Twi Hard

Been a while since I wrote anything, so I figured I need to get back to this. I have a couple projects I've been up to which I will share soon, but as of right now I really wanted to get back to something light and fun.
This story was one I wrote for my prose class last year, and has stayed with me since then because I really loved it.

Twi-Hard: With a Vengence

Many would consider Betty ordinary. Because she was. Seriously. There was absolutely nothing special or interesting about her. In fact she was so exceedingly ordinary that it often hurt to look at her. Many faces had shattered upon looking at her. Because of this she was forced to wear a paper bag over her head as she grew up. This was how she got the nickname Betty Baghead.

Betty Baghead looked out the window as the car sped along a plain dirt road. Beside her sat her father, who she never really knew because he'd lived so far away; and they only talked once a year on the day after her birthday. She had never liked her father much, especially because whenever he called her, he'd always apologize for not calling her on her birthday. One year, he had called her on her birthday, hung up, and called her the next day instead. He said it was to keep the tradition alive. Though she'd never say it, she always suspected her father of being a drunk.

“No honey,” he said squeezing her ample bosom with his free hand as he drove the tractor. “I only drink with friends. Uh oh! Giant moose! Here, hold my vodka.” He said as he turned the wheel instantly rolling the farm equipment and spilling hay and two sheep on the road. He died, but Betty was fine. The sheep were also fine. As such, she shrugged, and began to walk along the road towards what she assumed would be a city. She was wrong of course, but her bag didn't have eyeholes.

She walked along the street, and after five minutes she realized she was being followed. “Is someone following me?” She called out.

“No.”

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know,” she said, as she casually continued her walk. After two minutes she wondered if she had been lied to and stopped again. “Wait, is there someone following me or not? I thought I heard footsteps.”

“No. You're just schizophrenic.”

“Well I know that, but I was just wondering if you were a voice in my head, or a vampire. My impressionable teenage fantasies are telling me you're a vampire.”

“No, that is definitely not me. I am not a vampire. Well... No. I'm a voice.”

“Well okay. Thank you for being honest. Now what do you want me to burn?”

“What?”

“Well when you usually talk to me you tell me to burn something.” She said, her voice muffled by the paper bag. “Did you want me to burn anything this time?”

“No, just keep walking. I like to watch.”

“Okay.” She said as she continued to walk. She wasn't very bright. In fact some would say she was dumb. So what was said before about her not being special isn't quite the full truth. In fact she was exceedingly special. In a short bus kind of way. “Wait a minute... The voices in my head can't see me as I walk.” She said to herself. She tried to turn around but forgot how to, so she fell on the ground and rolled around until she was facing the right direction. “You lied to me! You're totally not a voice in my head. You're a thing!”

“I like the bag on your head,” the voice said. “Can I touch it?”

“Why?” Betty asked, her voice shaking from fear, and her knees shaking from a mild case of polio.

“Because... I like bag heads.”

“Why?”

“Because... It's just a thing I like.” His voice was low and gravelly. It sent chills up and down her spine. She shivered.

“Your voice is low and gravelly. It's sending chills up and down my spine. I just shivered.”

“I saw. Your bag rustled.”

“It does that.” For a long time no one said anything. It was a really long time. “We haven't said anything in a really long time.” She said a long time after the long time had passed.

“Want to make out?”

“Are you sure you're not a vampire?” Betty Bagface asked.

“No. I am definitely not a vampire. I have never been a vampire. I will never be a vampire. Okay, I may have been a vampire once. But no. I am all human. Okay, I'm a vampire. Want to make out?”

“Yes.” She said. But neither of them did anything. “How?”

“Well I must first remove this bag,” he said as he stepped towards her. She lifted her hands up in an attempt to block his hands and instead managed to slap both of them in the face.

“No. It'll shatter your face!”

“No. It wont. I'm a vampire. I'll be fine.” He said as he removed the bag. He looked at her. She looked at him. They looked at each other. It was a moment. Betty took a moment to wonder why she had never put air-holes or eye-holes in the bag. It would have made sight a lot easier. Or at least possible.

She looked at his face. He looked at hers. Then, his face shattered.

“You're beautiful.” He said. He was lying. Then added, “Ow.”

“You're beautiful.” She said reaching up and touching his smooth cheek, and using her free hand to pick pieces of his face off of hers.

“Thank you.” He said. “I never hit puberty.”

“Kiss me.” She said. They kissed. It was hot. In a gross kind of way. “I think we should get married, and not grow old together, and have a baby, and name it a stupid name, and have it marry a werewolf. What do you think?”

“No.” He said. Then he drank her blood. Because he is a vampire and that is what they do.

Progress on Ignition

So I started this blog not just as a way to share my writings with the world, (hello world!) but also as a way to keep myself on track in regards to my own projects and writings.
As many of you know, I've been working on the sequel to my first book which was recently published via Brighter Books. The first book is entitled "Catalyst" and has been getting some very good feedback which is always new and exciting.
On the second book, I've hit major road block after major road block and have been having massive challenges in overcoming writers block. A part of it was that I was so tied up in the first story that I was unsure of how to make what I know needed to happen, happen in book 2.
So book 2 is entitled "Ignition" and my new stance on it, and the only reason I'm actually succeeding in writing it right now, is that in order for me to start my day right, I need to reach the next page. If I'm at page 14, I write until I'm at page 15.
Now I know what I'm writing right now is not my usual standard of writing. The dialogue is clumsy, the action scenes are unpolished, the writing is quick and bad... But at this stage I know that it's perfectly okay. The important thing isn't how the writing comes out, it's what we do to the writing in the editing stages.
My first draft of this book will be rough. My goal for this project is to have book 2 be approximately 50,000 words, but expanded to 60,000 in editing.
At this stage, my priority is to tell the story. I know now that afterward I will make it prettier, and more glossy and perfect, but right now? Just get it out. Just throw it all up because I know if I don't do this now, it wont get done.
So one week ago my story was at 5,000 words after six months. Not a great track record. I started and rewrote the story at least 3 different times before, so I just wanted to make sure that this time, I just need to get it out. Get it all out. Write it. Just do it. Worry about it later, but for now, just do it.
As a result, I'm now sitting around 10,000 words. A significant advantage.

Grass

For one of the classes in prose we had to write a fable. After struggling with the idea for a while I based it off of a character from the class and wrote about his favorite pastime. As a sidenote all of the stories I wrote for the class had only one word titles. Something which I inadvertently continued with my books... We'll see how long this trend continues.

Grass
By Matti McLean

There once was a man who liked marijuana. He really liked it. His clothes were made of hemp. His decorative necklaces were made of hemp (which he wore much more frequently than the clothes). His decorative bandana was made of hemp, his sandals were made of hemp and even his furniture was made of hemp. In fact, this man loved hemp so much that he grew enough of it to make an entire house of hemp. His name was Weedy McHempington, and he was king of Hempingway.

Now Weedy McHempington had a very close group of friends and every night they would get together in his house, which had come to be known as the hemp house and the four of them would play a game of poker.

One week, during a game, one of his friends was bragging about how he could blow smoke rings bigger than any of them. None of them believed him, so to prove his point he took a drag of his funny cigarette and blew a smoke ring so big it stretched from floor to ceiling! Everyone was very impressed and McHempington felt a twinge of jealousy stir in his stomach.

Then, another friend piped up and told them all that he could make animal shapes with his smoke. No one believed him, so he took a drag of the funny cigarette (or more specifically, two puffs), and when he released the smoke a snake appeared and slithered through the air! Following the snake was a smoke bird, a smoke rabbit, and a smoke moose! Everyone was very impressed and McHempington felt a flickering of jealousy ignite in his throat.

His final friend sat up and told them all that he could do better than that. He claimed that using his lighter, he could actually light a candle using his smoke. No one believed him, so he took a drag of the funny cigarette and let out a long stream of smoke. To everyones amazement, the smoke carried a flame from one candle to the other. Everyone was very impressed and McHempington felt a deep jealousy that reached down to the back of his knees. He would not be outdone by his friends!

Once the others had settled down, he declared that he could do better than all of them. He claimed that he could actually create a firework out of nothing but smoke. No one believed him, so when no one was looking (Look! A distraction!) he sipped some of the lighter fluid and took two drags from the funny cigarette. When everyone had turned back around, which had taken an exceptionally long amount of time since there had been something shiny on the far side of the room (Ooh! Shiny... Where was I?), he put his plan into motion. He breathed out a long line of smoke and flammable materials into the candle that sat in the middle of the table. In a beautiful explosion the candle burst into a giant flame bigger than any the four stoners had ever seen. Instead of ducking like normal people, all four of them were hit by the firework, as well as much of the flammable house. Luckily only one thing caught fire; McHempingtons' thone, which he had also made of hemp.

The four of them rushed to fight the fire, but the heavy amount of weed in the chair made that feat much more difficult than it should have been. A heavy, rancid smelling smoke filled the small hut making it impossible to see, and even more impossible to stay sober. The four of them stumbled around like doofuses and eventually collapsed on the ground in a heap. Within minutes the roof had caught on fire and the entire house had gone up in smoke. McHempington escaped with only minor burns, but the other three died. But don't worry, you never learned their names so you should feel no emotional attachment to them.

The moral of the story: People who live in grass houses shouldn't blow smoke.

Toronto Blues

So living in Toronto has been interesting. It's been a heart of healing, of torture and struggle, and a period in my life that will go down as being one of the most difficult I have ever faced. But it's been good. Things are progressing, and progress is good.

And Untitled Or Another
by Matti McLean

Last night was that night.
The night you reach out to clutch at the strands of the shroud of turin
Seeking healing from a heart that’s broken.
A one-sided, beer fueled confession of half-truths
and full hurts
That gnaws the insides of our emotional breadths.
I mourn the loss as a beggar
Clutching at the foggy headed memory of two men
Who once did love each other,
and now smile through them.
A heart beats
but is not silenced by the sounds of an acoustic guitar
That plays Landslide and Maria Mena
And other songs of epitome beauty.
Perhaps the world is spinning
Because we’re moving forwards.
We propel the world with unrequited forgotten love.

Not my best poetry, but I really enjoyed some of the lines so I felt I needed to share it.

Shatter - the prose

This piece might not have much to do with writing and its function but shows at least some range I hope. This prose was written as an early experimental piece from my class, and turned out as a semi decent poem. It's flirtation with obliterated form is something I kept revisiting throughout the school year, so hopefully you'll see more of it.

Shatter – Matti McLean - Experimentation

The line between poetry and prose had finally evaporated. He hadn't intended it to happen, but it had. In front of him, on the page that he'd just written upon were a series of words, and they had just rhymed. He didn't know what to do, but he kept writing regardless. The pencil continued across the page, but for several moments of writing with un-exquisite diction, unintentional turns of phrase and excessive comma uses, he decided something must be done to this poetry situation. He was writing an exam dammit. This was no place for scholarly poetry.

Overneath counts as a word right? I mean, that's totally a real word. If he challenges this I'll take him to the dean. To court. To the president if I have to. I wish Canada had a president.

Where was I?

He scribbled down a few more lines before hovering around the two lines of accidental poetry.

Is it okay to be ironic in an exam? I mean he knows I'm using “Booger-Horse” ironically, right? I mean it's not like he really cares, right? He has a sense of humour. He must. Why else would he wear turtlenecks?

Scribble, scribble, scribble... The pages blur by as he writes sentence after sentence. He doesn't even know what he's writing anymore, but that doesn't stop it all from flowing out on the page. He lost his point two paragraphs ago, and is now commenting on, something, else... ?

Two minds diverge into one. Confusion enters his brain as the red bull and corn pops he had this morning churn uncomfortably in his stomach. He feels a sickening lurch in his stomach as if an invisible ghost hand has crashed through his sternum with a sledgehammer.

The sickening thought strikes him.

I'm going to be sick. I'm going to sicken myself all over this exam. And then I'll have to do it again.

No. Once is more than enough.

He raises his hand and waits for his professor to stop over at his desk. With a panicked look on his face, and a look of bored tedium reflected on his professors, he opens his mouth as a tsunami of college breakfast emerges from the depths of his gullet all over the bored face of his professor.

He goes white with embarrassment and red from fear. His hands shake as the professor takes off his glasses and wipes one of the frames. With a frown on his face he takes the test and points to the bathroom.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

The professor lets out a scream as he starts to melt. His skin pops and sizzles like bacon until the only thing remaining is a pair of glasses. He screams like a witch melting. No one else seems to notice. He sits there confused. Suddenly he's naked and everyone else in the room is a vampire. None of them sparkle. He wets himself.

A bell. He pulls his head off of the bubble sheet which has plastered itself to his drooling face. He'd been asleep. He laughs slightly as the other students in the room go up to the front and drop off their tests. It had all been a dream. His professor was vomit free, comparatively, and no one seemed out of place.

He looks at the test and realizes it's empty. He had slept through the entire exam. The professor looks at him disapprovingly as everyone else leaves. He makes a terrifying realization that he was going to fail the test. With a panicked look he writes down “overneath” and hands the paper in. On his way out he sinks into a fit of depression. No more scholarship. No money for school. A future of stacking boxes at Walmart and going home to his cats. He didn't even like cats.

A horrible wet feeling slides across his thighs as he makes the terrible observation that not everything was a dream.

He dies a little inside, but no one notices him slip outside and cry.

A fish...

I figured the best way to start off my blog about writing would be to share with you my favorite poem from my poetry class at Nipissing. This poem was something I literally got inspiration for in the middle of the night and had to reach over my partner to grab my book to write it down. People debate whether its genius or retarded, but it's been shared in Ontario, Pennsylvania and New York.
I hope you enjoy it.

A FISH
a poem by Matti McLean

A fish does not a good prostitute make
For their fins are as rough as their scales
If you're looking for sexy submarinal flings
The best thing to do is f*ck whales