The funny thing about this story is it started out negative, but I made something positive out of it. Because of this experience that was initially negative, I developed an admiration for my favorite writer of all time, Sir Michael Crichton. I draw a lot of inspiration from Sir Crichton, and he's one of the main reasons that I got into writing in the first place. I have reviewed What You Don't Know (Lulu Wang), to help me construct this story.
It was October 20th of last year. An early Friday evening, my cousin Gabbi's older friend, Kristina was coming to visit Gabbi. But, on her way into the neighborhood, with the radio blaring, she started to play with her hair. Kristina rolled down the driver side window as she drove. But suddenly, a few locks of Kristina's long, lovely hair became trapped in the seatbelt behind her head. She jerked the steering wheel of her black Honda Pilot to the left a little, and shot right off the road. Kristina's car smacked into a telephone pole right beside the road. And, as fate would have it, that specific telephone pole provided power to my family's house and a whole bunch of people in the neighborhood. About a week before, I had bought both of the "Jurassic Park" novels by Michael Crichton. I hadn't gotten around to reading them yet, and now it looked like I would finally have the time. Ten minutes later, I walked out the front of the neighborhood with my dad. We were heading out to see the damage done to the pole. Dad was holding a flashlight, because the sun was just starting to set. "Jesus!" I exclaimed. We were creeping down the right shoulder of the road, and the cars were flying past us at what seemed to be almost fifty miles an hour. "Hey, slow down!" Dad yelled at one of the drivers. Finally, we reached the crash sight. Three police cars were parked behind the Honda Pilot, and there was an old fire truck on scene, putting out the flames. The pole had come down right on top of the car's hood, and crushed it. Both of the front car tires had snapped off the front axle, and the front grille had melted off the car, due to the intense heat. Just then, a PECO truck arrived at the crash site. "Excuse me, sir, but when do you think the power will be back on?" Dad asked one of the men. "We're gonna have to get a new telephone pole in here, because this one is wrecked. The new pole won't be here until Sunday" one of the men answered. Dad and I sighed deeply, and started walking back home. When we got there, Dad notified the Pa State Police of the situation. "Yeah, the cars are just flying past that crash site. Yeah, way toooo fast. Uh, I'd say, like fifty miles an hour" Dad explained. "Well?" Mom asked impatiently when he hung up. "they're going to create a police checkpoint on that road to slow people down" Dad reported. "Good" Mom replied. Then, Dad walked outside, and started up our generator. I started reading the first "Jurassic Park" novel right about then. I thought it was really good, and excellently crafted, though I did grow just a tad bored during the parts of Ian Malcolm's speeches about Chaos Theory. I was pleasantly surprised to read the parts that were cut out of the first movie, like the subplot of dinosaurs escaping the island, and the whole river raft sequence. I couldn't really sleep that night, because I had my window open, and all I heard was the sound of thunderous, humming generators. When I woke up the next morning, and had a small breakfast of snack food, I started reading "The Lost World". I was a little shocked to see how much of the great second novel hadn't been used in the second movie. For example, certain characters from the book didn't exist in the movie, some scenes from the book never happened, etc. I still thought it was a good book, though. It was very fast paced, and very exciting. After I finished the book, and the power came on the next day, I was interested in Michael Crichton, so I googled him on my computer. "Christ almighty, why do the good always die young?" I moaned. Michael Crichton, 1942-2008. I was thinking of a way that I could fondly remember Michael Crichton in my own way, while at the same time being a way that everyone else could remember him by. So, I whipped out my computer and got to work. I went to Google, and created a document with the title "Crichton Everlasting". And of course, I started the story with his wonderful birth into this world. You know something? His legacy lives on to this day. And it's not just through the hardcore fans of "Jurassic Park", either. Every time that I sit down to construct an idea for a novel, I always use the same set up for the different chapters, or "sections", which mirrors the way Crichton constructed both "Jurassic Park" novels. I understand it's easier to show you than to tell you, so let me give you an example. Joining Forces " Order collapses in simultaneous regions. Survival is now unlikely for individuals and groups" - Michael Crichton Pa State Police Detective Indiana Carter pulled into the underground parking garage for his apartment building. One of the things on his mind was those rogue rookie traffic cops that had been all over the news. Indiana knew all four of those guys personally. Their names were Brett Goodman, Frank Sweet, Percy Winston, and Michael Terrence. Michael had died just the other day during a shootout with famous mob boss Donald Corleone. Just as Indiana got out of his car, he noticed three people against the far wall of the parking garage. It was none other than Brett, Frank, and Percy. 'Do you have any idea how hard it is to prosecute a cop?" Brett said. Indiana turned to face them. "Well, actually, it's not so hard nowadays, but I gather that's not why you're here". "That's right" Percy added. "You "heroes" have killed a dozen people this week. So, what are you going to do next week?" Indiana asked. "Kill a dozen more" Brett answered. "Is that what you guys are all about? Being heroes?" Indiana asked. "All our heroes are dead" Frank answered. "We're the first generation that's learned to fight" Brett put in. "We're simply ridding society of killers that would be caught and sentenced anyway if our courts worked properly. We began with the criminals that the people know, so that our actions would be understood. It's not just a question of whether or not to use violence. There simply is no other way, Inspector. You, of all people, should understand that" Brett went on. "Either you're for us or you're against us" Percy said. "I'm afraid you've misjudged me" Indiana told them. Slowly but surely, Brett hung his head a little in disappointment. Then, Brett, Frank and Percy started up their Indian Chief motorcycles all at once. Going single file, they tore out of the underground parking garage.
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In this blog post, I will compose a scene in the present tense from my current life. However, this scene will paint a daydream I had just yesterday about a potential prequel to Steven Spielberg's Jaws, one that ignores Jaws 3-D and Jaws: The Revenge (AKA Jaws: The Soap Opera), and acts as an alternate third entry to the series. Here is a little sample of my creative genius. I have read and gone over Hills Like White Elephants (Ernest Hemingway), to help teach me how to compose a scene in the present tense with dialogue and symbolism.
I head up the front circular driveway of Amity Island's Psychiatric Hospital, driving my dad's iconic gold and yellow open top Chevy K5 Blazer. I'm intend on seeing a girl named Jackie Peters. Jackie and I are great friends, and have been since my dad, Martin Brody, saved us both from a killer shark. I marvel at the fact that they lock her in a room with four large windows that function as walls. Jackie comes over to the glass and smiles at me as Dr. Tina Wilcox unlocks the door and lets me in. "Oh, Sean, it's so wonderful to see you" Jackie sighs. "The feeling's mutual" I reply. "My God, she hasn't aged a bit" I think to myself. "Tell me about yourself, Sean. What's new with you?" Jackie asks. "Oh, not much. Sheriff Hendricks hired me for the deputy position in town, but you already knew that" I reply. "How about you?" I ask Jackie, who begins to shake her head. "I can still see that-that thing coming for the both of us, pushing all those broken sailboats and catamarans around like a child's toys" Jackie quivers. "Hey, it's alright" I tell her gently, and I reach out and put an arm around her shoulders. She leans into my chest, and begins to cry heavily. "Poor Eddie" she says. "Yeah, speaking of Eddie, how's Tina making out?" I ask. Jackie shrugs. "Ok, I guess. For a girl that literally witnessed a shark brutally consume her boyfriend". "Tell me, how are you, Jackie? I mean, mentally? How are you making out?" I ask her. Jackie looks up at me with those beautiful light blue eyes. "How do you think I am? I have a pathological fear of sharks" she snaps. "It's alright, Jackie, I do too" I say. "What do you mean, you do too?" Jackie demands. "You weren't the only one trapped on all those wrecked boats, remember?" I press. "Yeah, I remember" Jackie sighs. Then, she completely changes the subject of discussion. "Hey, Dr. Wilcox tells me that there's another shark problem in this town. Is that true?" Jackie asks. I shrug. "As of right now, Jackie, as much as I'd like to answer that, I cannot confirm nor deny that rumor" I answer. Jackie sits up a little. "It's true, isn't it?" she asks. "I can't answer that" I reply. "Sure you can. Is there a shark problem or isn't there?" Jackie demands. I shake my head no. "We don't know as of right now. The coroner, and mayor Larry Vaughn Jr, seem to be convinced it's a boat accident. But I don't know what to think right now, Jackie" I say. Jackie sighs. "Oh, is it because of your dad? And how everyone thought he was a raving lunatic the second time around? Listen, Sean, honey, if you ever need a little emotional support, just come by and see me some time. You know I'll make things right for you" Jackie says. "Yeah, I know you will, Jackie. I'll be back when I have some free time. In the meantime, take it easy" I tell her. "You know I will, baby" Jackie says, grinning. The Wonderful Life of Pumpkin
In this blog post, I will compose a scene in the present tense from my present life. However, due to my creative mind, it will ultimately take place in 1977, just like in blog post #2. I'd just like to remind all of you reading this that this story really is from last week. In order to flawlessly create this week's blog post, I have read What is Creative Nonfiction? (Lee Gutkind), Making Scenes in Memoir (Lee Martin), and My Name is Margaret (Maya Angelou). So there I sit, with my dad on the front porch of our shore house, in the early days of 1977, before I purchase my lemon of a Fairlane. Everybody and their mother delights in discussing that new movie, "Smokey and the Bandit", as they walk down the street. But that's not what dear old dad and I talk about that fateful night. As we come to learn, the name of the cat across the street from us is Pumpkin. Pumpkin is a bit more of an outdoor cat. You see, across the street from us, where Pumpkin lives, there was a wide driveway which had at least six houses all using it. I call it a complex, mostly because it really is. Anyway, Pumpkin, this orange and white cat, lives in a light blue house in the back left corner of the driveway, which faces the boardwalk and the ocean. And anyone who rents a house back there that has a dog, ole Pumpkin will wander down the driveway, following them. But he never leaves the safety of the driveway. This night, however, is different. I still don't completely understand why Pumpkin did what he did, but that night he didn't stay in the safety of the driveway. He follows this young lady and her canine all the way down the other side of the street, till they reach the half street known as Saint Alban's. Dad turns his neck to get a good look at the cat, as he vanishes around the corner to the boardwalk, still behind the canine. "Hey Dad, what's he up to?" I say urgently. "I don't know, son" Dad replies, shaking his head. "Well, anyway, did you see that Don Knotts comedy routine where he's playing a baseball announcer, but he keeps screwing up his words?" I ask. Dad shakes his head. "No, I haven't, but tell me about it. Is it good?" Dad asks. "Oh, for sure" I answer, then proceed to insert some of Don's better quotes from the act into our conversation. "Good afternoon, gadies and ladiemen. Uh, ladies and gentlemen. This is your old fiend, uh friend Phil Brusaclane, bringing you a prescription, uh description, of today's pain. Uh, flame! Uh, game! Here comes Dougie Hoser coming out of the cumquat, uh, I mean dugout. Who do we out in the see field? Uh, who we do see in the outfield? Why, none other than that Mighty Macky Middle! Uh, Mighty Mickey Mouse!" I say. Dad rocks back and forth in his chair, he laughs so hard. Just then, we see the young woman come back around at St. Alban's with her canine. But Pumpkin is nowhere in sight. "Dad, where's the cat?" I say urgently. Dad sits up a little, quickly becoming concerned. "I don't know" he answers. Just then, I spot him. Sitting in the mouth of St. Alban's. Right next to the freaking traffic. I cringe as an older Peterbilt gas tanker goes screaming by with the truck horn bellowing out into the night. Before I even realize what's happening, Dad is up and dashing out into the street. I watch fearfully as Dad pets the cat, and starts walking alongside the cat back to the driveway. I continue to watch as Dad walks all the way up the driveway to the light blue house all the way back on the left. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Dad comes back up onto the porch. "Great save" I remark. "Thanks" Dad says as he takes a seat. "Hey Matt, do me a favor, huh? Go and get my binoculars from my closet, please" he goes on. As I go to get him his binoculars, he flips open a newspaper and starts reading about how the serial killer who has been terrorizing Northen California for years now (The Zodiac Killer), has mysteriously vanished. But when I return with the binoculars, I see a sight that nearly stops my heart. Pumpkin is halfway out into the street. There is five or six cars coming from the other direction. This time, it is my turn to be a hero. I run out in front of the first car, carelessly putting aside my own safety. I feel that my feet don't touch anything between the planks on the edge of our deck before I land heavily on the front lawn during take off; and I still don't stop until I reach the driveway on the other side of the street. I look back, and then my heart catches in my throat when I see that the first car was a 1976 Pontiac Lemans police cruiser. The officer flips on the sirens and pulls over to the curb. He is very gentle, though, just happy to see no one is hurt. "Is that cat yours, son?" the officer asks. "No, sir" I say, and I shake my head. "Is he homeless?" the officer goes on. "We don't really know. He's always hanging out in this driveway, though" I answer. The officer nods. "Just make sure he'll be safe for the night before you leave him". "Oh, of course, sir" I reassure the officer. The next morning, Dad plans to go to the beach. But before we leave, he sees a beige and wood grain 1972 Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser backing out of the light blue house. Once again throwing his life into the hands of the car traffic on 17th street, he dashes across the street to ask the young couple driving the wagon if the cat is indeed theirs. Dad finds out that the couple's names are Sandra and William Stienfield, and they live in Ocean City all year round. Pumpkin is indeed theirs, but he is a bit more of an outdoor cat, as we have been seeing all summer long. So, there it is. He really does have a couple of loving owners. We don't have to worry about adopting him after all. But as reassuring as that feels, it also stings like a punch to the face. Long before I'm born, mom and dad adopt a black cat with the name of Canuck that lives with a kind old cat lady, Diane Cherry, down the street from them. Through this ordeal, I was slowly beginning to think we had a Canuck 2.0 on our hands. But sadly, it was not to be. The world didn't want it that way. In this blog, I will pull three quotes from three authors (Don Murray, Mary Karr, and Anne Lamott), and use those quotes to form a round table discussion between the three authors about the writing process.
There I was, in a Texaco gas station in 1977, in the lone star state of Texas. As I waited for the mechanic to finish mending the front axle of my orange and midnight black '58 Ford Fairlane sedan, I decided to do some writing. I was but an aspiring writer at that time, hoping to make it into the big leagues but so far I'd been denied. But as I sat there, I was surprised to see the late Anne Lamott approaching me. "Mrs. Lamott" I said, "I'm a big fan of yours". Ole Anne grinned from ear to ear, and said "I couldn't help but notice you were bent over just now, staring rather intently at something. I hope you won't mind my asking just what exactly were you up to?" she said. "Ah, well, I'm an aspiring writer, Mrs. Lamott" I replied. "Please, call me Anne. And allow me to give you some advice, young man" Anne told me. "Ok" I nodded. "Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way". "And I wish you good luck, young man, on your future endeavors" Anne went on. "Thank you very much, Anne Lamott. That was beautiful" I told her. Just then, the mechanic's daughter, one young Mary Karr, comes out of the gas station's garage. "I'm afraid that your Fairlane won't be ready until tomorrow morning, or at very least midnight" she says. "Are you kidding me?! I have to be in Florida for a family reunion at high noon tomorrow!" I exclaim. "Well, I suppose you could sit around in the back of the shop and sit up until your car's ready" Mary says, then she walks back over to my car. "You know, Anne, if you're not terribly busy, or have somewhere else to be, would you like to sit up waiting for my car with me?" I ask gently. "Why, of course, young man!" Anne says. Later on, Mary Kerr, the mechanic's daughter, joins Anne and I waiting for the car. "Well, Ms. Kerr-" I begin, but Mary politely cuts me off. "Please, call me Mary" she says. "Ok, Mary, I know giving advice to young writers might not exactly be your forte, but if you did have to give some advice to a young, aspiring writer, what would it be?" I ask her. "Well" Mary says, "Every writer I know who's worth a damn spends way more time "losing" than "winning"-if success means typing a polished page that lands in print as is" Mary tells me. "Oh, by the way" Mary adds, "writing is painful-its "fun" only for novices, the very young, hacks". "Thank you very much, Mary. I'll be sure to take that under advisement" I comment. "And there's just one more thing" Mary adds. "Reading through history cultivates in a writer a standard of quality higher than the marketplace" she concludes. Just then, Mary's overbearing father calls her out to the garage to help him put a part back on my car. In her absence, I ask Anne if she has any more good advice. "Well, when you're writing a chapter, or a paragraph, you don't have to see where you;re going, you don't have to see your destination, or everything you will pass along the way" Anne told me. "That's brilliant" I nodded. "And there's one last thing" Anne continues. "Also in relation to writing a certain paragraph or chapter, you must focus on that and just that only, and forget about the big picture for a moment, so your mind doesn't become cluttered. All I am going to do right now, for example, is write that one paragraph that sets the story in my hometown, in the late fifties, when the trains were still running" Anne said. "You've really given me some great advice, Anne. I'll be sure to take it all under advisement" I said. Not too long after that conversation ended, Anne Lamott left to go home. She wished me good luck on my hopes and dreams to become a famous writer, and I heartily thanked her for her advice. But about an hour after Anne left, I got bored and tired of waiting, so I wandered down the block to a little bar called Moe's. I had just barely taken a seat at the bar and ordered a tall, ice cold, refreshing glass of Coca Cola when a real celebrity walked in. I should've known the way all the regular bar patrons yelled out "Dom!" that it was Don Murray. I didn't figure it out right anyway, though, because I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Anyway, I'm way down at the other end of the bar, where's there a bunch of open seats, and where do you think he takes a seat? That's right, right next to me! I tried to control my excitement as I asked the opinion of yet another wonderful writer for advice. "Hi, Mr, Murray, it's wonderful to meet you. My name's Matt McShane, and I'm a big fan of your work, and I was just wondering if you had any advice for a young writer looking to get into the wonderful world that is creative writing" I said. Don took a sip from his tall glass of Bud light while thinking of how to form an answer. "Well, first, my dear boy, you should learn to teach writing as a process, not a product" Don told me. "I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Murray" I said. "And another thing, please call me Don" Murray went on. "Anyway, conscientious, doggedly responsible, repetitive autopsying doesn’t give birth to live writing" Murray went on. "Oh, that's beautiful, sir" I commented as I made a little note in my notebook. "And there's just one other thing. Writing is a demanding, intellectual process" Murray concluded. "Well, thank you, Mr, Murray, that's brilliant" I said. "Don't mention it, my boy. If you employ all three of those tactics in your writing, then you'll really make it" Murray concluded. So, what did I learn from all this? Well, for one thing, in relation to my lemon of a Fairlane, life's a beach, and then you learn to drive. Also, just because some old writer thinks he knows more about the writing process than your high school teacher doesn't mean that he's wrong in any way. The act of writing is a carefully formed process, not a cashcow for money. And don't anyone ever tell you any different. Sincerely, Matt McShane in this blog post, I provide answers to the Proust Questionnaire.
__1.__What is your idea of perfect happiness? __2.__What is your greatest fear? __3.__What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? __4.__What is the trait you most deplore in others? __5.__Which living person do you most admire? __6.__What is your greatest extravagance? __7.__What is your current state of mind? __8.__What do you consider the most overrated virtue? __9.__On what occasion do you lie? __10.__What do you most dislike about your appearance? __11.__Which living person do you most despise? __12.__What is the quality you most like in a man? __13.__What is the quality you most like in a woman? __14.__Which words or phrases do you most overuse? __15.__What or who is the greatest love of your life? __16.__When and where were you happiest? __17.__Which talent would you most like to have? __18.__If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? __19.__What do you consider your greatest achievement? __20.__If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be? __21.__Where would you most like to live? __22.__What is your most treasured possession? __23.__What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? __24.__What is your favorite occupation? __25.__What is your most marked characteristic? __26.__What do you most value in your friends? __27.__Who are your favorite writers? __28.__Who is your hero of fiction? __29.__Which historical figure do you most identify with? __30.__Who are your heroes in real life? __31.__What are your favorite names? __32.__What is it that you most dislike? __33.__What is your greatest regret? __34.__How would you like to die? __35.__What is your motto? The primary focus of this blog post is to formally introduce myself, thanks to the Proust Questionnaire https://www.vanityfair.com/magazine/2000/01/proust-questionnaire/amp The Proust Questionnaire is the most perfect way to introduce yourself to others. Its a great way to break the ice with people and explain who you really are without being awkward. I will say though, that there is one interesting thing about me that the Proust Questionnaire doesn't mention. I happen to be a very big fan of Stanley Kramer's famous 1963 comedy film, "Its a Mad Mad Mad Mad World", which I will fully explain later on in a future blog post. Anyway, let's get on with it. My idea of perfect happiness is being a famous author, happily married to the girl of my dreams, living in a two story house with two little kittens. My greatest fear, of course, is dying alone, but isn't that everyone's greatest fear? My leading character trait which I deplore by far the most is my constant spicy use of curse words. On the other hand, the trait I deplore the most in others is doing drugs. Out of all the leftists, right wingers, and middle-of-the-road actors and actresses in Hollywood today, the one I admire the most is Gene Hackman. Gene had a legendary career which spanned five decades, and, while he may not be acting in movies anymore, he's become a famous author. My greatest extravagance would have to be that one time I ran up a bill of one thousand, two hundred dollars on my parent's credit card. My current state of mind is happiness, because I'm going to a friend's wedding this weekend. Honesty is overrated. I think we over rate the virtue of honesty, confusing it with the truth. While the truth will set us free, honesty can be destructive. So what is the difference? Personal experience teaches us. I only lie to my parents on certain occasions where its a little white lie and I won't hurt anyone by not exactly telling the truth. the thing I dislike most about my appearance is my godforsaken zits, which I'm working hard, trying to get rid of. I despise the Democrats of this country because most of them are some of the most greedy, low down, dirty, sneaky, people, who, if they're not crooks, is only because they don't have the ambition even to become to a crook. The quality I like most in a woman is honesty. It's good to have a somewhat transparent relationship, so you're not sneaking around behind the back of your significant other. I was truly happy about eight years ago, when I was in elementary school and I would hang out with my little cousin Kate on every snow day. You see, there's this big hill right across the street from my house, and we would always meet up there. Well, one particular Monday when I was in second grade, Kate and I sledded down that hill all day long, until it got dark out. I should also mention that that particular Monday was the only day Kate had off from school. She was going back to school the next day, while I had off all week. So, with that fun time now in the past, what's a kid supposed to do? Well, it might seem a bit strange, but I curled up on the old beige couch in the family room with a box of Kleenex tissues and an Acme shopping bag. And for the next two hours, I bawled my friggin' eyes out. To this day, I still don't entirely know why I broke down in tears. But part of it is that I love Kate like a little sister, and that I cherish the little time we get to spend together. Nowadays, we barely have time for each other as it is, because I'm in college, and she's in ninth grade, constantly hanging out with her friends and participating in sports after school. Anyway, if I could have one talent, it would probably involve me being a best selling author in some way. If I could change just one thing about myself, my social anxiety would win that contest, for sure. As of right now, I consider graduating high school my greatest achievement. If I were to die and be reincarnated, I would come back as Sid Caesar and teach Seth Rogen what the definition of comedy really is. I would most like to live in Ocean City, New Jersey. My most treasured possession is my computer, which I use a lot of the time for homework and a bunch of projects. I regard denial as the lowest depth of misery. My most marked characteristic would be that I'm actually a really funny guy, if you get to know me. I value respect in my friends the most. I had some issues in the past with a "friend" of mine that really didn't respect me. His mood could change in the blink of an eye. One second he's telling you how cool your new backpack is, and the next he's calling you dirt poor. And he does that just because his dad started his own construction company, and he's always bragging about his dad driving Mercedes cars all the time. Pardon my dirty, dirty mouth for one second, but who gives a shit? That being said, my favorite writers are Bram Stoker, Michael Crichton, and Gene Hackman. In addition, my hero of fiction is Alex Cross, from the James Patterson novel series "Alex Cross". My dad is my hero in real life. He might not have been a fireman, police officer, or soldier in his past, but he was a very courageous lifeguard in Ocean City. And he once saved a fifty year old man from drowning in a rip current, as well as four men in their mid twenties that tried to save him, but got taken out as well. The thing that I dislike the most is being thrown into awkward, forced situations without either my ok or some fair warning. Finally, my motto is "You do whatever you're gonna do, and I'm gonna do whatever I'm going to do". Best wishes, Matt McShane |
Matt McShane
I will use this work to explore the written word. Archives
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