Today, I have a guest post on Matthew Di Paoli, the author of the book Holliday. The book was an excellent read. I enjoyed how Di Paoli gave Doc Holliday an upbeat and long-lasting personality. A few days after I read the book, I was inspired to watch the 1993 movie Tombstone. It was a great movie, and surprisingly, Doc Holliday’s story in the book closely followed the movie.
Author Matthew Di Paoli Guest Post:
Video Games and the Resurgence of the Wild West
When I was a kid, I dreamt of a video game where you could just walk around as a gunslinger, living by your own rules, creating a life seared by lead. This fantasy came true with the arrival of the Red Dead Redemption series. My first foray into the old west was with cinema, spaghetti westerns where I watched Clint gun down mustachioed men to the haunting music box strings of Morricone. Today, when I mention the west, manifest destiny, showdowns, many of my students will quote Arthur Morgan (protagonist of Red Dead Redemption 2): “You don’t get to live a bad life and have good things happen to you.”
For them, the written word and the silver screen come after the console, and I’m grateful for it! A decade ago, the western was a dead genre with a few forgettable films of the previous twenty years after Tombstone and Unforgiven left us breathless. Cormac McCarthy championed the literary western, but with his passing, there was a Dodge City – sized hole in the zeitgeist. Enter Rockstar (Red Dead) and Bethesda who created Fallout, basically a dystopian, futuristic western, the resurgence of Westworld, Yellowstone, and the golden age of prestige television and video games have defibrillated one of the great genres, left for dead, much like vault-dweller Lucy and Arthur Morgan were many times.
Recently, Fallout the TV show has piqued the interest of millions, becoming the most streamed show on Amazon, ever. So, the circle is complete. Once inspired by the western novel to make films, now video games inspire television and the fountain of youth from which Doc Holliday may now emerge.
I’ll take the American Western anyway I can get it. Now I just hope my words can live up to the digital sunset rides and high noon showdowns of a pixelated universe I proudly called home for hours on end.
Interview On Writing:
How did you do research for your book?
I inhale anything I can find. Old news articles, biographies, movies…I want to know what’s been said, what’s true, and what’s in the zeitgeist so I can either lean toward or away from it. Luckily there was a lot on Holliday.
Which was the hardest character to write? The easiest?
Doc was the easiest. He’s just so fun.
Big Nose Kate was the most challenging because she’s so many things at once: a prostitute, foreign, educated, in love, detached, abusive, caring, strung out, strong and constantly in danger. She’s a charlatan that you love, hopefully.
Where do you get inspiration for your stories?
I approach writing and teaching the same way. If I care about it the reader will care about it. I’ve never been someone to chase what’s popular because that fades. I chase what I’m obsessed with.
What advice would you give budding writers?
Not everything’s been told.
Do you have another profession besides writing?
I taught in college for five years. Now, I’m a high school English teacher in Brooklyn. Yes, it’s as glamorous as you think.
How long have you been writing?
I’ve been writing since the third grade. I wrote a collection of stories called flash and the ice cream truck during our free play time. Looking back it was kind of sadistic, this kid basically ruined this ice cream truck driver’s career but he got that sweet, sweet ice cream. That’s the moral.
Do you ever get writer’s block? What helps you overcome it?
I don’t believe in writer’s block. I think it’s just not knowing where you want to go yet, so a lot of the time I’ll write the ending first so there’s always a green light I’m chasing at the end.
What is your next project?
My next book is called Killstanbul. It’s about an Icelandic contract killer who’s taught his trade by Yule Lads which are little Santa’s. I learned about the lore visiting Reykjavik. If you’re into Holliday, this one is even weirder!
What genre do you write and why?
Obviously Holliday is historical fiction and that’s something I love. I’ve just started to work on an historical fiction mafia novel, but I’ve never limited myself to one genre. Maybe that’s not the smartest marketing technique but my writing is first and then I worry about the rest.
What is the last great book you’ve read?
The Guest by Emma Cline. She also went to Columbia for her MFA and I was in awe of her sleek, sexy characters. There’s so much tension in that book even when nothing is happening. Loved it.
What is a favorite compliment you have received on your writing?
“I can smell it.” If people smell my words it did something right.
How are you similar to or different from your lead character?
I’m probably more similar than I’d like to admit, minus the murder and prostitute girlfriend.
If your book were made into a movie, who would star in the leading roles?
Oh love this question. Obviously Val Kilmer knocked it out of the park. Timothy Chalomet is already pale enough. But I’d say Ryan Gosling, and Ana de Armas as Kate. She could do the accent well. Is that too mainstream? If Gossling can do Ken he can do Doc. Maybe Tom Hardy as Wyatt.
If your book were made into a movie, what songs would be on the soundtrack?
Luckily it already has a soundtrack built into the chapter titles! Hollywood life hack.
In one sentence, what was the road to publishing like?
Cobblestone.
What is one piece of advice you would give to an aspiring author?
Like 150 people tops are going to know your name. If that’s cool, keep going.
Which authors inspired you to write?
Denis Johnson. Garcia Marquez. Cormac McCarthy. Kundera.
On rituals:
Do you snack while writing? Favorite snack?
Just coffee. Whisky.
Where do you write?
I take it where I can: desk, train, at work, park bench.
Do you write every day?
I want to say yes. Sometimes it’s just a word or two.
In today’s tech savvy world, most writers use a computer or laptop. Have you ever written parts of your book on paper?
I have about 20 filled journals and I love writing that way but lately it’s all Apple notes and laptop. How unromantic of me.
Fun stuff:
Favorite travel spot?
Tokyo. Best trip of my life. I think I was supposed to write a book about it now that you mention it…
Favorite dessert?
Chocolate chip cookie. Keep it simple.
What’s the most courageous thing you’ve ever done?
Became a writer instead of a real estate lawyer like my dad.
What is something you’ve learned about yourself during the pandemic?
I used to have a lot of friends.
What TV series are you currently binge watching?
Fallout on Amazon Prime. Smart, stylized ultra-violence based on one of my all time favorite video games. It’s exactly what I look for in books and media.
What is a favorite spring holiday tradition (or memory)?
Dancing around the maypole just seems like good clean fun.
What song is currently playing on a loop in your head?
Nirvana, “Where Did You Sleep Last Night?”
What is something that made you laugh recently?
Anthony Jeselnik’s new set.
What is the oldest item of clothing you own?
Still have my “weed smoking” shirt from high school.
Synopsis (from Amazon):
Holliday follows the infamous 1880s gambler, dentist, and gunslinger, Doc Holliday. From the outset, Doc has been diagnosed with tuberculosis and is told to head to drier climates and imbibe to prolong his life. He has also heard of a spring located somewhere along the frontier that could cure him—what he believes to be the mythical Fountain of Youth.
The novel portrays Holliday as a rock star, a living legend, increasingly hounded by paparazzi, enamored by death, cards, booze, and women. Doc is a mixture of Clint Eastwood and Jim Morrison, and though he is able to help his friend, Wyatt Earp, exact revenge, his condition worsens, traveling from Arizona to Denver, and finally dying in a sanatorium in Colorado with his boots off. A slow and unfitting end for such a bombastic outlaw.
Book Excerpt:
Chapter 1: Every Day Is Exactly The Same
Dallas, 1874
Four Years Earlier
The saloon was a long, thin room. The bartender stood behind the pine on the right, doling out booze to morning drunkards and, in the back, a loud faro game carried over from the night before; the beleaguered dealer seemed relieved to see Doc. Doc sat down at a table fit for one, but with two chairs. He ordered three shots, an antelope steak, and buckwheat cakes. He ate with an acute awareness of his mustache.
He cut his antelope steak into cubes and ate each one a half minute apart, enjoying the dry sting of the whiskey in between bites. A tall man with a crusted scar above his lip and his holster showing walked over from the faro table and sat down across from Doc. He recognized the man from a game earlier in the week.
“Why Harrison,” said Doc, “I don’t think I have enough for the both of us.” His chalky Southern accent still contained a boyish lilt.
“That’s ok. I take it bloody anyways.” Harrison grabbed one of Doc’s drinks and chugged it down. “You owe me from the other night, Holliday.”
“That’s funny,” Doc placed a cube of antelope on his tongue, “I remember winning the other night.”
“You cheated.”
“So did you. It appears I’m simply better at it than you are. Replace my whiskey. It helps my condition.”
“I don’t take orders from no lungers.” Harrison clenched his thick, hairy fingers on the table.
“Now why would you say something hateful?”
All the eyes in the bar and at the faro table fell on Doc. He felt rock quiet. He remembered the sound of chimes in Georgia and how one night when there was no wind, they stopped. He imagined his rounds as freedom—wheeze and squeal of the chamber. He smelled the powder and burnt flesh. They followed him like a prayer.
“I heard you was a dentist anyway. What’s a dentist doing getting himself into card playing and trouble like this all, Doc?” said Harrison.
“Call me John Henry. It’s more formal.” Doc swigged down his last whiskey and called the bartender over for another. The bartender remained frozen. “The service is just terrible here.”
“Just gimme my money fore I end you, Holliday.”
“You know, Harrison, it seems to me that you haven’t given enough thought to what that end means really. You’re a misfit, God’s regret. Or maybe you don’t believe in anything more than the soil they scatter on you. Are you Godless, Harrison?”
Harrison reached down and gripped his gun in his holster. He peered back at the faro table and then straight into Doc. “You don’t ever question a man’s God, lunger. I’m right square with God at this moment. I’ma better man than you.”
Doc smiled. His mustache curled up like horns. In one concise swipe, he snapped his pistol from under the table and buried two shots square in Harrison’s scruffy neck. “I’m convinced.”
Harrison strained and thrashed to cover the holes as the blood spurted and poured down onto the table; Doc lifted his buckwheat cakes. After a few seconds of gurgling, Harrison’s head dropped to the table, and his hat rolled off and down toward the bar.
“What’d you go and do that for, Doc?” said the barkeep, still teetering behind the bar. “You’re not gonna be welcome here.”
“Self-defense. Clear as day.” Doc had made a few friends in this town, and as he searched the room, he didn’t see any of them. “I’ll bring back the plate,” he added, walking out with his meal and his gun.
Doc’s face simmered with new blood as he walked the streets of Dallas. He always felt less human after he’d killed someone. Like the little bit of himself that he still kept from home bled out as they did. His mother had taught him to calculate risk, anticipate every outcome, and he always did, as if it preserved her in some way; but there remained that primal moment just before the draw when he could let it all scatter to the floor. He felt nothing but the sugary drip of death in the back of his throat.
The only reason he’d headed out west in the first place was that he’d heard rumors of a wellness spring that could cure him of his consumption. Every cowtown he went to though, they always said it was in the next one. But they’d all heard of it. Linwood he’d heard it called, but it wasn’t on any map. He always got closer, but never close enough to smell the hot salt or taste it in his aching throat. The only thing he tasted in the Dallas streets was shit.
The springs went by many names as they had throughout history, much greater men had followed the path and grown old and died before ever reaching their destination. Some claimed south: in the land of the Ethiopians, or in the Caribbean, but Doc knew that his salvation lay due west. His mother taught him about this spring. The Age of Exploration, she called it. But John Henry believed wholly in his own exploration. Its restorative powers fascinated him as a child, and he actively read about Ponce de Leon, the writings of Herodotus, and Alexander the Great. However, none of them understood that this spring, this “fountain of youth,” as they’d called it, would only accept desperation. Only a man at the last twist of his knot could unearth it.
Author Information:
Author bio:
Matthew Di Paoli has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize three times including 2020. He has won the Wilbur & Niso Smith Adventure Writing Prize, the Prism Review, two Elizabeth’s, and Momaya Review Short Story Contests. Matthew earned his MFA in Fiction at Columbia University. He has been published in Boulevard, Fjords, Post Road, and Cleaver, among others. He is also the author of Killstanbul with El Balazo Press.
Website: https://www.matthewdipaoli.com/
Twitter: @MatthewDiPaoli
Instagram: @ruggedemu
Author Marketing Experts:
Twitter: @Bookgal
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Amazon: http://amzn.to/3U2kRVu
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/184163597-holliday
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