Potter book rolled off the well-monied printing press, the issue was handed from the author over to the imaginative reader. Should we gasp and wonder if the author disagrees? No. For like the gods, we writers release our characters into the freewill world of imagination. There is no bringing them back.

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Dusty

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

Too Much Writing?

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 or why I thought it was ready to publish. Looking through my electronic files,

The Same Old Story

After a story is rejected from a literary magazine—a rather frequent occurrence—I always revise it. For stories rejected half a dozen or more times—a rather frequent occurrence—the stories can shift substantially. In a version of the old saw that “this is the axe used by George Washington to chop down the cherry tree; it has had five new handles and three new heads,” I wonder if the story is the same after such revision. I write in the flush of inspiration. The story comes to me roughly complete. The literati say “no,” and I assume the fault must be my own. I knuckle down and start trying to revise to their liking. The action changes. The ending changes. The characters change. Is it the same story? Is the fault that my addled brain seems to have trouble telling a story someone wants to read? Is it the curse of an internet that makes writers of anyone with fingers to type? I started writing fiction four decades ago. If I’d tried to start publishing then, perhap

K. Marvin Bruce

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