Three Month Kiss of Death

It was one of the nicest rejection letters I’ve received. “It’s not you. It’s me.” You get the picture. I’ve lost track of how many times this book has been rejected. A friend of mine in publishing tells me that publishers are hungry for content. I’ve got six pretty good novels lying around with very little interest shown.

Perhaps I suck as a writer. I don’t really think so, though. You see, i read a lot. On the order of three hours a day a lot. Some of what I read sucks. I recognize suckiness. I don’t produce it.

And yet when I submit to a publisher they want three months to consider my work before rejecting it. You’d think I’d have learned the lesson by now. If they don’t write back the next day, so excited they can’t stay in their seats, I’ve failed to sway them. At least that’s how I imagine it must go.

This particular novel—the first I’ve seriously tried to publish—is an orphan. It had been accepted for publication. The editor wrote back and said, “I love it!” Exclamation point included. A contract was sent, signed, and countersigned. The deal was reneged, because, it was said, of the market.

Meanwhile I read another book that sucks. This one was on the best-seller list of a very prominent newspaper. I have to wait another three months for some editor to decide that thanks, but no. You don’t have what it takes, kid.

I’m not really a kid any more. Embarrassingly old to be starting out as a writer. I finished my first novel in 1987. I never tried to publish it. It sucked.

I recognize suckiness when I see it, even if it’s my own. I also recognize real potential. Maybe I should be an editor. The old joke goes, “what do you call a writer who actually has a job?” I’ve already given the punchline.

So this week, after three months of waiting, the newest rejection letter came. I’ll spend the weekend researching Indies who have a sense of humor and adventure. Agents are coy. You’d think there was a wealth of good material out there. I’ve read best-sellers. I know better.

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

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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