The Shock of Success

With a shock I realized it had been months since the last time. Months! I write every day, and yet I hadn’t submitted anything for publication since the spring. I had several stories ready to go, and although my skin is getting more reptilian, each rejection still hurts (nobody’s allowed to say that, by the way).

A couple weeks back, then, I took three stories that have been gathering electronic dust, and sent them out. The first, a prose riff on Whitman called, “O Driver, My Driver,” was turned down by a journal that had published me twice before. I’m incredibly busy so I just took the pain and went to work.

A decided to send it out again—it really is a good story. I will discuss it more, once it’s published. That’s why I started this blog. Long ago a friend warned me not to try to publish fiction on a blog. Of course, some people do, and become best sellers.

Did I say it’s going to be published? Oh yes, thank you Exterminating Angel Press!

Despite fiction being my first love, I have a paltry job that pays the bills (barely). For a guy my age, that’s a little embarrassing to admit. I should be shucking up retirement funds ready to bask in late middle age on the shore of a lake somewhere. (I told you I write fiction.)

In the course of my life outside of fiction I ran into Exterminating Angel Press. Naturally, I thought of my story “Angel Hunter.” It had already been published in the excellent Deep Water Literary Journal, and I don’t regret that. I just thought our titles indicated similar sensibilities. I’d done a couple of reviews for Exterminating Angel Press and decided to see if they’d like my fiction.

Some time in the future, I’m happy to announce, “O Driver, My Driver” will be published in their magazine.

What I noticed immediately was that although yesterday was dull as Hell at work, I was happy all day. The reason was, quite simply, news of acceptance. I’ve been getting a lot of pinhead letters for jobs that look better than mine. Being published, even if it’s far off in the future, validates me. That’s the way with adult children of alcoholics.

Who knows? If EAP likes my work I may find a home for one of my six novels yet. Meanwhile the daily grind goes on.

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,

Gothica

The other day I asked a friend to define “gothic.” Heavy, dark, supernatural—these were a few of the words suggested. When autumn comes my thoughts turn gothic, and I’m always looking for good gothic things to read. I have blogged in the past about how reading literature that isn’t great is good. I’m serious about that. You can learn a lot by reading poor writing. Some gothic literature is more the former than the latter. Like Dark Shadows novels. Dark Shadows was running on daytime television when I was a child. As a teen I began to read the novelizations, by Marilyn Ross, whenever I could find them. Belles lettres they’re not. Gothic, most decidedly so. That’s why I keep coming back to them. They aren’t scary. In fact, they’re formulaic and predictable. But so, so gothic. Spooky mansions, the Maine woods, forlorn vampire, faded wealth. Even, yes, dark shadows. The stories create a mood I find difficult to locate elsewhere. Inspired by the most r

K. Marvin Bruce

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