Matt Thompson's Blog: and the falling cease

Hacks Are Immortal

A few weeks ago I was asked by the esteemed owner of this blog if I’d like to do an interview to help promote my new book. As an independent author it was an opportunity I readily accepted. It’s not the first interview I’ve done, but I realized that I felt differently about this one. I was excited about it because I knew I had something to say, something that I felt (and feel) strongly about. I found myself hoping to be asked a specific question. I was not disappointed.

What I wanted to be asked about was e-books. *Audible groan. E-books are a point of contention in the writing world, and I find myself uncomfortably straddling the chasm between the two sides. What I said in the interview is essentially this: e-books get an unfair rap. It is often assumed that all e-books are amateurish vampire romance or s&m stories with terrible covers and worse grammar. A basic interview isn’t the time to go into extensive detail (although I was perhaps a bit wordy) but now that I have a more appropriate forum I’d like to more clearly explain where I stand.

More than fifty years ago Gore Vidal wrote an essay entitled “The Hacks of Academe” which I read for the first time almost exactly one year ago. As I reread the essay in preparation for this post I noticed something I didn’t before, something quite relevant to the e-book controversy. On top of airing out his grievances with John Barth, Vidal bemoans the state of fiction in America. He is concerned that the serious American novel is dying, and it is because of its most ardent supporters: academics. What I never caught in my first reading is that Vidal is not as concerned with the quality of the serious American novel, (he had some reasonable qualms with Barth’s willfully obtuse writing) but with the exclusivity of it. He fears that serious novels are only being written by academics, for academics in a vicious cycle that ends with the pool of serious readers and writers painfully dwindling down to zero.

Vidal is spot on, and it persists today. But even worse, it has spread to e-book enthusiasts as well. This cliquishness cannot continue in the best interest of the novel. Academics are as unwilling to accept as ever. Wander onto any college campus in America and attempt to speak to an English professor about a great novel you read, a kindle exclusive. Stonewall. Universities continue to perpetuate an increasingly narrow view of what is worth reading. The arrival of the e-book has only made them close ranks more than ever before. This is nothing new, but there has been another adverse reaction.

The e-book enthusiasts have responded to rejection by academics by closing their own ranks. They’ve created their own cult of exclusivity, but instead of literary novels, it is genre and proud. Literary novels published in e-book form are routinely ignored by e-book blogs. Most e-book blogs (believe me I’ve checked) don’t even have “literary” listed as an option. Some will gladly review paranormal vampire futuristic dystopian books, but not any considered literary. My point is not to disparage paranormal vampire futuristic dystopian books, but only to point out that literary books are being specifically left out.

Both sides of the debate are entrenched and have no desire to change their position. Exclusivity reigns. It is absurd that the “death” of the serious American novel has occurred simultaneously with the meteoric rise of the e-book. While literary critics continue to rant about the lack of serious readers, more people than ever have access to books. E-books and the serious novel could be a match made in heaven. They could be the power couple that restores serious fiction to relevance in contemporary culture. And yet…it hasn’t happened.

It is especially frustrating for someone like myself. I am seeking my second university degree in English and I write literary fiction. I am also an independent author who publishes via the Kindle format. I am in both camps. So I stand here, straddling the chasm, beset on all sides by yelling and disagreement, begging for quiet, asking: why can’t we be friends?

Originally published on: http://thecollegenovelista.wordpress....

Matt Thompson is the author of two novels and numerous short stories. His work has been featured in apt. magazine.
www.amazon.com/author/shutupcabbage
mthompsonwriting@gmail.com

NaNoWriMo

Some of you may know that November is National Novel Writing Month. I am participating and encourage everyone to follow along. My novel in progress can be found here:

http://nanowrimo.org/participants/mpt...

Here is an excerpt from Dimas Geronimo:

What he saw in her window was a girl who wouldn’t even remember him. It’s probably the most damaging thing a person can see. Human beings—men in particular, live under the delusion that they are needed. They are unable to imagine a situation in which their loved ones continue on their lives without them. It’s why Dimas had been unable to even comprehend pursuing another girl—out of some absurd loyalty to a girl that was doing just fine. This delusion was shattered for Dimas outside Sarah’s window. He didn’t linger for very long. He didn’t need to. It’s not like Sarah and her boyfriend were doing anything sexual, or even kissing. He wasn’t being voyeuristic. It was worse than that: they were doing homework together. Their easy back and forth showed how comfortable they were together, and how little she needed Dimas, how replaceable a piece he was of Sarah’s life. They talked and laughed. He pointed to a line in her textbook. She disagreed. They sat cross legged on the floor. She pushed him playfully and he fake tottered back and forth to amuse her. She chewed on her pencil and he highlighted an important passage. Her hand rubbed the small of his back.
Dimas went home.

New Short Story

It's called "Cigar Summer" and you can find it here: http://t.co/w1pteKQTFE
Check it out!

Update: Oleanders in Alaska is still very much in progress. I just haven't posted here in a while!

Another Excerpt

Here is another excerpt from my upcoming novel, Oleanders in Alaska. I hope you like it.

What she heard first was the scratching of his key in the lock. He missed frequently and as a result, the golden orb that jutted out from above the door handle on their stained oak front door was badly scratched. He never seemed to be able to fit it in on the first try. On the night of their wedding a similar thing had happened with their honeymoon suite; he had been carrying her in his arms, and set her down gently to open the door. This was not how she imagined it, but it was the modern world, and he couldn't kick the door open when it required an electronic key card. So she stood as romantically as she imagined possible and watched his pitiful efforts to open the door. First he slid the card the wrong way down the slot, and then he did it from bottom to top, and both times the light on the room door flashed orange, until eventually it flashed red.

New Novel Excerpt!

Okay, I'm posting another short excerpt from my upcoming novel, Oleanders in Alaska. Hope you enjoy it.

The old man stopped to wipe his brow. He pulled his cap up a little and let the bitter Alaskan breeze chill the sweat beads on his forehead. There was a boy walking aimlessly along the harbor. The old man watched as the boy tripped and fell over a hidden stick in the sand. The boy caught himself with one hand, picked himself up with the same hand and wiped it off on his jeans in one motion, never taking his eyes off of whatever was in his hand. The boy continued walking and the old man pulled his hat back down. He picked up another block of wood and put it on the stump. He raised the ax over his head and brought it down with a practiced force. The piece of wood split neatly into two pieces; the old man picked them up and threw them on his growing pile.

Something Borrowed

Today my blog post will be something borrowed. There is not a writer alive who doesn't owe something to another writer. Anyone who says otherwise is lying. This is my favorite poem by my favorite poet. I hope you can like it half as much as I do.


For the Anniversary of My Death
By W. S. Merwin
Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveler
Like the beam of a lightless star

Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what

Oleanders in Alaska: A Short Excerpt

As promised, here is another excerpt from my upcoming novel. It's short, but I hope you like it.

“Go home, kid.” Oleander turned his back and began to walk away. Troy lunged forward and struck him a blow in the lower back, which he had estimated would level the old man. The old man turned around, shoved the teenager to the ground with the force of both palms on his chest this time. He looked down at him, and the teenager stared back.
When the teenager made no move to get up, the old man turned once again and walked away. Troy watched as the old man pulled his supplies and headed back to his cabin along the harbor.

Something Old

The last few days I've been posting bits of writing that are very new. I thought I'd switch it up a bit today and post something that's old and maybe a bit dusty. I hope you like it.

How My Father Died
I sit on a bench with my hat in my lap and wait for the ferry. The number of a funeral home is in the band of my hat. My father has died. A man sits across from me and he looks nervous. He is holding a large black trash bag shut in his clenched right fist. Something smells.
“Are you alright?” I ask him.
He looks up from the ground and concentrates his gaze on me. His foot taps.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Well I suppose, but-
“I’ve got dead dogs in here,” he points to his bag with his free hand. “Stray ones. I don’t go around stealing people’s pets or nothing like that. That’s some nasty shit and I don’t do it. I just nab the stray ones. They don’t know the difference anyway, least-ways mine don’t, the ones I sell to, the Chinamen who live above me.”
I am a little confused, “Excuse me?”
“They eat ‘em, the dogs I mean. The Chinamen eat the dogs. I round ‘em up, the dogs, and cook ‘em on my tabletop griddle, well done. You’ve gotta do ‘em well done or you can get the worms they carry in ‘em. They aren’t the tape worms but some other nasty shit can get you. They buy ‘em from me though; they risk it.”
“I see.”
I look away and check my watch. The ferry should be here soon. I look for a way to change the topic of conversation.
“Ferry should be here soon don’t you think?”
“…dobermans. They like Dobermans the best. You know,” he pauses, “You’re a good confident, you know that?...a real good one. It feels good to get this off my chest.”
“Confidante,” I correct him.
“Yeah exactly, the slant eyed bastards can’t keep their paws off the Dobermans. Can’t figure out why for the life of me; they seem more gamy than most of ‘em do.”
“Perhaps,” I check my watch again. The ferry should be here very soon. I contemplate using the phone on the ferry to call the funeral home but it might be too expensive. The man is talking again.
“…here for?”
“My father died. I’m going to see to his arrangements.”
The man laughs, “His final arrangements eh. That’s rough,” but nothing in his voice suggests that he has any sympathy for me. I don’t what I expect from the dog cooker.
A young woman approaches and I slide over on my bench so she doesn’t have to sit next to the man across from me whose bag is giving off the most noxious smell I’ve ever smelled. She walks up, nods politely to me and promptly sits down next to the dog cooker, who continues to talk to me, taking no notice of the young woman who has apparently found him less repugnant than me.
“…no reason for them to lock me up. It h’aint like I’m killing people or anything, and most of these,” he pats the bag and is greeted with a sickening squish, “were already dead when I found them, or almost there. Some of ‘em is actually grateful that I come along. They’re miserable and living in a gutter anyway. So really I’m doing the city a favor is what I’m doing.”
“Are you one of those people who cooks dogs/” the young girl chimes in and inexplicably bats her eyes at the dog cooker who seems to take notice of her for the first time.
“I am have you-
“I’ve heard of people like you. One lived above me, in New York I think, when I lived in a tenement building. I used to hear them arguing over the prices of the flanks. Some of them even used the tails for those pulley things on lamps to turn them on and off and such. Vulgar practice if you ask me, the tails bit I mean, quite inhumane. I heard somewhere once that dog’s tails are like when you cut off a chicken head, they can still feel it and it makes me think that whenever some schmuck wants to turn on his lamp a dog is in pain and I just can’t bear it.”
“Oh I don’t do nothing like that. I’m real humane. Are you waiting for the ferry?”
“Yes, do you know the time?”
I check my watch and grunt, “Ferry should be here any minute miss.” She looks over at me, seeming to have forgotten her initial once over of me.
“Why thank you. Are you waiting for the ferry as well?”
“Yes. My-
“His father kicked it,” the dog cooker chimes in uninvited; “He’s on his way to prepare his final arrangements.” He chuckles again. I suppose he doesn’t know that it is wholly inappropriate.
“That’s quite right. I may have to call the funeral home from the ferry but I’m worried it might be too expensive.”
“Oh it most certainly will be,” she fans herself with her hand and seems bored by my father’s death as if he was one of the mosquitoes she now shoos away from her face. Nevertheless I do my best to be polite. This trip isn’t any time for me to be more vulgar than need be, my father wouldn’t have wanted it and my mother told me to be quick about it.
“So what’s your purpose-of taking the ferry I mean?”
“Well it’s a little embarrassing. You could call it a secret I suppose.”
The dog cooker makes his presence felt again by cutting in, “He’s a good one here, this one. You can tell him. He’s sure to take it to his grave,” he laughs, “grave, like his daddy’s in now I ‘spose, funny how language works like that, almost cryptic it is. He’s a good confident, very good. He’s kept my dog secret very close to the chest so far.”
The young woman continues to fan herself and seems to take what the dog cooker has just said into great consideration. She adjusts both of her expensive leather boots and pulls her sleeves up to her elbows. She seems to be sweating and continues to fan herself, but it isn’t hot at all. In fact, if I wasn’t concerned about losing the funeral home number I would probably have my hat on my head because there is a chill in the air. Nevertheless she sweats.
I break the silence.
“Ferry’s running a little late.” The dog cooker is in his own world but the young sweating woman seems startled by my voice.
“I’m sorry-I’d forgotten you were here. I am very glad to hear that you’re a confident man though. It’s a very attractive quality in a man.”
“Right, yes, well I suppose my father-
“So you can keep my secret can you? You won’t tell a soul? Or a living being for that matter I suppose. I don’t think a soul would have much use for my story anyhow. But you’ll keep it won’t you?”
“Well,” I stutter.
“Excellent. That’s the absolute best. I’ve been dying to tell someone, anyone, even the sad sack waiting for the ferry will do.”
“Now that’s not-
“So it all started a few weeks ago when my fiancé went to the bathroom. He takes an unbearably long time in there so I began to feel bored. I rummaged around in his kitchen drawers for something to do; a paring knife, or maybe a serrated one or the like; you understand how it is when you’re bored. So there I am rummaging in a knife drawer when I come across a nudie magazine, Big Cocks Anonymous or some nonsense like that, and I’m sure you know exactly what I was thinking.”
“Well, I can imagine-
“Exactly, a nudie magazine in a knife drawer? Has he gone and lost his mind while I was away some day? So I of course start flipping through the magazine in an attempt to dull my impenetrable boredom, and I plan my lambast of my fiancé for putting this magazine in a knife drawer when everyone in their right mind knows that it goes under your bed or a pillow or something like that you know?”
“I suppose that makes sense,” I check my watch again. The ferry is quite late at this point; “I do hope the ferry is along soon. It’s very late.”
“Naturally, of course, we’re all hoping for a speedy recovery for your father, but back to my story; so there I am flipping through this magazine when about the center of the magazine, in the area-
“Do you think the ferry’s running a bit late for us?” the dog cooker interjects. I look at my watch for the umpteenth time.
“It’s very late.” I wonder why he said us. I suppose he sees the three of us as some kind of unit. I can’t imagine why. We share absolutely nothing in common.
“…the centerfold, that’s what it’s called and there is this gigantic glossy cock in front of me and you know what I notice? The blemish, I’m a nurse you see. He had a blemish on his cock that looked cancerous.”
The dog cooker stands up and starts to pace in front of his bag, which without his hand tightly gripping the top begins to smell even worse than before. He blows on his hands and rubs them together. The woman continues to fan herself. The dog cooker says,
“Sounds awful, cock cancer you say?”
I’m no longer particularly interested. I’m very concerned about the ferry. I’ll most definitely have to call from it now because it’s so late. I’ll have to tell the people at the funeral home to wait for me. They close fairly soon now.
“Absolutely, it’s a cancerous blemish if I’ve ever seen one, and I have seen many. My fiancé has one himself; it’s nothing though, especially compared to this one, the blemish I mean. His cock is of a fine size.”
I begin to tap my foot and the dog cooker nearly steps on it as he paces by still blowing on his hands. Remembering my manners I feign interest,
“I’m sorry but I don’t quite follow how that is relevant to you waiting for the ferry-if you don’t mine my saying.”
The sweat is visible as it streams down her forward and she has deep pit stains on her blouse as she continues to fan herself.
“Well that is what I’m doing here. I’m going to check on that man, the centerfold with the cancerous cock. I’ve contacted the magazine and they’ve agreed to let me examine it. I simply couldn’t sleep at night with the thought that I could save a man’s life. His life, his cock, is in my hands and I can’t mess that up. It’s that civic duty and whatnot, getting to me. The magazine even said they might include shots of me examining it in the next magazine. They’re going to run a whole big awareness issue, telling men to check themselves and stuff, it’s all very progressive and excellent.”
“Quite.”
“Ferry’s a bit late isn’t it? Didn’t realize how much I ramble. Time flies. I’m sure it’ll be along soon.”
“…won’t be long, no it won’t be long now, he’ll be along any minute now. He’ll beat the ferry here and it will be fine,” the dog cooker mumbles to himself as he continues to pace. I am forced to retract my feet basically under the bench so as to protect them from his wandering feet. I can’t understand why the ferry is so late.
The young woman addresses the dog cooker: “Are you quite alright?”
“Just fine-fine and fine, just waiting on a customer, loyal one too, supposed to meet me here to make an exchange. Likes ‘em raw, this one, big risk taker. I’m lucky he’s still alive to buy from me, got a Doberman in the bag for him. Said he’d be here before the ferry gets here but I’m getting worried.”
“Oh I’m sure he’ll be along soon,’ she replies, “Ferry should be right along after him too. I’ve never known it to be unreliable.”
I tap my heels together under the bench and look up as I hear footsteps. There is another man approaching, small in stature and wearing a trench coat. As he approaches the dog cooker sidles over to his bag, displaying a bravado that must be reserved for customers. The two men speak in hushed tones for several minutes and there seems to be an argument. The small man pushes the dog cooker and the dog cooker pushes him back.
Before I know it they are on the ground going at each other’s throats when the dog cooker reaches into the small man’s coat pocket. He pulls out what can only be a gun and the small man goes silent. The small man makes a desperate lurch for the gun and I watch in horror as the gun goes off and my ears are ringing and the small man lays dead. The dog cooker stands up and calmly drags the small man over to his bag. He tries to stuff him inside.
He doesn’t quite fit. His head lolls out the side of the bag. I tremble on my bench and my hands shake holding my hat. The dog cooker sits back down on his bench where the young woman is unmoved, fanning herself.
“Ferry should be along soon,” he comments blandly as the small man’s head rubs up against his pant leg, staining it red. He doesn’t seem to notice.
The young woman replies, “I suppose we’ll have to wait a bit longer. I’m sure it’ll come along soon though.”
I place my hat on my head and the number for the funeral home flies away in the breeze.

A Brief Passage

This is another passage from the new piece of writing that I shared yesterday. I think I'll post another excerpt from my upcoming book at the end of the week. In the meantime, I hope you like this.


My mother hates driving with the windows down. She is one of those women who cares deeply about her hair, through no fault of her own, but my father was always a windows down kind of person. Maybe that should be a lesson to those young lovers out there. If you have different preferences when it comes to driving with the windows down, don’t get married. You’ll only end up divorced. There is no way I could count the number of times I heard the exact same argument. Being an only child, I was very attuned to my parents’ arguments, as I had nothing else to listen to during the car rides to whatever hellish amusement park/plaster statue haven we were driving to. This is before the days of portable CD players and the like. I tried to bury my head in my books, but the lack of volume a book has did not serve me well. On a particular trip, (I believe it was to the grand canyon), my mother insisted that the Arizona air that was whipping through the windows (her words, not mine) was dying her hair red.
“I can see it now,” she said, running her hands through her still very blonde hair and looking at what I could only assume she thought was the culprit. “Look at this, Gene, look! I’m finding red particles in my hair from this terrible dry air. It’s grand canyon dust, and it’s turning my hair red. I hope you like being married to a red head, because that’s what you’re signing yourself up for now. Look at this! I’ve never seen such a thing. Who needs to buy hair dye at the grocery store when you can just drive through Arizona?”
“Jesus Christ,” is all my father could muster as he rolled up his window with his left hand and drove with his right, the signal that my mother could do the same if she so desired. My mother believed the grand canyon was dying her hair red.

Something Very New

This is a short excerpt from something I'm working on. It is VERY new. No novel excerpt today. Can't be giving all of it away just yet. Hope you like this instead.

No one likes to hear that there is nothing waiting for them. It is especially bad when you’re expecting something. There is nothing like believing in something so wholeheartedly that you’re ashamed to look at the people who stand in line, clutching their individual hopes, so little different from yours. So you walk out the door and let it slam behind you. You leave them staring, wondering what it was that you were unable to claim, whatever it was that you thought was rightfully yours. That is, until their name is called and they refocus their attention on what’s important to them, you are forgotten, so the feeling of shame is useless really. They don’t actually care. That’s worse somehow.
At least that’s how I felt, leaving the bank, still clutching the safety deposit box key and a crumpled piece of paper. I had been so sure. I handed the attendant my father’s key and watched as she had smiled at me and put the other key in. The disappointment didn’t set in until she set the box on the table.
“There’s nothing here for you, sir.”