Guest Post by Matthew Cory - Author of Like Glass

I would like to welcome and to thank author Matthew Cory, creator of Like Glass, for taking the time to stop by Cafe of Dreams and posting a wonderful, insightful and inspirational post.

Be sure to stop by Matthew's website to check out his awesome short stories and tons of great information! Chocolate for Dogs Hmmm....do you suppose there is a story behind that title?!

Please be on the lookout for my upcoming review of Like Glass! In the meantime, you can learn more about the book by clicking here.

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A Matter of Perspective

I've been a software developer for the past eight years, roughly. And I don't just mean by trade -- it's been almost a lifestyle for me. I'd get up and work on a project. I'd go to work and, if I happened to be employed by a development company, I'd work on software all day. If I was working for a "normal" company, I'd spend my day trying to figure out how to write software that could make the company's job a little easier.

Over two years ago, I started writing. I mean, I'd written a few short stories in the past, but never really paid them any attention. One day in the summer of '06, I was talking to my dad and he had found some of those short stories, and some poems that I'd written, and said "Those were pretty good. You should try and keep writing, maybe get something published."

So I tried. I wrote a few short stories, and loved every second of it. I tried my hand at writing a couple of novels, none of which panned out very well. Then, while working at home for a brief period, I tried my hand at a novel again, and voila! Like Glass was somehow born. All of a sudden, I was a writer.

In my mind, at least. I stumbled around online trying to find out what the heck to do next, and suddenly I found myself in a rather dark sort of world. I wasn't a real writer. I didn't have an MFA. I hadn't published X number of books. I hadn't gotten a review by this person or that person. It was, to put it mildly, quite nasty out there for a newbie writer who was trying to find out where to go next.

I'll admit, I did something stupid. I gave up. After all, I wasn't really a writer anyways. I was a software developer who'd simply written a novel. I stopped paying attention to the writing stuff. I stopped writing short stories -- save for one I wrote right before my wife and I went on our honeymoon (which you can find on my site, http://chocolatefordogs.com/, in the short stories section, titled "The Naming Ceremony." It's one of my rare attempts at humour). I'd had a couple of plans for novels in the works, and scrapped them. No longer did I even pretend to be a writer, or an author, or anything of the sort. I was simply a software developer again.

It drove me crazy. I didn't realize it at the time, but writing was something that I wanted to do, even more than software development. It was fun, creative, and even something I might be able to make a living off of if I played my cards right. And, not having a degree in computer science, it's not like I was rolling in the dough in what was supposed to be one of the most promising fields anyways.

Over time, this little fight kept boiling under the surface. I am a writer. No, I am not a writer. Yes, I am. So on and so forth, ad nauseum. Eventually, I started thinking about it. Why should I let someone else tell me whether I am a writer or not? What business is it of theirs whether I have yet to talk to an agent (let alone get rejected by one), or whether I have a Pulitzer sitting on my shelf?

The answer, quite simply, is none. It isn't anyone else's business what I consider myself, nor what you consider yourself. I say nothing about being a professional writer, or even a good writer. I write, therefore I'm a writer. Last time I checked, I wasn't a figment of someone's imagination (although there's some deep philosophical conversations to be had there, if one were so inclined), therefore I'm a real writer. I really write stuff. I've written -- by hand and on the computer -- short stories, one novel, and the beginnings of a sequel to that novel. That's not counting the tons of stories and novels that I've started that never survived through the first draft. No one can take that away from me.

And you know what? It makes a big difference, allowing yourself that. It's liberating, especially when it seems that everywhere you look are those stiffs saying "Oh, you can't be a writer, you've only published one book!" Let them think that. That's their problem to deal with. Grant yourself the ability to call yourself a writer. Because then you can allow yourself to do "writer" things, like talk about your book, try and get reviews or agents or whatever. It doesn't sound very good to tell people "I'm a software developer who writes as a hobby," because then it sounds like you don't take writing seriously enough. Do you take it seriously, even if you don't have the time to write twelve hours a day? Then you're a writer, in my book -- even if you haven't finished anything, let alone published anything.

I'm still a software developer, as much as I wish I could hang up the keyboard on that career. Hey, you gotta pay the bills. But I don't introduce myself as a programmer any more. I'm Matthew, a writer who makes a living as a software developer. Nice to meet you.

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To give you a taste of Matthew's work, here is a story that you can find, among others, at his website:

An Old Love

We were great together once. I see that now, years after I turned my back on her. I needed her more than I knew, and as is too often the case, I took her for granted. I disregarded the importance of the long days together and th longer nights, the soft whispers and thunderous, cathartic outpourings. The times she’d echo my joy, or hold my heart as I wept.
Not once in the many years we were together did she turn from me, though not always did I run to her either. But, when I did, she was there. Sometimes graceful and elegant, sometimes tired and haggard, but there nonetheless.

It was in the splendor of youth’s ignorance we first met, the playful days of summer at the time in life with no cares or worries of what others may think. Had it been later, when image becomes everything and the slightest mistake is shunned, our romance would likely have never bloomed. As it was, I cared nothing for every misplaced step (and there were countless), and we flourished.

It was in high school where our romance took hold, with the irregularities of hormonal emotions pushed us together as no other force could. The highs and lows of teenage angst, where the smallest event is either a crises or pure ecstasy, drove the fires of our passion.
As with so many high school sweethearts, college brought our downfall. In the later years of high school, I’d grown insecure, felt unworthy of her, not good enough to make it last. Everyone assured me this was groundless, but how can you uproot those seeds once they’re sown.

We tried to make it work in college, though the new sights and distractions proved too much for me. We didn’t grow apart; I grew away from her. On several occasions I tried to go back, but it was never the same. I’d changed too much to speak with her as I once had.
I see her often now, in movies or television, or hear her on the radio. She still makes me laugh or cry, but, most of the time, I find myself unable to open to her as I did back in the carefree days of yesteryear. I’ll see her sometimes in a store, or a friend house, and I’m torn between the desire to touch her again, to open my heart like it opened so many years ago; and the knowledge that it could never be the same.

Tonight I whispered to her though, softly, as my wife lay in bed and I didn’t want to wake her. There was the same, undying battle: let everything pour out as it may, or hold it back for fear of … well, just fear. Perhaps of feeling unworthy again. Perhaps fear of getting too wrapped up in something I can’t have now, at least not as I once did.

The fear won out tonight, though it was a tough battle. I dusted off her nameplate — she’s had several names since we first met, this time it’s Kimball — and I slid the polished wood cover back over her keys, keeping the pedal held down to let the last whisper hold out a little longer.

~copyright Matthew Cory

Chocolate for Dogs