July 21, 2022

Dear Reader,

There's a puppy at the end of this M.P.L.

In June of 2022, Alicia and I spent a week hiking in and around Brevard, NC, which is about an eight-hour drive west of our OBX home. (A few scenes in We Are the Light take place in Brevard.) We rented a house on five acres of land, off a one-lane gravel road that was long and frightening as it snaked steeply up what felt like—at least to sea-level drivers—a treacherous mountainside.

Our vacation abode had a covered porch with swings and couches and many bird feeders. The only thing we heard up there all week was the wind through leafy trees, our feathered friends singing and bravely whooshing right by our heads, and a very determined squirrel’s best efforts to steal seed from the feeders.

An introvert's paradise.

The summer temperature in the western NC highlands is often much cooler. Fifty degrees in the morning and then a breezy eighty in the afternoon, before plunging back down when the sun sets. The Blue Ridge mountains are as advertised: spectacular.

On two different days, we hiked a ridge section of the Art Loeb trail that boasts 360-degree panoramic views of mountains as far as the eye can see. Heavenly is not too strong a word.

By midday, tourists clogged the beginnings and ends of the trails. People jumping out of cars and tour busses and off motorcycles to huff and puff for a half hour—maybe grab a quick pic at the first lookout—before retreating back to the leisure of motorized vehicles. Many such people were yelling and not following the usual hiking etiquette. They seemed to swell the narrow trails in massive slow-moving human packs. While Alicia and I were trying to get away from society and disappear into nature, these groups seemed determined to colonize the natural world with their en masse commotion.

We were always up early and hiked about ten miles each day and so we really only had to navigate loud clogged trails at the ends of our adventures. More solitary hikers farther away from parking lots were lovely to slip by as they seemed to be after the same sort of introverted quiet that we craved. We’d exchange nods and step aside to make room for quick and mostly silent passes.

One exception was a frustrated-looking family who approached us late in the morning.

The visibly exasperated teenaged son walked up to me and—without even saying hello—spit out these words: "Where does this trail eventually go?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Our car’s miles back there. And we want to know where this trail ends up. Is it worth continuing onward? What's the point of this?"

I spread my arms wide and gestured to the grand views all around us and said, "This is the point. You get to experience all of this."

The disappointed look on the young man’s face verged on disgust. He turned in defeat and stomped back toward the miles-away parking lot. His family solemnly followed. His sister held her phone inches from her nose and seemed to be desperately searching for a signal. His mother frowned. His father avoided eye contact. I truly believe the teenaged boy was angry with me for failing to supply whatever answer he imagined he wanted.

There was a part of me that wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake some appreciation out of him, because we were standing amongst some of the prettiest, most awe-inspiring views I have ever seen.

As Alicia and I continued onward, I began wondering what the young man expected to find on the trail that he hadn’t already encountered.

Was he hoping for a restaurant? An alpine slide? A finish line where someone would hang a medal around his neck and hand him a free beer?

I couldn’t stop thinking about the irksome and disappointed look on his face. The young man appeared to be fit and in good health. Judging by the look of his family’s clothing and his air of self-assurance, he seemed well-off. But my brief experience with him suggested that he couldn't see the beauty of what was all around him. He couldn't find serenity where there was literally mountains of it everywhere he looked.

A part of me very much wanted to hate that young man. But upon reflection, I came to understand that I was simply afraid of him.

Ten or so days after that encounter on the trail, Alicia and I were on our back deck here in OBX entertaining friends—an introverted couple who loves hiking and being in nature as much as we do. As I talked about the exasperated young man I met on the trail, our friends politely nodded and shook their heads at all the right places, which was when I noticed a curious look on my wife’s face.

When I finished, Alicia—taking the symbolic attitude, as my Jungian analyst would say—pointed out that the young disgruntled hiker represents the part of me that wants everything to be going somewhere, leading to some worthy thing, and building to a crescendo. The part that asks, ‘What is the point of my life, my career, my novels? Where am I going? Where does this professional experience lead? What is the point of my analysis? What is the point of my friendships? How will my new book change my life situation? Where will it take me if it is read widely? Why did I spend so much time writing it? Why am I spending so much energy promoting it? What will the end result be? Will it even be worth it? I want to know now.’

Alicia wisely pointed out that I simply hated encountering an outer manifestation of what Jungians would call my shadow. The part of me that I had split off from consciousness and did not want to see.

The insight was humbling and medicinal.

Yes, in some ways the young man did not present himself sympathetically, but I mostly made up a story based on a three-minute interaction. That story was about me. A projection of what I did not want to own.

Maybe the young man was desperately looking for a toilet. Maybe he was hungry. Maybe his parents were fighting. Maybe his sister was on her phone trying to find information about the trails. Maybe I had no idea whatsoever who these people were or what they were experiencing that day. I certainly didn’t ask or try to get to know them. But ego was immediately ready and willing to project a lot of psychic content onto strangers.

The back-deck OBX conversation mentioned above happened at the beginning of July 2022, four months before We Are The Light would be published. At the time, I was sending hundreds of handwritten postcards to librarians and booksellers all over the country, thanking them for checking out Advanced Reading Copies of my latest and hopefully letting their communities know about WATL. I was working with Avid Reader Press and my editor, trying to land interviews and speaking opportunities. I was proofreading advertising and scheduling online and in-person appearances. I was interacting with wonderful readers via the M.P.L. I was supporting Alicia as she edited the follow up to Smile Beach Murder, which had been on the SIBA bestseller list for three weeks and counting. We were both happily working with our local and wonderful indie bookshop: Downtown Books in Manteo, NC.

The scenery was beautiful.

But I was also googling myself and waiting for reviews and news and validation. An impatient part of me was exasperated and internally spitting out demands, yelling, "Where does this trail eventually go?”

There is indeed a very young man inside of me who wants to know with absolute certainty the outcome of the journey before he'll willingly take the next step, but—while he often makes me feel neurotic—I don’t think I need to shake him. Whenever he shows up I need to sit with him and calm him down and show him how wonderful the now is. I need to tell him that the November 1, 2022 publication date will come and go regardless of what we do or don’t do and that we have no idea what will or won’t happen. Yes, there are metaphorical maps we can read. There are trail blazes. We can ask others for advice. We can google. We can check 'the weather.' We can be good to the people who show up and offer support. But we can really only ever keep walking forward, sit down and wait, or retreat. My inner exasperated young man and I almost always choose to keep walking forward—at least eventually. But obsessively worrying about future outcomes has historically cost us the chance to enjoy a lot of present-moment soul-nourishing scenery.

"This is the point. You get to experience all of this."

Of course, not every day is a walk along a gorgeous mountain ridge.

I'm still attempting to keep my eyes on the 360-degree views of today. I’m going to keep refocusing my inner impatient young man on the wondrous beauty and/or important lessons of right now.

And I'm glad I met the exasperated youth on the trail. He might very well have been the most important part of that day's scenery. A gift from the gods. An encounter with shadow.

Who’s disturbed you? Who have you wanted to shake? Have you seen your shadow out there in the world recently? What lessons can you learn from it?

Here's another potentially life-altering question: Have you pre-ordered your copies of We Are the Light? 

Signed editions are available for pre-order through the aforementioned Downtown Books in Manteo, NC. Just hit the SIGNED COPIES button on my website. For those of you in the South-Jersey-Philadelphia area, please consider preordering through Inkwood Books on Kings Highway in Haddonfield, NJ.

A whole team of highly skilled professionals have done their best to make WATL your favorite 2022 reading experience. It's just me writing these letters. Well, Alicia edits the M.P.L. Speaking of my better half...

July 26, 2022 marks 25 years of marriage for Alicia and yours truly. To the few of you who were actually with us on our wedding day, where did a quarter century go? Probably the same place my hair went. LOL. Happy Anniversary to the great love of my life, Alicia. Here's to the next 25 years and beyond.

WATL was recently featured on Shelf Awareness: Maximum Shelf. You can read an insightful review with minor spoilers HERE. And a spoiler-free Matthew Quick interview HERE.

Puppy time. Meet Kingsly, our new border terrier, who stole our hearts within three seconds of meeting him.

Okay, friends.

Until the 21st of August 2022, please remember that wherever you are in the world, whatever your current battle may be, your man in Coastal NC is sending you good vibes. Always.

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MATTHEW

p.s.—If someone forwarded you this letter and you've enjoyed it, we can make it a regular thing. Subscribe and check out the archive here: Monthly Personal Letter.