K. Marvin Bruce

Writing’s my retirement grease.   If I have to explain the concept to you, obviously you’re not up to date on the Simpsons.   Well, come to think of it, it’s been a few years since I’ve watched it myself. Willie, the groundskeeper at Springfield Elementary is saving the grease from the school kitchen’s traps for his retirement.   Homer, on one of his get-rich-quick schemes, has been collecting spent grease to supplement his income.   When he targets the school, Willie spies the truck sucking up the goo and cries out “My retirement grease!” Daily work is not only non-satisfying, it’s also time-consuming.   I sit at work thinking how there’s little to do and I could be getting so much writing done while I sit, staring at a screen, waiting for an email to pop up.   I don’t make enough money to retire.   My plan had been to die on the job, but then I realized, if I could make money on my writing, I’d have some grease. Right now ...

Being published because you’ve managed to string some words together and bought a publisher’s interest with your money doesn’t make you an author.   I once read that Donald Trump has written more books than any other president.   Really?   A functional illiterate is an author? We struggling writers know better.   Writing is a lifestyle, an outlook on life.   We carry around notebooks, slips of paper, or electronic devices that are crammed with thoughts and observations.   We spend quite time either scribbling or typing.   We create meaning. Books are a commodity.   There was shock in the publishing community when an Amazon spokesperson referred to books as simply another form of merchandise some years back.   Publishers blanched.   Books are so much more than paper and ink.   They are miniature universes, cheap.   Anyone can afford to be a god of a secondhand cosmos. Trump has been famous for many years and famous ...

As a writer of horror (and the greatest horror is in trying to get published) I watch horror movies.   Part of the fun is that some poorly made movies can be quite good while some studio productions can be awful.   The difference is in the writing. I’m sure we’ve all seen horror films that are dashed together startle scenes and gory with no plot or storyline.   Good escapism they may be, but they leave you hungry.   The mind craves a story to follow, even in horror.   Especially in horror. I’ve recently entered the market for buying a house.   I’m a first time buyer.   Probably it wasn’t a good idea to binge watch the Amityville trilogy.   The first film is okay, being loosely based on the book.   The second film is more disturbing than scary and that’s because of an evil father.   The third is pure tripe. Amityville 3-D has plot lines raised and dropped like fire bombs over Dresden.   So spare in its writing that acto...

If I was a parent I’d be accused of neglect.   I have to say 2017 was the least published year of recent memory.   Not that I’ve been neglecting my fiction, but I had a non-fiction book accepted and I work full-time and commute to that job—you get the picture. I’ve also had a personal epiphany.   If you can write, you should get paid for it.   I know a publicist (not my own; I don’t have one) and she says she won’t let her authors even write an op-ed if they don’t get paid.   I guess I’d never get published then. My Medusa novel had a flicker of hope for a few moments.   A publisher actually wrote back asking for the rest of the manuscript.   That’s never happened before.   Then the editor disappeared.   Even called me by the wrong pseudonym.   I’ve gotta wonder about that because the second half of the novel’s even better than the first. While looking for an agent for my non-fiction (couldn’t find one of those either) I cam...

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 i...

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 un...

Stress can be great for writing.   Having too little time to practice the craft, in some odd way, makes it flow more easily.   Take the case of the working writer on vacation. I sometimes feel bold enough to call myself a writer.   My job doesn’t depend on it, of course, but who finds meaning in their job?   My sense of purpose comes in the off hours.   Nevertheless, each day presents minimal opportunities to spend with my true vocation.   Then comes vacation time. Unstructured days spread out before me like a trail of breadcrumbs through the forest.   I have stories I’ve been working on for months.   I have at least two non-fiction projects going as well.   At last I will have long, open days when writing will flow and I’ll live in the gooey comfort of constant inspiration.   As if such things ever happen. Vacation is family time.   Writers—those of us who live alone in our heads—can’t simply separate ourselves f...