Matt Dovey is very tall, very British, and most likely drinking a cup of tea right now. His surname rhymes with “Dopey”, but any other similarities to the dwarf are purely coincidental. He has a scar on his arm where a shard of glass caught him as he stepped through from the other side of the mirror. He lives in a quiet market town in rural England with his wife & three children, and still struggles to express his delight in this wonderful arrangement.
He does boring stuff with computers for a living. He got into writing because he thought it'd pay well and the world would be falling over itself to read his genius; he has since been thoroughly disavowed of both notions. He is a member of the Codex Writers Group, the Society of Authors, the Villa Diodati Writers Group, and the host of PodCastle. He sometimes reads other people's stories out loud, too.
When he's not writing, he's probably homebrewing wine, mucking about with his camera, or running around a field with a pretend sword and a silly accent. Writing constantly competes with his PC gaming time, and adult life has stolen all the money he used to spend in Games Workshop.
He has presently completed 38 consecutive orbits of the sun (a personal best) and hopes to continue extending this record. He finally read The Shepherd's Crown and is now in mourning that he exists in a world where there are no new Discworld books awaiting him.
Should you care to contact the author, you may email him at firstname.lastname@example.org. He is perenially terrible at replying to emails, though, so please don't take it personally when it takes weeks for him to reply. He promises he will feel guilty about it the entire time.
Comprising bios of various lengths, high resolution photos (click through or Save Link As for the full size photo; smaller files are displayed here) and a complete bibliography of published fiction. All content in this section may be used freely.
Audio Recording Left by the CEO of the Ranvannian Colony to Her Daughter, on the Survival Imperative of Maximising Profits,
Diabolical Plots 80A,
Clouds in a Clear Blue Sky, PodCastle #667, February 2021
An Infection of Priests in the Body of God, Translunar Travelers Lounge, Issue 4, February 2021
Energy Power Gets What She Wants, Diabolical Plots #72A, February 2021
Griffins Don't Respect Bouncies' Returns Policy, Toasted Cake 239, June 2020
Consequences of a Statistical Approach Towards a Utilitarian Utopia: A Selection of Potential Outcomes, Diabolical Plots, December 2019
The Movements of Other Starfish, Analog, November/December 2019, November 2019
Remember to Breathe, Cast of Wonders #364, July 2019
Why Aren't Millennials Continuing Traditional Worship of the Elder Dark?, Diabolical Plots, April 2019
A Spider Trapped in Wax, PseudoPod #628, December 2018
The Bone Poet & God, Sword and Sonnet, August 2018
She Glitters in the Dark, Factor Four, Issue 1, March 2018
Homebrew Wine Recipes for Favourable Effects, from the Regrettable Life of Mrs Poulman, Arsenika, Issue 2, February 2018
The Lies I've Told to Keep You Safe, Daily Science Fiction, October 2017
Winter Witch, PodCastle, August 2017
To the Editors of The Matriarch, re: Allegations of Pressganging, Daily Science Fiction, June 2017
The Ghosts of Europa Will Keep You Trapped in a Prison You Make for Yourself, Escape Pod, May 2017
Copywrong, Perihelion, April 2017
How I Became Coruscating Queen of All the Realms, Pierced the Obsidian Night, Destroyed a Legendary Sword, and Saved My Heart's True Love, No Shit, There I Was (Alliteration Ink, ed. Alex Acks), February 2017
Quartet of the Far Blown Winds, Flash Fiction Online, November 2016
Squalor & Sympathy, Writers of the Future v32, May 2016
The Lady & the Moon, Cosmic Roots & Eldritch Shores, April 2016
This is the Sound of the End of the World, Flash Fiction Online, March 2016
Matt Dovey is a writer of short speculative fiction. He is very tall, very British, and probably drinking a cup of tea right now. His surname rhymes with “Dopey”, but any other similarities to the dwarf are purely coincidental. More →
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Early mornings, before the tourists show up, Gordon Barrow likes to lean against the hotel roof and watch the trains. There are two of them, each carriage as big as his size seven shoes, and they circle the village at a leisurely pace, with a gap of about nine or ten feet in between them. Today, nearing winter, steam wreathes the whole track, and the engines race onwards through each other's ghost.”
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Complaints that consent given under the influence of gin is not consent are patently ludicrous. Any man capable of signing his name to the papers clearly possesses sufficient of his faculties to understand his decision.”
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