Matthew Peters

I used to ponder the utility of fiction. My view was partly predicated on my training as a political scientist, but it was also because I found non-fiction much more interesting than any made-up story. But I write fiction now, and so unless I concede that what I write is useless, then it must be that made-up stories have real-world significance. The question becomes just what form that takes.

 

First, I think we should ask why people read fiction. One reason is for entertainment. Another reason is to better understand the thoughts, experiences, beliefs, and psychology of others. Third, people might turn to fiction as a way of learning. This is especially true of historical fiction, as some folks find reading straight, non-fiction history a veritable snooze-fest.   

 

There are countless other reasons why a person might pick up a novel, but these will suffice for now. So getting back to our original question, what is our role as fiction writers?

 

First, we are storytellers and providers of entertainment. The value people place on escaping from reality is enormous, as evidenced by the astronomical incomes of the top entertainers in our society. While this is particularly true of actors and sports figures, authors like Stephen King, James Patterson, and J.K. Rowling have incomes that would make Midas blush. Consequently, some argue that our role as writers is to entertain the most people we can, as measured by book sales and revenue.

 

This is perhaps the most popular conception of the fiction writer, but there are others. Some writers consider increasing awareness and understanding of a particular character/viewpoint crucial. Presenting the viewpoints of underrepresented voices in fiction can help increase understanding of marginalized people. Understanding can promote empathy, and empathy can lead to tolerance and then acceptance.

 

This leads to my last point. I think that one of our most important, and currently neglected, roles as fiction writers is to take part in the societal debates that shape our times. In the past, great novels often had sociopolitical implications—think Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe, The Jungle by Upton Sinclair, All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque, Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe, 1984 by George Orwell, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, and, more recently, Toni Morrison's Beloved.

 

If we look at wildly popular books in recent decades, we see they have little to do with important issues of the day: The Harry Potter books, Fifty Shades of Grey, The Hunger Games, and Game of Thrones. I'm not saying that all books should take part in societal debates, but I think the fact so few highly "successful" books do is an abdication of an important role of the writer.

 

This is especially true in these divided times, where, regardless of your beliefs or political stance, being a well-informed citizen is crucial. Fiction has a way of reaching people in a way that non-fiction doesn't and can be an important tool in raising awareness. I think we as writers almost have an obligation to do so.

    

What do you think?

Since The Ignoble Lie opens at the Giza Plateau, I thought I'd examine the question of who built the incredible pyramids located there. 

 

Few monuments inspire as much awe and as many rival theories as the pyramids of Giza. For thousands of years, they've loomed over the desert, monuments to an ancient civilization's skill and ambition. Popular theories have credited everyone from enslaved Jews to extraterrestrials with their construction.

 

But archaeology paints a clearer, grounded picture. The pyramids at Giza, the Great Pyramid of Khufu, the slightly smaller pyramid of Khafre, and the more modest pyramid of Menkaure were built during Egypt's Old Kingdom period (c. 2600–2500 BCE). These large projects required decades of planning and labor. The Great Pyramid alone originally rose 481 feet and was the tallest artificial structure in the world for about 4,000 years.

 

One perpetual myth, reinforced by pop culture, is that the pyramids were built by enslaved Hebrews, as depicted in films like The Ten Commandments. However, historians and scriptural scholars agree this is inaccurate. The story of the Israelites' enslavement in Egypt central to the Exodus narrative has no archeological evidence linking it to pyramid construction. The timeline doesn't fit: the events described in the Bible, if they reflect a historical kernel at all, would have occurred centuries after the pyramids were completed. By the time of any notable Hebrew presence in Egypt, the era of pyramid building was long over.

 

Excavations over the past few decades, especially those led by archaeologist Mark Lehner, have uncovered workers' villages at Giza that tell a different story. Housing, bakeries, breweries, and even medical facilities suggest a large, organized workforce of Egyptian laborers, not slaves in chains. Many workers were bright farmers from across Egypt who participated during the Nile's annual flood season, when their fields were underwater. These men and women were fed, housed, and given medical care, suggesting their work was valued as a general and scrupulous duty. And building the pyramids was much further than construction: it was an act of devotion.

 

Pharaohs were seen as spiritual rulers, and their tombs were meant to ensure eternal life and perpetual balance between the earth and the heavens. The pyramids' fine alignments with the cardinal directions and stars were deliberate, reinforcing the pharaoh's link to the heavens. The logistics were staggering. Millions of limestone blocks, some weighing several tons, were quarried locally or transported from sites like Tura and Aswan. Transport involved sledges over man-made tracks lubricated with water. Ramps, whether straight, zigzagging, or spiraling, remain debatable, but all construction methods highlight human engineering ingenuity.

 

So why do myths persist about Hebrews and aliens? In part, because the pyramids are so amazing that they invite wonder beyond reason. Their scale and precision defy expectations of what ancient societies could achieve. But the evidence tells us the real story: tens of thousands of Egyptians, working with purpose and skill, backed by the big resources of one of the world's earliest centralized states, created these wonders. In the end, the builders were neither enslaved Hebrews nor extraterrestrials. They were ancient Egyptians: farmers, craftsmen, and engineers whose legacy still dominates the desert skyline, reminding us of humanity's capacity for large achievement.

 

Best,

Matthew

When I first began writing The Ignoble Lie, I wasn't setting out to rewrite history—I was trying to understand it.

 

Why do some stories survive while others are silenced? Why do certain truths rise to the surface while others are buried beneath centuries of dogma, doctrine, and politics? These questions led me into a labyrinth of ancient texts, suppressed gospels, Vatican secrets, and ideological power plays—elements that all found their way into the DNA of the novel.

 

One of the early plot points in The Ignoble Lie involves a lost book—a cache of testimony gospels allegedly written by Jesus' blood brothers. These texts challenge the divinity of Christ and suggest his resurrection was a political strategy rather than a miracle. If that sounds like fiction, it might be—but it's also rooted in real scholarly debates.

 

In researching the novel, I spent time with the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Nag Hammadi library, and early Christian writings like the Gospel of Thomas and Gospel of Judas. These texts don't always line up with canonical teachings. In fact, many were deemed heretical and deliberately destroyed or hidden by the early Church. And yet they raise compelling questions: What did "Jesus" actually teach? Who controlled the narrative? And what voices were left out?

 

For all its sacred weight, the Old Testament is a profoundly human document—edited, redacted, and shaped over centuries by political agendas, cultural biases, and theological battles. In The Ignoble Lie, the characters grapple with the unsettling possibility that the truth about history—and even about the divine—has been systematically manipulated. Scholars have long debated the historical existence of figures like Abraham, Moses, and even King David, whose names echo through scripture but leave little archaeological trace. The Old Testament often seems less a record of literal events and more a tapestry of origin myths, national identity, and moral instruction. That doesn't make it worthless. But it does make it potentially unreliable as a historical source—and dangerously powerful when treated as one. The novel leans into this tension, asking what happens when faith is founded, not just on mystery, but on myth presented as fact.

 

That blurring of myth and history isn't just an academic issue—it's a tool of modern power. In The Ignoble Lie, political and religious leaders exploit biblical narratives not for spiritual insight, but for control. When the President of the United States invokes scripture to justify an executive order declaring America a "Judeo-Christian nation," or when a Vatican faction seeks to suppress an alternative gospel to preserve institutional authority, the novel exposes a deeper truth: those who control the past shape the future. Sacred texts, when treated as literal and infallible history, become ideological weapons—used to enforce cultural dominance, suppress dissent, and draw lines between who belongs and who doesn't. In this way, the unreliable history of the Bible isn't just a relic of the ancient world—it's a live wire running through the veins of today's geopolitics.

 

This is the danger—and the power—of sacred storytelling. When we forget that scripture was written by people with pens, not etched by lightning into stone, we risk mistaking authority for authenticity. The Ignoble Lie doesn't aim to discredit faith, but to challenge the machinery that uses faith as a mask for domination. By peeling back the layers of history, the novel invites readers to ask harder questions: Who decides what we call truth? What gets preserved, and what gets erased? And how much of what we believe today was designed not to liberate, but to govern? In the end, maybe the most dangerous lies aren't the ones shouted from podiums or carved into monuments, but the ones we've whispered to ourselves for so long, we've forgotten they were ever stories.

 

If you're intrigued by history's shadows and the secrets buried beneath the sands of time, The Ignoble Lie might be your next read. And if you've already read it, I'd love to hear what you think: What lies do we still live by? And what truths are waiting to be rediscovered?

 

Best,

Matthew

There's something irresistible about a good conspiracy.

 

Secret meetings in shadowy chambers. Ancient symbols hidden in plain sight. Powerful people pulling the strings behind governments, religions, even history itself. As a novelist, I get it. Conspiracies make for gripping plots, high stakes, and that delicious sense of "what if" that keeps readers turning the page deep into the night.

 

 

But what happens when those same conspiracies bleed off the page?

 

That's the question I wrestled with while writing The Ignoble Lie, a political-religious thriller where the line between fiction and reality gets dangerously thin.

 

In fiction, conspiracies let us feel like insiders. Like we're in on the secret. Like we're one step ahead of the truth. They offer tidy explanations for messy problems: wars, assassinations, systemic inequality. They give us a villain to point at and a mystery to solve. Whether it's The Da Vinci Code, Three Days of the Condor, National Treasure, or The X-Files, the allure is the same: behind every curtain, there's someone hiding the real story.

 

And let's be honest—sometimes, there is.

 

History is filled with coverups, coups, and suppressed truths. That's why the idea of a hidden gospel, a Vatican power struggle, or a U.S. President potentially manipulated by religious ideologues (all of which appear in The Ignoble Lie) doesn't feel all that far-fetched. The challenge as a writer isn't imagining the conspiracy, it's keeping it plausible enough that it just might be true.

But the danger comes when we stop distinguishing fiction from fact.

 

In a world where misinformation spreads faster than truth, conspiracy theories can leap from thrillers into real-life violence. We've seen it in the rise of QAnon, in vaccine denialism, in attacks on journalists and politicians. What starts as a "what if?" quickly becomes "what must be true!" And suddenly, the shadows are running the show.

 

Conspiracy thinking often thrives in times of uncertainty. It offers clarity where there is confusion, purpose where there is chaos. But it also erodes trust, especially in institutions, science, and even democracy itself.

 

 

That's why I take the responsibility of writing conspiracy fiction seriously.

 

The Ignoble Lie is, at its core, a novel about the power of belief: how it can uplift or destroy, liberate or imprison. It uses conspiracy as a lens to ask hard questions: Who controls history? What happens when faith is politicized? Can the truth survive in a world built on lies?

 

But I'm not asking readers to believe in any of the views put forth in the book—unless, of course, they resonate them. I'm asking them to think critically about the forces shaping their worldview. To stay curious. To interrogate the stories they've inherited.

 

Because fiction isn't meant to be a blueprint, but a mirror.

 

So yes, conspiracies make great fiction. But they're only great when they remind us to think harder, dig deeper, and remain vigilant. Not just about what's hidden, but about who's telling the story.

 

Just remember: the truth is rarely tidy. And the real danger is not the lie itself, but the need to believe it.

 

Best,

Matthew

Some readers have asked why I've chosen the title The Ignoble Lie for my recently released thriller. Answering that question involves a look at the work of one of the world's greatest minds.

 

In his foundational work The Republic, the ancient Greek philosopher Plato introduced a concept that has intrigued, troubled, and inspired political thinkers for over two thousand years: the "noble lie." This was not a lie told in malice or manipulation, but a myth—intentionally crafted and disseminated by leaders to maintain social harmony and civic order.

 

 

Plato's "noble lie" was meant to convince citizens that their place in society was ordained by something greater than themselves. In his fictional city-state, rulers would tell the people that they were born from the Earth and infused with different kinds of metal in their souls—gold for leaders, silver for auxiliaries, and bronze or iron for workers. Though biologically false, this myth served a philosophical purpose: it offered a cohesive identity, a sense of belonging, and a rationale for social stratification. The lie was "noble" because it aimed to promote unity and the common good.

 

But what happens when a lie—no matter how well-intentioned—outlives its usefulness? What if the story we tell ourselves to keep order becomes a tool of oppression, or worse, a cover for deeper corruption?

 

That question lies at the heart of my novel, The Ignoble Lie.

 

In The Ignoble Lie, ex-Jesuit Scott Larson and adventuress Zady Jones uncover a secret buried deep beneath layers of myth, religious tradition, and political power. A terrorist attack on the Great Pyramid in Egypt sets off a global chain reaction that shakes Washington, D.C., where a controversial U.S. president has declared the nation a Judeo-Christian state.

 

As Larson and Jones try to stop more terrorist attacks, they begin to suspect that one of the most sacred objects in religious lore—the Ark of the Covenant—may not be what it seems. Their investigation leads them to question long-accepted historical "truths" and to confront the terrifying possibility that the most powerful institutions in the world are built on a lie. Not a noble one, but an ignoble one.

 

Plato believed that myths could bind people together. But in a modern world of surveillance, spin, and statecraft, can we still tell the difference between a guiding story and a dangerous fabrication? The Ignoble Lie plays with this tension, using the framework of a fast-paced thriller to explore philosophical questions about faith, history, and the narratives we cling to in order to make sense of the world.

 

Ultimately, The Ignoble Lie is not just a play on Plato's idea; it's a challenge to it. In an age when ancient myths and modern ideologies clash with deadly consequences, the novel asks: who gets to decide what the truth is? And what happens when the lie we've built our civilization upon begins to crumble?

 

 

I'd love to hear your thoughts.

 

Best,

Matthew

I read a lot of books and watch a lot of movies. Over the years, my personal preferences have shifted, but what's changed even more dramatically is how I view the entertainment industry—especially as it has evolved over the past decade.

 

Not long ago, the only books you could buy or movies you could watch came from the gatekeepers of mainstream media: major publishers like Random House and HarperCollins, and film giants like 20th Century Fox and MGM. The stories we consumed were filtered through a narrow lens, shaped by marketing departments and bottom-line concerns.

 

What's happened recently is something of a paradox. On one hand, the entertainment industry has become even more centralized, with a handful of massive multimedia conglomerates controlling most of what reaches the public. On the other hand, the self-publishing revolution and the rise of accessible digital filmmaking tools have cracked the door wide open for independent creators. Now, anyone with a story and some grit can publish a novel or make a film.

 

The result? A flood of content. And like any flood, the waters are mixed. Yes, the sheer quantity of books and films has skyrocketed—but not always the quality. Still, for every unpolished gem or forgettable release, there's something that simply couldn't have come from the mainstream system—something original, risky, or deeply personal.

 

That's where I believe the real value of indie storytelling lies: in its willingness to tell stories mainstream media often won't touch.

 

In indie books and films, we find narratives that challenge dominant worldviews or explore the lives of characters rarely centered in mainstream work. Here, you might find:

 

• A speculative novel about a woman priest navigating faith in a post-capitalist society.
• A historical drama focused not on kings and generals, but on a forgotten washerwoman whose small act of resistance changed her world.
• A sci-fi film where neurodivergence is portrayed not as a limitation, but as a superpower.
• A love story between two elderly protagonists rediscovering intimacy in a world that's all but written them off.
• A quiet, character-driven film about a long-term lesbian couple navigating the subtle grief of being erased in their adult children's retelling of family history.
• A gritty realist novel about a single father working night shifts at a meat-packing plant, trying to keep his undocumented neighbors safe during an ICE raid—where poverty isn't just background, but central to the characters' agency, dignity, and struggle.
• Or even a novel that challenges dominant religious and political paradigms.

 

These are stories that might never clear the corporate greenlighting process—but they exist because indie creators put them into the world.

 

Choosing to support independent media—when it's thoughtfully made and well-executed—is, in my view, a political act. Much like growing your own food or shopping local, it's a way of saying: I want more choice. I want more truth. I want more voices.

 

So don't let media conglomerates dictate what you see and read. There's a whole world of indie stories out there, waiting to surprise you.

 

Try indie. You just might like it.

 

All the best,

Matthew

After The Ignoble Lie was published, I expected a certain amount of backlash. It presents views that challenge the Judeo-Christian orthodoxy that's been at the heart of western civilization for millennia. Interestingly, opposition to the religious elements has been practically non-existent. Instead, one of the characters has come under criticism from more than one reviewer.  

 

Now when a female protagonist like Zady Jones—a brilliant, brave, emotionally complex woman navigating the perilous intersections of political intrigue, religious dogma, and personal trauma—is called "too masculine," it begs the question: what exactly do we expect from our heroines?

 

It's a critique I've seen crop up in a handful of Goodreads reviews. Zady is strong-willed, fiercely independent, analytical under pressure, and willing to take physical and moral risks. She doesn't defer. She doesn't apologize for taking up space. For some, those qualities seem to signal "masculine." But to me, they signal "human."

 

This critique isn't just about one character. It's about a broader, deeply ingrained discomfort with female characters who refuse to stay in the boxes traditionally reserved for them. For centuries, women in fiction were relegated to roles of nurturer, seductress, or sidekick. When women step outside those templates—when authors write women who are leaders, strategists, survivors, or warriors—they're often met with this vague accusation of being "too masculine," as if strength, courage, or emotional restraint can't belong to women. I imagine many women—and men—who write fantasy, which often depicts strong female characters, might encounter this criticism often. 

 

But why should gender define character traits? When a male protagonist is emotionally guarded or takes decisive action under threat, we call him compelling, layered, or gritty. When a woman does it, she's "hard to relate to." If she's assertive, she's "abrasive." If she fights, she's "aggressive." These double standards are not only outdated—they're artistically limiting.

 

Zady Jones was never written to conform to gender norms. She was written to live. She bleeds, she grieves, she wrestles with guilt, with love, with loss. She's not fearless—she's afraid, and still she acts. Her resilience isn't borrowed from masculinity; it's born of experience. It's shaped by what she's survived and what she still hopes to protect. That doesn't make her less feminine. It makes her real.

 

If anything, Zady embodies a broader vision of femininity—one that is expansive rather than confined. She contains multitudes. She can be loyal and stubborn, intuitive and skeptical, vulnerable and unyielding. She's allowed to be all these things because women are all these things, something my wife teaches me every day, by her words and by her deeds.

 

Criticism is part of being a writer. I welcome it. I listen. And I reflect on what it reveals—not just about the character, but about the cultural lens we bring to storytelling. When readers say Zady feels too masculine, I don't hear an insult. I hear a challenge: to keep writing women who are unapologetically themselves, regardless of how easily they fit into familiar molds.

 

Zady Jones is not a man in disguise. She's a woman defined on her own terms. And if that makes some readers uncomfortable, maybe it's time we asked why.

 

I'd love to hear your thoughts.

 

Best,

Matthew

I've always been a hard-headed person, someone reluctant to take advice or learn from others without first trying (and often failing) myself. So let me just say that you are more than welcome to ignore what follows. Though I do make some generalizations, they are based upon my knowledge of authors and my experiences in the publishing world. I'm fully aware there are exceptional cases that fly in the face of what I'm about to say. If you're extremely talented and very lucky, success might come quickly. One final caveat: what I'm about to say applies to novels; non-fiction as well as other fictional forms are different animals entirely.   

 

If you're like me when I started out, you think writing fiction can't be too hard—lots of people do it. Not only that, but some do it poorly and make a fortune. But writing is a marathon, not a sprint. It took me several years to get all the bad writing out of my system. Writing is not some get-rich-quick scheme. In fact, for most authors it's a very poorly compensated hobby. If you have hopes of breaking into the publishing world with a contract from one of the Big Five publishers, you are bound to be sorely disappointed. Does it happen? Certainly. After all, some people win Powerball…

 

The odds are good your writing career will go something like this: You write one, two or ten really bad novels. Then, after you've finally put aside your conviction that there must be something wrong with every living soul in the publishing world, you decide to improve your writing. You do this by reading books on the craft, taking classes, networking with writers online and at conferences, reading all the great literature you can get your hands on, and practicing as much as you can. At some point (many points, in my case), you'll convince yourself you've written a novel that would turn F. Scott Fitzgerald green with envy. Now, you tell yourself, you're ready to land an agent. And so you start querying agent after agent after agent, only to find they have no interest in representing you. 

 

 

 

After some amount of time goes by, and you have worked extremely diligently, you might garner the interest of a small publisher. Oh happy day! When this happens, it's time to celebrate. So now it's time to sign the contract, sit back, and start collecting, right? Oh, how I wish! If you're lucky enough to be accepted by a small, reputable publisher, that's when the fun really starts because now you're faced with the daunting prospect of marketing your book. I used to suffer from what I like to call FODS, or Field of Dreams Syndrome, characterized by the (oh so) delusional belief that if you write it, readers will come.

 

The fact of the matter is if you're a new author, odds are good you'll have trouble giving your book away, let alone charging money for it. If you don't believe me, go to Amazon and type in "free Kindle books." If you still think I'm pessimistic, let's consider things from a reader's perspective. As Nick Morgan of Forbes wrote awhile back, "There are somewhere between 600,000 and 1,000,000 books published every year in the U.S. alone, depending on which stats you believe." Approximately half are self-published, and the overwhelming majority will never sell more than 250 copies.

 

Why? Even when you put factors like poor writing aside, readers simply don't have the time to cull the herd in search of new books/authors they might be interested in. So what do they do? Purchase books by authors they know, or at least have heard of. And how do you "hear" of a writer? Usually in one of two ways: someone you know recommends them or you've seen them plastered all over mainstream media. Please note the two are not mutually exclusive. Most authors that get recommended are those who are plastered all over mainstream media. Unless you're an avid bookworm, 99.9% of the authors out there will remain forever unknown to you.

 

  

      

Let's say your book is picked up by a small publisher. Surely, the publisher will do all the promoting necessary to ensure huge sales of your book, right? Wrong! Small publishers have few if any funds to devote to advertising. Getting your book out there is essentially up to you. And if you think this dearth of advertising is characteristic of small presses only, think again. Even the Big Five are reluctant to spend much money on a debut author.

 

What does that mean? Unless you are truly a hen's tooth, you'll be responsible for getting the word out when it comes to your book. The good news is that social media makes it easier than ever to advertise your book. The bad news is that social media makes it easier than ever to advertise your book. In my experience, Facebook, Bluesky, Instagram, and just about any other means of spreading the digital word are ineffective in generating book sales if you go about it alone. This isn't to say you won't sell any copies this way, but my guess is you'll be seriously disappointed in the results if you rely solely on such methods.

 

The good news is there are ways to increase your sales. One is Bookbub. I suggest you waste no time in checking out this service. Once you sign up (it's free), you'll get a daily email telling you about deeply discounted books (free, $0.99, $1.99 or $2.99) in your areas of interest. If you apply for a promotion and get accepted, your book will be featured for one day in a daily news blast and on the Bookbub website. It's very hard to get accepted and, if you do, it will set you back several hundred dollars, but it's usually more than worth the cost. And you don't have to pay for the application—only if you're accepted. I wish I could tell you how to increase your chances of getting accepted. Many articles have been written about it, and I urge you to do a Google search and learn all you can. Apparently, reviews, a strong cover, and the book's anticipated appeal to readers are among the factors considered. There are other services like Bookbub that do essentially the same thing, but with a much smaller reach and a much cheaper price tag. Among these, I have found the Fussy Librarian helpful in selling books.

 

 

If you have any questions about any of these, please reply in the comments or feel free to message me via the contact page.

  

I wish you much success and, even more, enjoyment in your writing career.

 

Best,

Matthew       

In the crowded world of publishing, thousands of books compete for readers' attention every day. Book reviews play a crucial role in determining which stories rise to the surface. For authors—especially independent or debut writers—reviews are far more than just feedback. They're powerful tools that impact visibility, credibility, and even future publishing opportunities.

 

Book reviews help other readers discover a book. When browsing for something new to read, many potential readers turn to reviews to guide their decisions. A well-written review offers a glimpse into the story's tone, characters, and emotional impact without giving away spoilers. It tells prospective readers, "This book is worth your time," or helps them determine if it's the right fit for their tastes. For an author, that kind of endorsement—especially from someone with no personal connection—builds trust and lends authenticity to the work.

 

Reviews also help boost a book's visibility. Amazon, Goodreads, and Barnes & Noble often use algorithms that favor books with more engagement. A higher number of reviews—even if they're mixed—can push a book into more search results, recommendation lists, and "readers also enjoyed" categories. This kind of algorithmic promotion is invaluable and often determines whether a book gets discovered at all.

 

Reviews provide crucial motivation and validation. Writing a book is an enormous undertaking that often takes years. Once published, the silence that follows can be deafening if no feedback comes in. Reviews—whether glowing or constructive—reassure the author that the book is being read, considered, and talked about. Positive reviews, especially, can give authors the confidence to keep writing, while critical but fair feedback can help them grow and improve in their craft.

 

Reviews play an essential role in the business side of publishing. Publishers, agents, bookstores, and literary festivals often look at the number and quality of reviews when deciding whether to support or promote an author. A book that generates discussion and garners thoughtful responses is seen as a better investment. Even traditional publishers now expect authors to help drive engagement, and a robust review presence can open doors to future contracts, speaking opportunities, and collaborations.

 

Reviews also serve as a form of community-building. They allow readers and writers to connect in meaningful ways, turning solitary reading experiences into shared conversations. When readers leave reviews, they become part of the author's journey—champions of the work, helping spread the word and keeping the book alive in public discourse.

 

Reviews are vital to an author's success, growth, and morale. They're not just star ratings or numerical tallies—they're the lifeblood of a book's journey in the world. So, if you've enjoyed The Ignoble Lie, please take a moment to write a review, even if it's something as simple as "Great book!" You might think your words won't matter, but they mean everything. Trust me on that. Especially when it comes to a book as potentially controversial as The Ignoble Lie. Because believe me, there are a lot of haters out there. And at the end of the day, the purpose of the book is to bring people together, not separate them by artificial constructs that have only served to perpetuate hatred and division throughout the centuries and have been exploited by leaders whose power rests on fanning the flames of division between people to keep them from realizing they have more in common than what separates them. 

 

Best,

Matthew

So, you clicked here, did you? Well, good for you…sort of.

 

Let me start off by making a disclaimer or a full disclosure (can anyone tell me if there's a difference between the two?). First, this post is a little long. Second, you may not agree with or like everything I'm about to say. Third, I'm writing this because I actually care about writers like you, or at least that's my honest-to-goodness reason for hammering out this post. Fourth, and related to all of the above, I probably need to hear it as much if not more than you.  

 

Okay, enough of the preliminaries. I thought I might grab your attention with my catchy title (you often have to pat yourself on the back when you're a writer, because your publisher, editor, agent, and readers aren't always up for it). Then I figured I'd offer my insights into what you should really do when you're having a hard time writing, whether it be from writer's block, fatigue, lack of inspiration, or the itty bitty shitty committee that lives in your head and tells you that your writing sucks.

 

 

But wait! you might protest. Why take advice from a guy who has only one book on the market? Well, let me say a few things in my defense. First, there are thousands of writers out there (a rather conservative estimate) who give advice and/or publish how-to books on what to do when you're stuck in your writing who haven't many published books to their credit. So let's just say I'm in ___________company (I'll let you fill in the blank).

 

In fact, I've read so much of this advice and so many of these books (in case you're keeping track, this is the second point in my defense), that I feel warranted—no, I'd go with "darn near compelled"—to say something on the topic. Yes, friends, from Aristotle's Poetics, E.M. Forster's Aspects of the Novel (rewind if you missed the quantum leap) and Brenda Ueland's If You Want to Write, to more recent stuff by the likes of Dwight Swain (Techniques of the Selling Writer), Larry Brooks (Story Engineering), James Scott Bell (Plot & Structure), Ann Lamott (Bird by Bird), Natalie Goldberg (Writing Down the Bones) and a slew of others, I've read the gamut of writing books. So maybe that puts me in a place where what I have to say on the topic at least qualifies me to…well, at least not to say anything too stupid.

 

I know, I know. You're saying, "Well hell, Matthew, you've already gone and done that," to which I'd heartily concur and slap my head in Homer-Simpson-like fashion ("Doh"!). Nonetheless, I remain undaunted in my effort to (eventually) get to the point. Now I hear your chorus of, "Oh, please, God, soon!" so I'll make this a little shorter than I'd intended.

 

My ultimate point is this: If you're having a hard time writing, the best solution I can offer (after years of reading about writing much more than I've actually written) is to write. I've discovered via that long and winding road (and strawberry fields forever, man) that when you're a writer, the answer to most questions/issues concerning writing can be found by doing one thing: writing. Now, if you're completely burned out (and only you can tell if you are), or forcibly restrained, this does not hold, I repeat: this does not hold. But short of these exceptions, the general rule seems to be that, when in doubt, write. In fact, when you're not in doubt, write. Actually, I think there are only two times when you should write: when you feel like it, and when you don't. Even if you don't actually use what you write in your work in progress (WIP), having something on paper, to me at least, sure beats having nothing on paper.

 

But what if you simply can't write? What if all the gods, fates, and furies have combined to still your pen (or keyboard tap)? Toss concerns about a daily writing quota out the window and take the one-word challenge. What is that, you might ask? Just what it says it is: challenge yourself to write the next word in your WIP. That's right, just one word. My sneaking suspicion is that the one word might lead to another (but don't tell yourself that or you might freeze up). Try this. You might be surprised at the results.

 

 

At the end of the day, am I telling you not to read books on writing? No. I would never tell you to do or not to do anything. There are certain books out there I've found essential to keep me sane as a writer and a human being, and that help prime the pump when my creative juices freeze into a popsicle. If you're wondering what those books are, please see the books I mentioned earlier (maybe with the exception of E.M. Forster's book—I just couldn't get that one to work). Are there other good books out there on writing? Certainly. I just mentioned the ones that I can't do without. Your choices may be different. But I also know that writing books on writing is to some people a lucrative business, one that preys on our insecurities. So I think we need to be selective in the books we choose to help develop our craft, and to realize that, once we've got the fundamentals of writing down, often the solution to our writing problems is to keep on writing.

  

There are a million excuses not to write, but the creativity we use in coming up with such justifications and rationalizations would be better served furthering our WIPs. So the stark naked realization I've come to is that 99 out of 100 times, writing is the best solution to my writing problems. The boldness, starkness, and simplicity of this statement may catch some unaware or cause others to say, "Well, of course"! It's kind of like saying the answer to your smoking addiction is to stop smoking, and the solution to your drinking problem is to quit drinking. But ultimately, these ARE the answers, and, however simple and painful they are, they exist whether we want to acknowledge them or not. It's taken me a long time to realize this, and a longer time to implement it, so I needed to put it out there. I hope it helps someone.

 

I'll sign off with the words of Brenda Ueland. They've often provided me with the inspiration to keep writing and to remember that writing can be joyous:

 

You should feel when writing, not like Lord Byron on a mountain top,

but like a child stringing beads in kindergarten—happy, absorbed and quietly

putting one bead on after another.

 

All the best,

Matthew