Dead but Dreaming

One of the most challenging aspects of being a working writer is dithering. Shilly-shallying. Not being able to decide. Is this story done yet? Should I revise it for a tenth time? When do I stop writing fiction and get back to non-fiction? And all of this has to be decided for a mere half-hour of writing time a day.

I’ve neglected this blog a little because I’ve been finishing up a non-fiction book. To no one’s greater surprise than mine, an editor at Penguin is actually reading it. You just never know. Meanwhile novel number seven has been demanding my attention. One through six haven’t been published yet either.

Don’t forget the children. Stories. Lots of stories. Some days three or four story ideas crowd into my head at a time. And I only have half-an-hour to write. Decisions, decisions!

I’d pretty much decided to turn back to non-fiction for a while when I had an unexpected email. A publisher actually wants to see the whole manuscript of my Medusa novel, Interview with the Gorgon. For those who haven’t read my past posts, this novel was under contract with a publisher about six years ago. Then they dithered.

The editor who’d accepted it for publication left the press. They decided they didn’t want to do it. No kill fee. No thank you. Just “my name is no.” Funny thing about it is, since then many presses—after I went out and bought their books just so I could make comparisons—also said “not for us.” Getting this email was completely unexpected.

I used to be a professor at Breck University. Now I profess nothing. I work for a faceless corporation in New York City that publishes non-fiction books. Getting to and from work takes three hours a day. Sleep takes a few, too. Writing is the orphan child of my time.

I’ve never given up on Medusa. I’ve never given up on this blog. To read me is to love me. Even if your name is no. If only I could make up my mind.

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Gotham Writing

Life is plenty complicated without writing. Life’s impossible without writing. You see, I’ve got tons of fiction here. Well, it be tons if I printed it out. I’ve been writing every day for decades now. Long past the limit Neal Stephenson once told me, the 100,000 words you throw out before calling yourself a writer. The problem is, life’s complicated. I happened into a New York City bookstore. On the same shelf paperbacks by the aforementioned Neal and Robert Repino. I know them both. I returned home and fired up the laptop. Hundreds of stories. Half a dozen novels. Amid all of this, just one story of mine that one small journal thought was worthy of actual ink. It won third place in a contest. There’s no way to count pre-computer writing. I was born before the advent of the household CPU. Before electronic calculators. We thought the TI-30 was a big deal, little red lights and all. I’d been writing for years already. How ma

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,

K. Marvin Bruce

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