Neglecting Fiction

Every day in Trump’s America the line between fiction and fact becomes effaced. Not that that’s any excuse for neglecting my fiction, in fact it seems as good a reason as any to press on with it. I’ve got a non-fiction book under contract and that keeps me away from my mistress Muse in the “fake news” world.

It’s too bad, really. I’ve got a seventh novel well under way and I’ve got a potential publisher considering one (at last) for publication. The thing is, for a man being published is about the closest you can come to giving birth. Months of gestation, after having seeds planted inside, and perhaps then you have something to say. Something that will grow up beautiful.

As someone who has written literally millions of words, I’m always amazed at how difficult it is to find others who want to read them. The internet’s a crowded place. My daily commute to and from work forces me offline for a few hours a day, and it is a bit of a learning experience to cradle a book like holding somebody else’s baby.

Since my writing time is limited, and I have a non-fiction book with a deadline, I have to let the fiction go free for a while. 2017 has been the slowest publication year I’ve had in fiction since 2009. I simply haven’t had time to get the stories submitted. They’re still coming—I wrote one just last weekend. But who has time any more?

I’ve read that the earth is slowing down in its rotation speed. I personally think it’s speeding up. My bus schedule hasn’t changed, but since last year I have even less time than I used to. I keep thinking that vacation time will come and it will stop and I’ll have a chance to catch up. Then a non-fiction contract lands on my desk.

It’s not that I’m complaining. The boundary between fiction and fact barely exists at all.

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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