It is a great thing that my writerly ego is larger than the Sahara Desert, because, though I tried, valiantly, to get our local library to host myself (and the kids! I used the cuteness of the kids as an application weapon!) during their local author day, I received word yesterday* that we were not accepted as one of the presenting authors. While in my younger days I would have attempted to mobilize you, the vast internet army that has risen to our call to action in the past, I’m going to give it a pass on this one.
I’m hoping that gives you fine folks, who’ve been such great supporters, a little well deserved rest. Consider this like a doctor’s note (though I’m not a doctor) to take a little time for yourself. You’re welcome.
Because, who knows, if one of you out there has Mollie Glick’s number or ear** I may be hitting you up to put in a good word for a very nice, very humble author of a little book about butterflies, a retired hockey player, his plumber wife, and Old Sturbridge Village. Amongst other things.
Coming soon to a bookshelf near you.
* This sounds like I got a letter hand-delivered by some sweaty, grimy guy hopping off a horse, taking off his hat and wiping his brow while handing me the letter at the same time. This is not the case.
So some of you out there may be doing something for NaNoWriMo. More likely than not writing. Or avoiding writing.
Well, I’m not attempting to splurt 50,000 words into a document this year, but I wrote a tool, a long time ago now, to help you write a lot of words without fussing too much over what those words actually were. It’s called Writer.app, and it’s for the Mac.
It doesn’t let you delete — the delete key simply strikes out your text. The goal is to get you to stop using the delete button and get some words to the screen. Stop overthinking your prose and just get down to writing it.
Personally, I find the software useful in the early drafting phase, if I’m not using a pen and paper. But you’re left with your bare bones, oftentimes badly spelled, pedal to the metal text that you can pull into an app like Scrivener or Tinderbox where you can massage it in the editing phase.
In fact, with Butterfly I wrote the entire story down in notebooks, transcribed that mess into Scrivener, and then re-wrote large sections of the book in Writer.app. When I was done with a chapter I would export it to my pasteboard without all the stricken text and paste it into a new Scrivener text document. I’m deep, way deep into the editing phase now, polishing that last draft into something suitable for human consumption (but hopefully not like pink slime), so I’m far away from anything like NaNo and Writer.app, but for those of you who are in the throes of it, well, you’re welcome to it.
It works on Mavericks, as well. At any rate, if you find it useful, I’d love to hear about it.
My kids have no idea that the Red Sox are not supposed to win the World Series every few years. My son was born a year or so after they won in 2004 and my daughter had the consideration to be born in between games of the 2007 World Series against the Rockies. And that’s not even getting into the other sports teams from my home land and their successes.
Further Fenway Fiction
But now that the baseball season is over, and, for Red Sox fans, it’s ended in such a satisfying, shocking way, the Red Sox fan in your life may be feeling at loose ends with him or herself.
Well, no more, I have your solution! Further Fenway Fiction is possibly my favorite of the three Fenway Fiction books and came out during that summer of 2007*.
I had really thought, when John Lackey was shut down in 2012, that I’d have another parallel to draw to the main character in my own “The Curious Case of Doctor Belly and Mister Itcher,” which was a story about a successful pitcher who gets hit in the head with a line drive and is never quite the same again. The original inspiration was a Matt Clement-like pitcher who showed such promise and just never seemed to pan out for the Red Sox.
But Lackey really pulled it together and man, what a finish!
So if your favorite Red Sox fan is suffering from withdrawal I would have a heart, if I were you, and go pick up a copy of Further Fenway Fiction (they’re going for less than $5 on Amazon right now!).
Tell me about your purchase, of any book, really, and I’ll send you a signed bookplate to paste in there.
* Interesting historical note: Fenway Fiction was compiled during the 2004 season, Further Fenway Fiction was published during the summer of ’07, and Final Fenway Fiction came out in January of 2012. The latter obviously took a bit more time to work its magic, but someone may want to call Larry Lucchino or John Henry and just put all the Fenway Fiction writers on the job, because it’s apparent that our collections are driving the Red Sox to World Series wins.
All this talk of baseball writing and more got me on an archaeological kick the other day, through old Sane Magazine issues, and I found the original of “The Long, Dark Voyage.” So you can read the story that appeared in the excellent Fenway Fiction: Short Stories from the Red Sox Nation for FREE, at what used to be my (and horde of hundreds of employees) weekly creative workout.
Sane Magazine: wonderful rubbish
I’m not going to lie, it’s a little fast and loose. It may not be everyone’s cup of tea. But it was that first Red Sox short story that started a very long relationship with a series of publishers who wanted to publish short fiction by members of Red Sox Nation, God help us all.
Whilst wearing my internet pith helmet and wielding a mean little pickaxe I was able to unearth some other baseball stories, including the sweet, short little ode to the 2003 Red Sox called, with apologies to Stephen King, “The Woman Who Loved Derek Lowe,” which was the other candidate for the first Fenway Fiction collection.
And no one can save you if you get sucked into the old horoscopes, oh no, no one can save you.
First off, thank you for the phone calls, faxes, emails, and cakes, all inscribed lovingly with the same message of support and care in the wake of my omission from the Batter Up! reading up in San Francisco on October 14th.
But the folks at LitQuake, who seem very nice, except a bit deficient in their knowledge of baseball fiction writers who happen to be in their own general vicinity, gave me a call and informed me that, unfortunately, it’s a bit too late to get me onto the program up at the Sports Basement this year. So no more need to call them or email them, begging to get me onto the stage. I appreciate the efforts, but this year you’ll just have to wait.
And, if the Red Sox aren’t still playing, I may be at the reading, so if you catch me there I’d be more than happy to do a personalized reading, just for you.
I’ve never been to a LitQuake before, but they have a fascinating list of events lined up, and Christopher Moore alone would be worth the price of admission (free) to the baseball reading. And if it’s anything like a GrubStreet event I’m sure it’ll be well-run with lots of literate-minded folks milling about to get your fires going.
In other news, I’m slogging through the final draft of Butterfly. It’s been a long time in the works, but I think it’s my best work yet, even better than the baseball fiction (some would argue this would not be a very high bar to surpass). So there is a good possibility that someone should just lock me in my room until I finish editing and start getting it sent off like some sort of communicable disease.
Friends, dear good, great friends. I have a favor to ask of you. Maybe two.
“Oh God,” you’re saying, possibly aloud, drawing stares in the internet café in which you’re browsing Facebook. I’ve told you time and time again not to browse Facebook in internet cafés, but there you go, no stopping you. That skeezy guy looking over your shoulder, right now? He was just browsing his portfolio of GE and MSFT stocks seconds ago. I bet that just sends shivers down your spine, doesn’t it? Your spine that he’s likely nearly breathing on, right this very second.
Books, at a reading in Waltham
Anyway.
But this favor, possibly two I have to ask of you, don’t panic. It’s the sort of favor that enriches the favor-giver, and, quite possibly, the entire human race. So it’s more like I’m doing a favor, possibly two, for *you*.
So I found out, via the incomparable Christopher Moore (@TheAuthorGuy) that the LitQuake folks are holding a reading up in San Francisco that is baseball themed. “Baseball themed!” I can hear you say, “but Matt, oh God, or are you insisting we all call you Matthew now, since that seems to be your writerly brand these days — regardless, Matt, Matthew, *you* write and sometimes read out loud baseball fiction! Surely you’re reading at this event! I can’t wait, I’ll be there with bells on, &c., &c.”
But here’s the secret: I’m not. Or, at least, no one’s *told* me I’m reading at this event, and, in my experience, if no one tells you you’re reading at an event you’re probably not supposed to get up on stage and just start reading.
Now, I’ll pause for a moment, to let you catch your breath. You okay? You’re not weeping, are you? Look, I’ll be okay. Really. This is part of the favor I have to ask of you. And I am *giving* to you. I want you to help me get on LitQuake’s radar, if that’s what they use, these days, instead of a submission manager like everyone else. I want to be like a tugboat, chugging up the Hudson River of LitQuake’s literary monitoring station. “BLARP!” (That is the literary equivalent/translation of what a tugboat’s whistle might sound like, in print.)
I would be honored, chuffed, and over the moon if you would contact the dear folks at LitQuake (http://www.litquake.org/contact-us) and ask them, beg them, promise them your first born (I cannot, sadly, reimburse you for first born children lost as a result of your begging) if Matthew Hanlon, the author of short stories that have appeared in books as diverse as “Fenway Fiction,” “Further Fenway Fiction,” and “Final Fenway Fiction,” all of which happen to be about baseball, could read at this very special, baseball-themed event. The same Matthew Hanlon who has been emailing them and calling them since he found out about the reading two days ago, so they should have his contact info. But, if not, they can email him at sanemagazine@mac.com (yes, this is a throwback for some of you).
And that’s it. The end of the first favor, and in which direction I’m still not quite sure it flows, so let’s just say you owe me one.
And… speaking of owing me one, hey, how’s about, should I be allowed to read, on stage, at the same general time as the other people reading, about baseball, how’s about you come up to San Francisco, head on over to the Sports Basement, sit down for a while and listen to people read about baseball? Christopher Moore will be there, who is a very entertaining speaker. As will *I*, because of the efforts of good buddies like *you*, who called, faxed, emailed, and semaphored LitQuake to lobby on my behalf. As much as I’ve enjoyed reading to an empty room in such diverse places as the Arlington Center for the Arts and the Charlton Public Library, it would be pleasant to read to friendly faces (and the friendly video phones you’re probably going to be holding up, recording the event like it’s the Dire Straits reunion tour).
My favorites of the bunch were the title story, “Dublin Express,” “The Case of Mrs. Geary’s Leather Trousers,” which was the start of Colin Bateman’s novel Mystery Man, and the screenplay, “National Anthem.” They’re very typical Bateman humor, very dark, and filled with entertaining characters. Not characters you’d necessarily want to give a hug, but ones you wouldn’t mind sharing a beer with, though possibly from across the room.
The play, particularly, contains the sort of spectacularly hapless characters who attempt to wrestle some control and decorum into their lives, but, due to circumstances and conspiracies beyond their ken, they fail in an entertaining fashion. They’re the sort of characters Colin Bateman excels at writing and make for a great read.
If you have a chance to see it or get ahold of the script it’s well worth picking up.
So for the last… well, a long time. In February, 2011, after finishing the first draft of a novel entitled “Rudyard Kipling’s Chair” which is still sitting in a desk drawer somewhere, unwieldy and cumbersome and full of far too many characters and subplots, I was taking a break. Like practicing crop rotation for the creative mind, I picked up another project that had been festering.
This project was tentatively titled “Butterfly,” and it began at 5:45am that morning.
“I work at the Magic Funtime Butterfly Ranch. I make dreams come true. Probably.”
First Reader Copy, Away!
It was the story of a man who is separated from his family and his friends, the story of their struggle to get back together, and the various paths people take to fulfill their desires.
And it still is. About three drafts later, I’m working on that final polishing draft. My first fifty pages have been handed over to my First Reader, who fled the country shortly after receiving them.
So that’s where I’ve been. And I’m still not technically allowed out. I mean, the first fifty pages out of, what, two hundred and fifty? More? Less, hopefully, after some judicious editing? That’s a lot of judicious editing to go, a lot of clean up, usually squeezed in in the wee hours of the morning.
But that’s where I’ve been, where I’m at, and I’m very excited to see it coming along, at long last.
I’m hoping that gives you fine folks, who’ve been such great supporters, a little well deserved rest. Consider this like a doctor’s note (though I’m not a doctor) to take a little time for yourself. You’re welcome.
is possibly my favorite of the three Fenway Fiction books and came out during that summer of 2007*.
was compiled during the 2004 season, 
came out in January of 2012. The latter obviously took a bit more time to work its magic, but someone may want to call Larry Lucchino or John Henry and just put all the Fenway Fiction writers on the job, because it’s apparent that our collections are driving the Red Sox to World Series wins.
