Frölich Geburtstag

No writer really works in isolation. Although my favorite time of writing falls daily between 3:30 and 5:00 a.m., I am not alone. In my head are the many other writers I’ve read, and those from whom I’ve learned my penurious craft. Today marks the birthday of Franz Kafka, one of my literary heroes.

My experience of trying to find publishers has been a kafkaesque trial from time to time. I learned to write by reading those who’ve written before—Poe, Melville, Austin, Kafka. Their rich writing, it seems, had a place in a past that no longer exists.

Something few editors appreciate is the metaphorical and ironic style of writing I employ. Anyone who reads Moby-Dick and comes away thinking it is a novel about whaling has no subtlety whatsoever. To write about life’s great questions, you need a vehicle. Melville chose a whale, and Kafka chose a bug. Today, unless your style is flashy and full of sparkly panache, you’ll remain self-published.

I know some editors personally. Individually they seem like decent people. Give them the power to declare the death-sentence on your writing, however, and they become merciless demigods. Apart from the few writers who’ve had the connections to make their art known, most of us scribble away in obscurity.

Kafka did not live long enough to grace the world with the kind of output from which it clearly would’ve benefitted. The Existentialist writers have always been among my favorites, for their experience is parsimonious. Life does not make sense. Through their writings I hear their wisdom echoing from the grave. Blessed were the publishers who recognized substance when it came across their desks.

The world in which we find ourselves eschews the writing of those with education at the feet of solid teachers. The hours we’ve spent curled up adoringly at the feet of Poe, or Hawthorne, or Brontë have been the kindest lessons life could offer. When class is over, and publishing becomes a business rather than a cultural mainstay, we will all come back to Kafka with wonder in our eyes.

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Pacing

A criticism that I’ve occasionally received concerns pacing. The short story, which today means up to about 7000 words, is a limited amount of space to establish mood. My writing partner Elizabeth was reading a Poe short story recently and commented on how long it seemed. We’ve been accustomed, by the internet, to shorten things. Flash fiction is in. Say it in 1000 words or less. What’s the correct pacing for a 300-word story? I’ve been editing a number of my complete, but unpublished, stories lately. I’m trying to bring the word counts down. I don’t want to be thought of as a plodding writer. At the same time, I’m no action writer. My stories are thoughtful. Some time ago I started reading Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire . Dark, moody, and sensuous, this is a slow-paced novel. Focusing on subtleties and emotions, she paints a writerly picture of the inner life of the undead. If I were an editor to...

Creativity

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...

Patterns

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 wor...

K. Marvin Bruce

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