Stages of Not Publishing

Psychologists, I’ve read, have come to doubt Elizabeth Kübler-Ross’s fives stages of death and dying. Writers, it seems to me, know quite a bit about these topics, and they hold true to my experience. I may not be typical in having so little time to write, but I do emote.

So the latest literary agent has turned down my once accepted, and multiply-rejected Boeotian Rhapsody for publication. I can’t believe it (stage one) at first. The agent’s description seemed to match my genre so well. Sometimes just opening email is a shock.

Why is this so damned hard? A number—very small, admittedly, but a number nevertheless—of short fiction publishers like my work. They don’t publish books, of course. Still, why can’t anybody give me a chance? I guess I’m at stage two.

I consider writing back to the agent. Maybe making my case. This, however, is the kiss of death in publishing. Agents like quick, clean, and no commitments. Bargaining (stage three) is definitely out. I start casting about for other publishers, wanting to show my chops—maybe Amazon publishing? Oh, but they don’t take unsolicited submissions. Get an agent.

Depression always seems to be the longest stage. That period of intense introspection, beyond the everyday introspection, that asks what is wrong with me that publishers find me so repulsive. I have a friend who works in non-fiction publishing. They’re happy if they sell four hundred copies of a book. Write engaging fiction and you’d better have a name like King or Patterson to even get a chance.

Finally I begin to see that this morning is just like any other. Gray and empty. Rather like my protagonist comes to realize. In fact, I’m pretty sure that she went through all five of Kübler-Ross’s five stages too.

But then again, psychologists tell me that the stages are just a fantasy. So is my novel. So is my novel.

“The truth is that writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial.”

—Virginia Woolf

Comments

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

Neglectful Parents

If I was a parent I’d be accused of neglect. I have to say 2017 was the least published year of recent memory. Not that I’ve been neglecting my fiction, but I had a non-fiction book accepted and I work full-time and commute to that job—you get the picture. I’ve also had a personal epiphany. If you can write, you should get paid for it. I know a publicist (not my own; I don’t have one) and she says she won’t let her authors even write an op-ed if they don’t get paid. I guess I’d never get published then. My Medusa novel had a flicker of hope for a few moments. A publisher actually wrote back asking for the rest of the manuscript. That’s never happened before. Then the editor disappeared. Even called me by the wrong pseudonym. I’ve gotta wonder about that because the second half of the novel’s even better than the first. While looking for an agent for my non-fiction (couldn’t find one of those either) I came across several who said they liked quirky ficti

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,

K. Marvin Bruce

Search This Blog