Who is Carson McAuley and why should I care what he thinks?
In all honesty, I’m probably not the best person to ask. It’s not like my advice has much of a track record, and if you could see me now – sitting in front of a near blank computer screen, both it and I speckled with the contents of a misaligned diaper – you might easily be forgiven for closing your browser, blinking perplexedly at your desktop, and upon a moment’s introspection, deciding you really should go out and interact with some non-internet people for a while.
But perhaps I best back up a little….
You see, just over a year ago – after tying up the last loose ends of my novel and finding an agent willing to represent it, amid the shrieks of Covid hysteria, fiery but mostly peaceful race riots and, of course, the run-up to the most divisive election in US history – I received my long-awaited Green Card and set off (from the sunny shores of Ulster) to rejoin my soon-to-be-pregnant wife in a staunchly blue enclave in her deeply red state.
And that, in essence, is what I write about. Coming from the perspective of eager-to-integrate immigrant and tragically under-appreciated author, Midnight at the Matinee is my attempt to make sense of my adoptive homeland as well as the strange psychosis that now grips it, focusing neither on the questionable claims of 24-hour news cycle nor the typo-laden hostilities of social media, but rather on the daily and decidedly more illuminating interactions I have within this uneasy microcosm of modern America.
Sounds puerile and exploitative. Mind if I stick around?
Y’know, I was just about to suggest the same thing. In fact, what I was going to to propose is that you click on that alluring little subscribe button below and in return, every Sunday morning, I’ll send the latest copy of my newsletter for you and your partner to balk at over your pointedly middle-class breakfast.
And for paid subscribers?
Look. Here’s the thing. I’m going to be straight with you.
Writing my second novel hasn’t been easy. In fact, even a charitable assessment would have to describe my progress somewhere between Sisyphean and whatever it’s called when Sisyphus takes his forth Spotify break since brunch.
Which is why my agent suggested starting this Substack. Unlike the lonely, unaccountable task of writing a novel, this newsletter is to be my creative taskmaster, my surveillant littéraire, the chains that keep me shackled to this desk, typing until something halfway readable appears.
So, if you find that you enjoy the consequences of this psychological sadomasochism enough to part with $5 (and are in a position to do so), then no mere words are capable of expressing my gratitude. Given, however, that words are all I have, I hope you can make do with vast, sporadic clusters of them, delivered – in addition to my regular newsletter – each time I bludgeon them into an article I think you might like.
If, on the other hand, you find my work so objectionable that your conscience compels you to admonish me for it, then you can do so in the comment section which will be open to all paying subscribers, regardless their level of animus.
Where else can I contact Carson?
If you want to contact Carson directly, that can best be done at:
If, on the other hand, you’re a writer yourself and considering my editing and proofreading services, then you can find more info on my website:
Thanks an awful lot for reading,
Carson J. McAuley