Someone explain to me how this happened. Didn’t we just do this?
Max Barry is an Australian who pretended to sell high-end computer systems for Hewlett-Packard while secretly writing his first novel, Syrup (1999). In fact, he still has the laptop he wrote it on because HP forgot to ask for it back, but keep that to yourself. He put an extra X in his name for Syrup because he thought it would be a funny joke about marketing and failed to realize everyone would assume he was a pretentious asshole. Jennifer Government, his second novel, was published in 2003 with no superfluous Xs and sold much better.
Max's third novel, Company, was published in 2006, and his fourth, Machine Man, in 2012, was based on a real-time interactive web serial written and delivered in real-time one page per day from this web site. It made more sense than it sounds.
Max also created the online political game NationStates, for which he is far more famous amongst high school students and poli-sci majors than his novels.
Syrup is in the process of becoming a feature film, due for release in 2013.
He was born March 18, 1973, and lives in Melbourne, Australia, where he writes full-time, the advantage being that he can do it while wearing only boxer shorts.
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My baby SUCKS. Really well. That’s important. It took her a few days to get the hang of it. But now: awesome at sucking. I’m so proud of her.
It started like this: at 2am Tuesday Jen woke me to say her waters had broken. I was confused, because we were scheduled for a Caesarean delivery at 9am, had Jen forgotten? She wasn’t supposed to labor. This must be some kind of miscommunication. But no. The baby was coming. She’d heard she was to be born today and decided to take charge.
Off to the hospital we went. Fifty-two minutes before the time we had booked four months ago, she arrived: Matilda Margrett Barry, weighing 8lb 11oz, dazzling onlookers with her rich thatch of red hair.
The smell. The smell! I had forgotten how good this was. She smells like distilled contentment.
Matilda is strong and likes to have her hands near her face. Because of this, sometimes she facepalms. I have to get a photo of that and release it on the internet. She had a restless first few days, but now the sucking is under control, has been happy and very snuggly. She snuffles and snorts. Her big sister Finlay, who turned five yesterday by the way, can you believe that? Her big sister is super-super excited. Look at that smile. There’s ownership.
Today we arrived home. It’s been a great day. I wish you all this kind of happiness.
P.S. I once wrote a blog about how before I named my next child, I would make sure the domain name was available. Well, I completely forgot about this until Day 3 in the hospital, long after tweeting her arrival. The five panicked minutes between realizing this and securing matildabarry.com were the most nerve-wracking part of the entire experience.
So I didn’t blog or go on Facebook or Twitter for six weeks and you know what? It was kind of good. It was like walking into the desert and rediscovering Nature. It was like being born again. It was like looking at a photo of who I used to be.
No, not really. It was pretty much like this, only I had more free time and hadn’t heard of Zach Anner.
I have been doing lots of writing. The last big Machine Man novel rewrite is almost finished, and I started something new. I was planning another serial, but this kind of grabbed me and it’s not at all serial-like. So now I’m not sure about serials. I’ll see where I am in three months.
Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I’m here and writing and I know who Zach Anner is. Also: baby-smooth.
I have a bunch of blogs backed up. Wait. That sounds disgusting. Pretend I didn’t say that. What I mean is: I keep thinking of things I want to blog about, but before I do I get distracted by emails or real writing or my wife getting pregnant. I know. You could argue that I have prioritization issues. On the other hand, you could argue I don’t. It’s not like anyone pays me for these. I only do them for the look on your face. That’s right. I’m watching you. I’m watching you right now. See that webcam? Give me a little wave. Hello, my pretty. Hello.
But that’s beside the point. The point is: my wife is pregnant. I can’t believe you didn’t react more when I mentioned that a second ago. You barely frowned. Oh, wait. I see. You were wondering if you already knew about that. I guess I didn’t really telegraph it. I just kind of slipped it in there. But enough about the conception. Ha ha! Joke. We used IVF. Not because we have to. We just like to employ advanced medical technology wherever possible. It’s expensive, but we think it’s worth it. They say you can’t genetically engineer your embryos, but once you get inside and they close the door, you totally can. We went for a female green-eyed redhead with a propensity to sneeze in sunlight and a tail like a fish.
Last Friday we went along for our 20-week scan. We decided to find out the sex this time, because Jen wanted to find out the sex and I couldn’t stand the idea of her knowing something I didn’t. It would have thrown off the delicate power balance of the whole relationship. You might think that’s silly but that’s what they said about Palestine. I don’t want a repeat of that. Not in my house. So off we went, and Dr. Andrew showed us that we’re having a girl! He showed us in a way that would be truly mortifying if the girl was aware of it, by the way. I kind of feel sorry for girls today growing up with DVDs of their prenatal scans tucked away in their parents’ bedside tables. You just know they’re going to come out at the 21st party. Anyway, there it is: we will have two girls, and the new one will own nothing new until she leaves home.
Before Finlay was born, her placeholder name was “Popsicle” (Poppy for short), because she was brewed from a frozen embryo. As we were walking out of the clinic, Finlay said, “We should call her Chandelier.” I don’t know where that came from. But that’s the placeholder. Chandelier Barry. A new light in the world.
I have a little parenting problem. I need some advice. The other day I was out walking with Finlay (four years old; I know, I can’t believe it either) and an elderly woman stopped to coo over her. This woman was clearly someone’s grandmother. She was matronly. I’m thinking of the word “battleship.” You know what I’m getting at.
“So cute,” said the grandmother. I said thanks and Fin said nothing and the woman began to move away. Then Fin said, “She’s got big boobs.”
Into my stunned silence, Fin added, “Really big boobs.”
A few days later, out with her mother, Fin remarked about a passer-by: “She has large upper arms.”
Before that, on a train: “Look at that little person.”
We’ve tried to raise her to believe there’s nothing wrong with people who look different. That differences are interesting but not shameful. That seems to be working. It’s working a little too well. What do I do now?
I don’t want to tell her that some people are embarrassed about how they look. That starts with “are” and ends with “should be.” I can see a case for not commenting on people’s weight, because being very over- or under-weight is unhealthy, and we’ve talked about health and eating balanced meals. But I know she’s going to spend her life drowning in messages about body size, and she doesn’t need that yet. Also, it only deals with the “large upper arms” comments, not the “Look at that little person” ones.
My feeling is that while there is nothing wrong with being a three-foot-tall grownup, and it is interesting, they probably don’t want to be singled out for it all the time. But maybe this is my hangup. I wouldn’t be offended if a four-year-old pointed at me and said, “That man has no hair,” but if his mother acted embarrassed and tried to shush him, I would. Because she would be making it into a bad thing. Maybe it’s the same with everything.
But that leaves me, what? Smiling at amputees after my kid points out they have no legs? Saying, “Yes, you’re right,” when she remarks on the size of an obese man’s buttocks? This is a minefield. What do I do?
Lately my Google Alert emails have become polluted with other Max Barrys. I guess I knew it had to happen. I couldn’t have the web to myself forever. But all of a sudden there are three of us. The first guy to show up was okay. He writes about NFL. I gather that’s some kind of football. Not the good kind. But still. I was just glad he was doing something. I didn’t want some whiny, self-obsessed blogger Max Barry confusing everybody. I have that base covered.
But now this third guy. I’ve been worried about the wrong thing. Because this Max Barry, he’s better-looking than me. He models. He’s younger. More hair. I guess that goes without saying. But really: tons of hair. He cooks. Plays tennis semi-professionally. Works as a personal trainer. Posts workouts-of-the-day to his website. Workout-of-the-days? Whatever. He’s a god, is my point. A toned, buffed, let-me-whip-you-up-a-filet-mignon god. He makes me look like crap.
At this point I haven’t decided whether to break into his house in the middle of the night and stab him or become fast friends and use him as my body double for TV interviews. That’s a decision for the new year.
Speaking of which! That’s it from me for 2009. Thank you so much to everyone who cared enough to follow what I’m doing this year. Double thanks to everyone who made this the year of Machine Man. Triple—wait, this is getting ridiculous. But thank you, thank you to those who emailed me feedback on the serial, because that is incredibly helpful as I turn this thing into a novel.
I hope your year was a good one, and your next is better. And may I leave you with this: my daughter Finlay’s first ever appearance on stage, at her four-year-old ballet concert. They are dressed as kangaroos, if you’re wondering. This was one of the most terrifyingly beautiful moments of my life. I’m not talking about the dancing. I’m talking about what happened next.