Research Writing

My current fiction project has me researching. The best advice all writers give is that to be a writer you must read. A lot. I read on an average, more than a book a week. Roughly half of them are fiction and the others non.

I’ve had four nonfiction books published (with a fifth in the editor’s hands). Writing nonfiction takes a lot of research. So does good fiction. Not that it’s ever helped me get my novels published, but should they ever see the light of day, they’re well researched.

My novel on Medusa, for instance, was written after teaching introduction to classical mythology three times at a state university. Indeed, it was that class that led to the novel. I was only an adjunct, of course, and those with full-time affiliations have it much easier. I know. Believe me, I know.

Now my research takes the form of books I buy myself, much to the protest of my study shelves and bank account. All of my books contribute to my research and all of them are used to help me write. We all need help, n’est-ce pas?

In a world where thousands and thousands of books are published each year, even in such a world, it’s difficult to get yourself taken seriously. Agents are too busy to look at fiction by Ph.D.s. Academic publishers tend not to do fiction. So, as Kurt Vonnegut says, it goes.

Whether any of my novels ever get published or not, I will continue the research. Reading is fundamental to the writing soul. Any reading, done right, is research.

My current novel (number eight) is being sandwiched between academic articles I’ve been contracted to write. Along with blog posts and other ephemera. Not to mention the daily grind. I guess life is a form of research as well. I’m hoping it teaches me more about writing.

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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

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

Novel Idea

I’ve been thinking that this blog could use a little attention. My problem is—well, one of my problems—I lead a double life. I write fiction under a pseudonym because my real nym is tied to a respectable job. So it goes. One of the solutions to my double life is that I could start putting some fiction on this blog. Good idea or no? I have a novel on which I’m working and it won’t likely find a publisher, so I could start pasting it here, in serial form. On the other hand of my double life I have a nonfiction book under my nonfiction name that is currently due at the publisher’s. I need to spend time on that too, and I have a job. And the lawn isn’t going to mow itself. So I’m thinking that instead of neglecting this poor, but truly loved, child of a blog, maybe I could feed it fiction. That would at least keep it alive. Right now it’s like a cactus, getting water only a few times a year. Is that a mixed metaphor? Can water be food? When dail

K. Marvin Bruce

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