K. Marvin Bruce

I received a very nice rejection letter today.  The editor had nothing but nice things to say about my story.  Oh, and, I won’t be publishing it.  By my count, that makes thirty different literary magazines (some more literary than others) that have rejected my work.  The unnamed editor advised me to try simultaneous submissions because publication is a “numbers game.” Perhaps my skin is too thin to be a writer.  I think about writing all day long.  As soon as I wake up—literally.  I’m writing before five minutes have passed from eye-opening.  On my way to work (sometimes at work), on my way home from work.  As I drift off to sleep, I am thinking about my stories.  It is, in brief, my life. I read a lot too.  Some of what I read is shit.  I try to refrain from harsh words, but some people succeed in writing who should be condemned to the slush pile hell I inhabit most of the time.  I get enough encouraging rejections not to jump off the bridge just yet, still, why can’t they

The folks at Danse Macabre are most accommodating.  I’m pleased to announce the appearance of my latest short story, “Circumstance of Victims,” In Danse Macabre 72, Oubliette . This is an experimental piece, but, if read with patience, it makes sense.  It is also, like most fiction, somewhat autobiographical.  If you would like to learn what that means, I would encourage you to read my story.  Those who hold power over employees don’t realize just how awful that responsibility is. I’ve been alive long enough, and with a personality strong enough, to have lost a job or two.  It is never shy of anything but devastating.  The first novel I attempted (unsuccessfully) to publish was about just this.  I suspect the editors who threw it on the slush-pile had never experienced it. I sent the manuscript to my friend Sluggo to read.  S/he said that it was pretty long, but the parts about what it feels like to lose a job were spot on.  Authentic.  Compelling.  Sluggo had been ther

I used to belong to a local writer’s group.  Frustrated at my inability to figure out how to get published (I had written three novels and couldn’t get the attention of any publishers in this crowded market) I dutifully spent a Saturday a month with a group of strangers, trying to figure out what was wrong with me. One of the benefits of this group was their ability to pool the membership fees and bring in experts.  We had people from the publishing industry come and tell us about the realities of trying to get noticed in an over-crowded room.  And esoteric knowledge sometimes came our way. It was here that I learned from industry professionals that some best-selling authors no longer write their own books.  I was floored.  I write because I have to write.  It isn’t something I learned and it’s not in any sense optional.  The ideas come, unbidden, as I walk down the street.  The turns of phrase.  The slashing wit. Some Big Names (and I know the dangers of libel) bring the