Writer of the Month - Susan D. Matley
Walla Walla County’s Susan D. Matley in her own words
Writer’s Biography
The desire to write began when I was very young. Did a fairytale read out loud by a babysitting grandparent spark the idea to write one of my own? Or maybe it happened when my big sister came home from kindergarten and improved on what Mom had taught me about the alphabet by showing me how to spell “cat” and “dog.” Useful words, these, as a change of the first letter makes all kinds of new words, words that rhyme.
Whatever the origin, a writer is what I’ve become—after first being an actress, an accountant, a musician. Earlier still I worked retail and suffered a short stint as my dad’s legal secretary. Throughout, I’ve been an avid reader and there’s always been at least a journal-in-progress in my life, my sloppy cursive recording things real and imagined.
Evidence of a writer’s life is scattered around the house — a copy of the 1968 Port Townsend Police Digest with my article about elementary school fire drills; a file cabinet stuffed with manuscripts; a desk stacked with drafts-in-progress and research books. I have a thick file folder of rejections (you haven’t “arrived” as a writer until you collect enough of these to wallpaper an average-sized bathroom).
There’s also a thinner file of acceptances, including a contract with WolfSinger Publications for my first published book, Small-g City (released in 2015). Small-g now has two siblings, Big-G City (2016) and Beyond Big-G City (2021). Fingers crossed that book four in this contemporary fantasy/mythology series featuring the Greek Pantheon, tentatively titled Crisis in Big-G City, will be accepted for publication in the near future.
I write fiction, mostly. My fiction often takes a speculative turn, influenced by whatever it is that makes me love both the Chronicles of Narnia and the original episodes of The Twilight Zone. It’s exciting to map out a world almost like our own but for one small (or sometimes, big) twist that punts it into the supernatural.
I’ve sometimes dabbled in historical fiction, poetry, and songwriting. The one framed certificate in my office is from Western Writers of America, honoring my song “Show Me, Mister” as a finalist for their 2011 Best Song Spur Award. Since launching this website (2015) I write a weekly blog. In 2019 I was joined in this endeavor by my inner 14-year-old, Lily, and in 2020 we became a trio thanks to the arrival of 9, my inner 9-year-old. They keep me honest!
That’s who I am as a writer. Otherwise, I’m:
A late-model Baby Boomer.
An enthusiastic portrayer of Matilda Sager Delaney, survivor of the Whitman Massacre (November 29, 1847), and Nellie Gilliam Day, educator and journalist, through the Living History Program at Fort Walla Walla Museum.
Mother to four-legged kids, collectively known as The Boys (distinguished felines Friday June the Sixth and Hoosegow)
For more information, including excerpts from S.D. Matley’s books, weekly blog, and upcoming events, go to: www.susandmatley.com
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Below enjoy a sample of the writer’s work.
Excerpt from the novel Small-g City
By S. D. Matley
Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-ka-ka-boom sang the chorus of tires and gross weights bouncing along Ralph’s back.
“Ouch-ooch-ouch-gheez-oh-shi…” sang Ralph in response.
It was bad for a Tuesday. Traffic hummed along without one lane-blocking breakdown, without one over-burdened mattress truck losing its load, without the eagerly anticipated weekly car fire (which blistered mightily, but it was worth it if a few thousand commuters took a different route). Traffic jams were one of the few events in his work life that gave Ralph hope—weight he could handle, but the grinding vibration of multiple daily rush hours was getting on his nerves. The mortals had no respect, no appreciation for what he did for them every single minute of every single day since the opening of the Alaskan Way Viaduct.
Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-ka-ka-boom.
And this was the thanks he got!
Millennia ago Zeus, the biggest of all Big-G gods, had realized mortals were designing and building architectural structures far beyond their engineering capabilities—easy to notice as bridges of ambitious span and buildings of perilous height kept falling down on top of the overly confident fools. Zeus had pieced together some of their early experiments, the so-called Seven Man-Made Wonders of the World, before he’d arrived at the master solution: mortals didn’t realize many of their innovative architectural structures, from ancient times well into the twentieth century, were supported by the molecules of an immortal giant dispersed throughout!
Ralph gritted his tooth molecules. The only break in the killing monotony of his morning, and it wasn’t necessarily a good thing, was the chill he’d felt a few minutes ago when an unmistakable molecular density passed over his top deck. “Big-G!” he’d thought, resisting the urge to cry out the discovery. He’d felt the impulse to pull together into the shape he’d been born with, but had mastered himself, staying the molecules in their dispersal pattern before more than a slight tremor purred through the piers and concrete slabs. He hadn’t been visited by a Big-G since he’d taken this job in 1953! Ralph’s heart molecules fluttered. Had Zeus come to move him to a new assignment? Was the Biggest of Big-G Gods bringing the good news himself?
The weight of a shadow had passed before his eye molecules but no one materialized. “Cloaked,” he’d thought, heart molecules thudding with the immediate interpretation of secrecy as a bad sign. In one of Ralph’s weekly counseling sessions, Jim, the regional structureling counselor, had let it slip that a corporate-wide shakeup was rumored for Olympus, Inc., and Ralph wasn’t on the best terms with Zeus. Was the boss spying on him, waiting to hear Ralph complain about his current assignment so he could take disciplinary action?
The structureling’s paranoid speculations about the hovering Big-G presence had faded when traffic cranked up three or four notches on the pain scale.
Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-ka-ka-boom.
Ralph reached deep into his structureling tool box. He called up a Buddhist relaxation technique he’d learned millennia ago in a World Religions seminar at Athens Tech, drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-ka-ka-boom.
The pain wasn’t so bad, really.
Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-ka-ka-boom.
The reward of relaxation is relaxation.
Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-ka-ka-BLAM! BLAM!! BLAM!!!
“OUCH! SH--! YOW! OUCH!”
A vast cement truck had hit some metal patch plates at just the right speed and just the right angle to bounce and rattle mercilessly, jarring his brain molecules into a stabbing tension headache. By the time Ralph collected his wits and stopped swearing, the cloaked presence was gone.
Ralph groaned in agony, his back molecules sharp with spasms. The pavement needed resurfacing like nobody’s business. The temporary metal strips were as dangerous as the cracks and pot holes they covered.
Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-ka-ka-boom.
Life as a geriatric raised highway sucked.
From Small-g City by S. D. Matley
Copyright © 2015 S. D. Matley