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 from the habitat explosion that left him stranded in orbit for 33 hours. He now 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 Villa Diodati Writers Group, and an associate editor (slush monkey) at 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 has stolen all his computer game time, though, and adult life has stolen all the money he used to spend in Games Workshop.
He has presently completed 37 consecutive orbits of the sun (a personal best) and hopes to continue extending this record. He still hasn't read The Shepherd's Crown because he can't bring himself to live 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.
Matt Dovey is a professional writer of short science fiction & fantasy. 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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"Well played," muttered Rogers, the majordomo of the Wanderers' Club, amidst the gentlemanly utterances of "Good show," "Hear, hear," and even "Huzzah" as Sir Algernon Hogshead finished his tale with a dramatic flourish.
Though not so socially gregarious as to partake in the verbal bonhomie, I thumped my ivory serpent's-head cane a few times, myself, in collegial support of my frenetic friend as his bizarre, but well-told, tale had come to its breathtaking and remarkable conclusion. Truth told, the hubbub of excited utterances and exclamations regarding Sir Hogshead's fanciful quest were well-said, but, greater truth yet, I had become more and more pensive and apprehensive as the tale progressed.
I knew what was coming next. Not within the story, but after.
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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.