Fast Fiction for Short Attention Spans

Who is Matthew Van Der Boot?

Well, first of all, he’s not me. I swear. That may not have been your assumption, but the question is bound to come up, so I’ll just get that out of the way right now.

Matthew is a fictional character in something I’m writing called The Misadventures of—yes, you guessed it—Matthew Van Der Boot. The story takes place in a single day: Friday, October 7, 1983. That’s it. One day. I’m promoting it as, “Fast fiction for short attention spans!” Still a lot can happen in one day—and it does—even without the internet and cell phones.

The thing is … this is not a book. And even though it’s available to read online, it’s less of a traditional story and more of an interactive experience, sort of part novel and part role-play.

Here is the basic idea: You are fifteen-year-old Matthew Van Der Boot, and at the end of each chapter, you are given the choice of what to do next. With each choice comes a different possible story. If you start over and make different choices, you will get a new story.   

I’ve been working on this project for over a year now, which is usually the time it takes me to write a book, only this isn’t a book, as I’ve said, or even a single story: it’s many possible stories. And every time I give you, the reader, a choice, more possibilities are created, which means more episodes I have to write. So that pitch, “Fast fiction for short attention spans,” applies to me as well. I’m enjoying the fast pace of the story and the challenge of writing and keeping track of multiple story lines at the same time, and I’m ready to share it. So even though it is still a work in progress, there’s definitely enough material to start this game.

So … who wants to play?

Check it out.

Poem: Little Sister

I recently had my students writing poems inspired from old photos of themselves and their families, and I decided to complete the assignment myself.

LITTLE SISTER by Philip Hoy

Send pictures, he said, for the memorial.

So, I found this one of you standing in a field of

burnt grass, skinny arms lifting the wooden bat,

your hair, strawberry blond, parting in feathery

waves from your face, the freckles dusting your

nose, the sun’s glow warming your apple cheeks,

your lip-gloss smile.

I don’t remember when you arrived, if I was jealous,

or if you cried much. I do remember reaching beneath

the couch to rescue your Barbie from Rex’s mouth. And

when the others left to school we would pretend it was

Christmas eve and I’d stuff a pillowcase with toys and

ho ho into the room to show you what I’d brought. Then

we’d tuck one of your baby dolls beneath your blouse

and pretend you were pregnant. You’d push. I’d pull.

And plunk, the baby was out.

In middle school you said I let my friends make fun of

you. I don’t remember that, and why would I want to?

I must have left you behind, but high school was hard

those first two years, and lonely. We argued a lot.

You would kick me with those brown boots that

zipped to the knee and lock me out of the house.

I had to run around back and jump the wall.

Still, you refused to let me in.

Finally, you were a freshman, so tough, so cool with

your Ozzy Osbourne t-shirts and match-burn pencil liner

blackening your eyes, already suspended for slamming

a girl’s face into a desk in the back of your algebra class.

I walked you to softball practice after school that day.

We got there early and had to climb the chain-link fence.

Little miss know-it-all, but I really needed to talk.

Don’t be stupid, you said. Just tell her, you said.

So I took your advice.

Sometimes when the house is quiet and dark with nothing

left to distract me, all at once I remember you are gone,

and then it hits me, a great and sudden weight like

bricks tumbling down on my chest. I fall asleep

sad, not wanting to push them off.