Sweeping, cleaning, and other strange behaviours.

I spend a lot of time near my computer. Not because I'm a geek (though some might argue that I am), but because everything I need is also near my computer. Except the fridge and the shower... and my bed.

Well, anyway, almost everything I need is near my computer. This includes but is not limited to blank CDs and blank DVDs, fake plants (we're trying to emulate a tamed jungle look in this here basement―it's damn awesome), many, many movie cases (with DVDs), game CDs, my earphones, my computer tower and flatscreen, an old stack of playing cards, baby pictures of myself (I don't know why they're there; I think I'll give them back to Mom).

I also have my session schedule, many Post-Its with notes like, 'Answer your mail, you stupid hermit!' and 'DO YOUR HOMEWORK! STOP PROCRASTINATING!' that I make a point of ignoring, books, magazines, CD labels, cards, a cheap, very, very cheap drawing tablet that I can hardly use it's so cheap, college papers, a belt (?!), EBGames' release schedule for 2006 (I think I'll put that one to the recycling bin), old school projects that I got a good grade in and don't want to throw away, my final high school year photo album, and many, many papers that stack and slip all over the place.

I was kind of surprised when my mother said, "CM, will you PLEASE clean up your desk? It's a real mess."

I didn't really see the mess. I know that hell by heart, and it suits me. My mind works in strange ways. To be honest, cleaning it up would mess me up even more.

Except, you don't disobey my mother when she gets into one of her cleaning rages. So I sat at my desk and started cleaning it up.

I was rather surprised to find stuff like college applications (whoops, no longer needed--Recycling bin, here I come!), a publicity homework draft on which Kitty had written, "CM, it's Kitty. I beg you to come back down to Earth!" And to which I'd replied, "Houston, we're in deep crap... the space toilets exploded!" beside which I drew one of my colourful drawings displaying a spaceship colliding with Earth, accompanied by a screaming onomatopea, which I ultimately decided to keep.

I also found more back-up CDs, pencils, a nail file, an elastic, a bobby pin, two 10$ Cineplex gift cards (w00t!), and the Apology of Socrates and Criton by Plato. I hurried to put that one out of sight, because all I managed to think about was a shameless voiceover, and that is never good.

I'd forgotten, though, that on my desk, I often gather a couple of things that happen to be of crucial importance.

Like hand-written pages for the stories I write.

And not just any written pages, but the first pages. I am of course talking about the first pages of what later become Only in Hyrule, and I thought, this is too good to pass up, so scanned the very first page, and here it is.

(You can view it full-size by clicking on it.)

This is the first page I ever wrote, which later became chapter two. I wrote it on the plane from France next to my unattractive neighbour, whom I kept wishing would turn into a gorgeous hunk (he never did, by the way).

At first, I didn't think the story would lead anywhere. It was just the way I had of passing time. The flight was, after all, eight hours long.

And then I couldn't get the idea out of my head. I think by now I'm pretty glad it stuck with me.

You might notice some differences between this version and the final version, but essentially, this is the messy way I work. Also, verb tenses don't always correlate from paragraph to paragraph. I do think I fixed this later on, but it stems from the fact that I would look up, have a drink, and so on, so whenever I came back to continue writing, I'd change verb tenses.

I'm not ashamed to say that this is my handwriting. It's a bit quirky, innit? Not exactly the girliest, but then again, if I hadn't been struck by inspiration (it forces me to write at the speed of sound, in case I lose my idea, so basically everything winds up looking awful), maybe I'd have taken the time to write out in bubbly lettering.

If I knew how to write in bubbly lettering, that is.

Maybe you noticed I don't use liquid paper. There are three reasons for that. First off, I didn't have any; then, it takes too much time to correct every single mistake; and finally, I'm a lefty, so whenever I'd try to write over it, my hand'd brush against the wet correction and get smudged with white chemicals. Gross, and very annoying. So I deal with my scribblings instead.

In other news, I've been, whenever I'm not working my butt off for school, writing more stuff. I'm quite inconsistent and I've been jumping from job to job. So I'm partially working on a TP four-years-after sequel, which I am doing merely to get rid of my TP ideas and study the new characters. It should be interesting, and once it's done I'll be free to return to my usual scribbling.

Oops, now I have to stop procrastinating and get to work for real.

At least my desk is clean again.

Love,
CM

Blood (and gore?)

Somewhat-serious warning: The following post is not for the absurdly-faint-hearted. If you're kinda-faint-hearted (like me at the idea of pain), you should be fine. If, for example, the thought of one of your friends (*cough* PB *cough*) planting a knife in his foot and bleeding a liter of blood over the toilet bowl at 1:30 AM does not make you queasy, you should be dandy.

In spite of my fear of acute pain (I'm only human, after all), I gave serious considering to donating blood. There was a collect of blood scheduled for today. I figured, if so many people were doing it ―perhaps the only time where having a needle in one's arm is considered generous and morally grand ;b ― I should give blood too. I just recently turned 18 and hey, it could be a good way to start off my adulthood.

I checked the prerequisites. I have no piercings, so I didn't have to worry about recent ones. I'm healthy and clean of any illnesses of any kind, I have no allergies (except a sharp allergy to stupidity), so basically I represent the ideal candidate.

Also, it's the cool thing to do. I mean, not that sporting a taped tiny wad of desinfected cloth to your arm is attractive (even though people look at you with respect), it just seems like the right thing to do, if you can withstand the thought of a needle in your arm.

I won't lie. Needles kind of creep me out. They represent imminent pain. Not a lot of pain, but I'm sensitive and paranoid (mental illnesses do not, apparently, affect the quality of your blood), so the thought of any pain kind of makes me twitchy. But hey, I'm a woman: our threshold of pain is higher than men's (fact!), and I can endure dull aches better than most.

But acute pain (even just a little of it) is another thing entirely. It makes me nervous, and horribly and embarrassingly talkative. I can't look cool and relaxed about it like the cute president of the students' assembly, who was sitting nearby patiently. I have to joke and make dumb comments about everything and ask questions and generally act out my stress.

I was 93rd in line. Perhaps I should mention that when I began to wait around, they were on number 68.

After me, carrying the number 94, was Marco, a kinda cute guy in my French class (he sucks at anything linguistic, but he's a well of trivial and not-so-trivial information), and a real flirt. I ignore his flirtitude ―it is a word, I said so― because I know he's been frenching (he's good at tongues, not linguistics) at least one other girl, though I do suspect there's been more than one. I don't answer his advances, but it doesn't keep him from trying.

Today, he and I were arguing about which program was best. I'm in Libs, and he's in Nat. Sciences. The chasm seperating us is grossly overrated, but it doesn't keep him from teasing me about the 'hierarchy'. The hierarchy is an alleged order of superiority in the main pre-uni programs of our college. On top are the Natural Sciences students, followed by Human Sciences students (middle ground), and last are Libs (or Vacation Sciences, everyone calls us). Computer students aren't part of the hierarchy, not in the sense of pariahs, but rather in the sense of them not-daring-to-ask-for-a-spot-in-the-whole-thing-to-begin-with.

We Libs fight back the oppression of Nat.Sci. as well as we can, but they take pleasure in belittling our importance.

"Excuse me, but I intend to save lives," Marco argues calmly, smirking.

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, and when you come to write your report, I'll be laughing at your spelling mistakes."

"Libs don't all have your language skills," he counters.

"Oh, please. If we didn't exist, you wouldn't have patterns on your shirt, you wouldn't have a sense of fashion, you wouldn't be sitting in a comfortable chair and you'd have an unkempt mane of long hair. And you'd be irrepressibly bored on weekends. Heck, you might not even have weekends."

He runs his hand through his brushy hair. "I'm sure it wouldn't be that bad."

"Oh no," I assure him. "It would be bad. It would be terrible." I glance past number 95 --cute president of the student council-- and look at number 96 for approval. Number 96 is a shaking old man, whose face was sunburned and rippled. He doesn't look all there, but hey, he's probably more approachable than number 95, at this point. "Don't you think so, sir?"

Number 96 goes, "What? Huh, sure."

Number 95 holds back a laugh. Damn, he's handsome. But he's my senior, and besides, he most likely already has a girlfriend, so it's not like I can entertain any hopes.

Marco rolls his eyes. He smells nice. Not that I will let his flirtitude get to me. "Come on, just because I'm in Sci. doesn't mean I couldn't have invented weekends." He elbows me gently, smiling teasingly, "The French teacher thinks I'm smart."

I scoff. "The French teacher thought I was smart when I used honorifics on him in my first class. Please." I waggle my eyebrows. "Can you back it up with distinguished writing? I think not."

"Can you?" He daringly ventures.

Ah, foolish mortal.

"My average thus far is 100%." He looks suitably impressed. I glance at my watch. "Damn, I'm going to be late for my gym class."

"Is it that bad?" Marco asks. By now, both Number 95 and Number 96 are paying close attention to our antics. It's not like they have anything more entertaining to watch or listen to.

"Of course not," I say. "I'm lazier than a dead snail. But we're supposed to take notes for an upcoming test."

Marco shrugs. "You can go for the class and forget about the donation, though."

"I know," I say. "But I don't want to go to class, and if I don't give blood now, I might never take the chance again."

"Ah," Marco sighs. "Your life is so complicated." I squint at him, because I know he's going to add― "For a Vacation Sciences student."

"Bastard!" I exclaim, and Numbers 95 and 96 punctuate it with a laugh.

"Number 93!"

I turn. Oh my god, it's my turn, oh dear!!! I've waited for two hours!!! I wave goodbye to Marco and the old man, and smile at Number 95, then follow the nurse.

They take my blood pressure, my amount of hemoglobin, and ask me plenty of personal questions ("Have you been to/lived in/had sex with someone who came from Gabon since 1977?"), followed by unusually dumb answers ("Um, no... I wasn't born in 1977... Wait..."). Anyway, ultimately, it is decided I am indeed a healthy and desirable donor.

They sit me in the Funny Chair (I call it this because it's shaped like a V that got hammered on the head a couple of times), and the nurse desinfects my arm. She looks bored. I try to make conversation, to hide how nervous I am. Marco is later called and sent to the other side of the room, but Number 95 is seated nearby. He looks collected and mature, while I'm a twitchy wreck.

I should mention that being twitchy is not a good idea.

Here comes the gore, all dressed in blood (okay, not really).

"Close your fist over this," the nurse instructs me. I obey her. I figure, 'Okay, CM, you're feelin' good. You're farin' well. You haven't fainted yet, and they pricked your finger for the test earlier. Now that wasn't so bad, was it?' But when the nurse says, "Look over there," and points away from my desinfected arm, I get suddenly apprehensive, and the only thing that runs through my head is, 'I don't wanna hurt, I don't wanna hurt!'

The nurse isn't stupid. She goes, "Would you like to have someone to talk to and who will hold your hand?"

My pride, in light of Number 95's presence, commands me to say no. My terror takes over and has me saying, "Um, please?"

Another nurse, with a motherly face and nice crinkled eyes comes up. She stands beside me and takes my free hand in her own gloved one. Before she can even introduce herself, I'm on a roll.

"Hi," I say. "I'm CM. I'm a student here. I study Liberal Arts. People say it's crap, but I like it. I've never donated blood before. This is my first time. I was wondering if I'd freak out, but apparently not, since, you see, I'm here, and I'm not scared. I mean, not that much, you know?" She doesn't get any time to answer. I continue, "My favourite class is French, but I was thinking of going for a job as a scenarist, or a publicist, or a relationist."

"I'm going to put the needle in, now," the other nurse says. "Stop shaking."

"I'm not shaking," I dumbly argue, and at the last moment I remember not to look back at her. I stare at nothing in particular and hold the second nurse's hand tighter, and I continue, even faster than before, "I mean, this is my first year, I still have time to choose a university program and all that but―"

My voice cuts off. The needle just entered my arm. I feel it stab through my whole arm, and I tense. "I... uh..." I try to continue my phrase, but I can keep track, because the only thing I'm thinking about is, 'Oh god, oh god, oh god that hurts, that hurts, that hurts, she said it'd stop hurting once she started drawing the blood, oh god oh god, is it supposed to take this long? That hurts.' "Uh..." She's nudging the needle tip in every direction, it seems.

The pain recedes, and I know the nurse took the needle out of my arm. I glance at her as she applies a wad of clean bandage to my arm.

She says, "The vein vanished." I blink at her.

"Um, so... what does that mean?"

"I couldn't find the vein. It slipped away and I couldn't draw any flow."

I blink, and her final tone kind of makes me feel dumbfounded. "So..."

"So goodbye. Hold this," she indicates the bandage, "to stop the bleeding. You missed your chance for now. I'm sorry. Try again some other time."

TRY AGAIN SOME OTHER TIME?

I should mention I missed my gym theory class AND my one hour break while I waited in line to do this. I spent most of my afternoon waiting for this! I was nervous, but I was willing!!!

"But―"

"I can't try your other arm, because you have a small lesion near the vein. It's against the rules to draw blood from there. Sorry."

Before I can even argue more, the second nurse takes me away to a resting bed to let me slow the blood flowing from the puncture. All the while, I'm like, "But I waited all afternoon for THIS?"

Apparently so.

I'm not giving up, though. I intend to give blood at least once in my life, though I can't try again until April 19th.

Oh, and by the way, the needle, in retrospective, didn't hurt all that much. I was overreacting, as I always do when needles are involved. But trust me, if it had settled into my vein, I wouldn't have felt it much anymore.

Give blood, seriously. It makes you cool. And it makes you happy.

And it makes Number 95 look at you in sympathy as he lets his own blood be drawn.

DAMMIT!

Love,

CM

Oh mah gah.

Just a little heads up to tell you that, indeed, I have not yet been abducted by aliens, in spite of ANY evidence to the contrary.

Unless that evidence is a photograph of me being abducted by those aliens. But then I'd argue, what kind of nutcase aliens would actually WANT to explore the Frosty Lands of Cold Frigidity that most people so poetically call Québec in order to abduct a girl who spends most of her spare time typing away at a computer, like the nerd she is? If they were anywhere smart, they'd instead choose to abduct a Mexican, or a Filipino, whose chances of dying of hypothermia are next to nil and whose chances of being out enjoying the sun are definitely higher.

I would enjoy the sun. I really would. If that didn't involve having to wrap myself in a sweatshirt, fur-lined coat, scarf, tuque, and thick gloves. And let's not mention the boots. I usually wind up looking twice my size, and considering that I am not petite (or delicate, though I do still look feminine, thankyouverymuch), that isn't an improvement. I'm sure it might scare thugs off, though.

If we had thugs in this area, I mean. And even then, I befriended enough people that if some tough guy tried to scare me, he'd wind up with a few powerful fists sinking in his eye sockets. Which is always good to know.

Anyway. What have I been doing of late, you might ask?

Work. By god, I've been working my butt off, and not even in the remunerating way. Nope. I'm talking about that horrendous school type of work, the kind you have to do for points, but not for immediate gratification. Now that sucks.

I've also been writing, of course. Not a lot, considering the above, but still.

It never ceases to amaze me how ideas come about. Some of them, you have to force yourself to find. That's unpleasant, but sometimes it's necessary to get the job done. Some other ideas come all on their own and grow into something spectacular --or not. Either way, my recent love antics having proven to be a failure, I've had more time to worry about the important things in life. Like writing.

But before the writing, as I said, are the ideas.

As such, I'd just like to get a little point across, here, and hopefully extend a loving hand to that essential part of the creative process:

... DAMN YOU, IDEAS! STOP EVADING MY ATTACKS! This isn't a Pokémon game, for Pete's sake!!!

Now that I've expressed that in a loving way, I'll go back to capturing those rare and annoying Ideas. Hopefully, Professor Oak will have found a suitable Pokéball for them.

... I'm regressing.

Love,
CM

Pataclow.

That title, by the way, is a Quebecer onomatopea for nothing in particular, mostly the sound of something loud and sudden.

As I sit here typing, my brother is blearily shutting his computer off. He's sick as hell and had to stay home sick today, which doesn't change much to my life except I thought, "Hopefully he won't be passing that on to me." Heartless, yes, I know, shame, much shame on me.

I've been faring quite nicely since last Friday, in case you were wondering. There are no hard feelings between Josie and I (I managed to forgive her when I found out her flavour of the month had a girlfriend), and things between Slim and I remain unchanged.

Well, as unchanged as they can be, considering that I don't have a crush on him anymore.

The world, as a result, is somewhat happier. I feel light and free (to flirt with guys who actually look back at me―oops). My friends are my best friends, the sun shines bright, and my skin has never been this soft (thanks to a lovely moisturizing cream, which is an essential part of a woman's handbag if she wants to get through the Quebecer dry winter days).

Maybe I'm deluding myself. Maybe I'm suddenly going to find out I'm actually manic-depressive and if Slim doesn't start loving me I'll commit suicide.

But, you know, I highly doubt it.

Tomorrow is Valentines Day. I figured I might as well get that out of the way. As you might have expected, I won't be doing anything of any remote relevance for that (neither are any of my friends, as a matter of fact, not even Kitty and Alex, who are legitimately dating, not even Josie, not even PB, not even Slim).

Still, there's the whole 'Who's your valentine?' debate in college. Our lovely school decided it'd be a great way to make us happy during the dreary months of winter, so they organised a kitsch mailing system, for you to write free cards and have them sent to your sweetheart(s).

Except, you know, it's so kitsch.

Still, my friend Eva, who is such a romantic, along with Josie, decided to send Kitty and I Valentine cards, to express their friendship.

I was sitting across from Kitty in the cafeteria, with Alex and PB sitting nearby, discussing nothing in particular, mostly the good ole days, when Rick came in and said, "Hey, CM. I think you got mail." He raised his brows. "As in, mail."

I blinked at him stupidly. I'm kind of forgetful in the domain of holidays (or self-proclaimed ones), so I'd kind of forgotten about Valentines Day for a moment there. I blinked again. "What?"

Rick said, eloquently, "There's a list of people who need to go fetch their mail at the desk. Your name is on it. Duh."

I blinked again. "I have mail?" Because, seriously, I hadn't sent anything to anyone and didn't expect anyone to send me anything.

Rick said, bringing a hand to cup his mouth conspiratorially, "I think it might be..." He glanced around comically, "Bass."

I grimaced. "Oh. Say it ain't so."

Rick (now that I think about it, where did he hear about Bass in the first place???) said, "Well, it could be. Who knows?"

"But he moved on!" I exclaim. "Right?" Except in that moment I wasn't sure anymore, and I didn't want to look like a sissy, picking up silly valentine cards at the desk in the main hall. I turned to Kitty. "Come with me, please."

Kitty sighed and stood. To her boyfriend, Rick and PB, she said, "Excuse us, boys."

I think words do not describe my relief to find out that Kitty and I both got cards only from Josie and Eva, and not from Bass, as Rick assumed. We both read them, with their friendly sappy messages, and then I glanced up at Kitty and said, "That's nice of them."

Kitty nodded, finishing her own cards off. Then, she looked up.

There was a silence.

Then, Kitty asked, "You didn't send anything to them either, did you?"

I couldn't help an anguished smile. "No. You?"

"Hell no."

We turned on our heel, right back to the desk and ordered free cards to reply and make sure we weren't being complete ice cubes. That's the problem with Kitty and I. We don't care for silly cards, but the girls always guilt us into sending some. Doh.

As retaliation, though, we got the boys to leave extra notes in the margins of our cards, so you can imagine the silly comments (Alex: "Happy Valentines, you fat Kwebeker sow," PB: "PB is a sex-beast," and Rick: "Stiff camel to all, and to all an ankylosis!" ), which added a certain je-ne-sais-quoi to my own Valentines poem (translated as close as possible to the original):

Sitting across from Kitty,

Staring at Rick's cell phone,

PB feels silly,

And Alex is in the zone.

People in the cafeteria

Are so loud.

Join my hysteria,

We're a crowd!

Friends forever,

But if you ever

Send me more cards,

Frichen you with regards.

This is at my most sarcastic, and hopefully Eva won't get mad at me. Kitty's message was somewhat more tame (if still a little abstract), discussing the pertinence of drinking lemonade in the late afternoon.

We then posted the cards, and got to drawing Smurf mushrooms and flowers on Mitch, Rick and PB's arms with blue pens, so that they could not enter a classroom without being stared at. This was our vengeance for their constant joking.

But that's all there is to Valentines Day on this side of the planet. I decided, rather than bitch against this western commercial holiday, to be nice and simply post about our favourite subject to all: Romance. Why, yes. You read that right. I, CM, will now give my view on romance, because of course that's all that matters.

Hah. Like I'm in a state to discuss romance, you'll say. You just got your heart broken last week, you dope. You'll be pessimistic.

Do I sound pessimistic? Of course not! Heck, I haven't felt this good in months. I finally feel like I'm back in power! That crying fit got me back on track and I'm healthy again! I'm listening to songs that I sped up so that they sound like they're sung by hamsters! I'd have to be the weirdest depression case in the world if I listened to hamster voices while deeply saddened.

(By the way, Red Red Wine, by Bob Marley, when sped up, rocks my socks. Yes, it's so passé, and so totally reggae, but come on. It's awesome. It makes me happy. You can't see it, but I'm dancing in my seat.)

(EDIT: In researching the story of Red Red Wine on Wikipedia, I realised that Bob Marley never actually interpreted the song. It was Neil Diamond, in spite of lyrics and P2P sites' claim to the contrary. So, correction. It wasn't Bob Marley, but Neil Diamond.)

So. Romance. Or, more precisely, romance in the context of LoZ (like you didn't see that coming).

I won't pretend that I converted over to some other sect. You might have guessed by now that I'm a fervent Zelinker. I'm not the most aggressive fan, I'll admit, in spite of my stubborn use of the pairing. I'm not the kind who bites Malinker heads off, or who burns effigies of Marin on a beach. I don't shoot darts at Saria's picture. I don't eat fish while thinking of chopping up Ruto. I don't glare at muscular women thinking that Impa is undeserving. I don't hate tanned women because they remind me of Nabooru.

I must say that I'm a believer of friendship. Just because Zelda gets the dude doesn't mean the others become her obvious ditzy enemies. I think I've tried to portray this quite evidently throughout my works.

On V-Day, I think it's crucial to underline a rather lovely fact: the Malink vs. Zelink wars seem to have come to a general peace accord, and no longer seem active. People, as far as I've seen, have cut each other some slack. The wars that all but raged a few years back (around 1999-2000) have actually calmed down to become a "paint your side of the fence any colour you want, but let me paint my side in my own colour."

Which, you know, rocks, because we all know how long conflicts can last online.

All was dandy, and then came TP. Because things just couldn't be simple, could they?

(TP SPOILER WARNING AHEAD, and I'm warning you just in case.)

So now, my Zelinkage (sure, it's a word, yeah) has been deeply shaken. I mean, let's face the facts: Link meets with Zelda total of three times in the whole game. Two out of the three times, he's in Wolf form, and to screw up the odds, our lovely princess is stacked against two more femme fatales to add to Link's impressive harem: Ilia and Midna.

Am I implying that Midna or Ilia might be more plausible as love interests for Link in TP? I don't know. I'm still a Zelinker, but you got to admit that hints point at something entirely different this time around. Does that mean that for the overall series, Zelda is no longer Link's interest? Hell no.

But can we deny that Ilia and Link sort of had that special japanese "childhood friends" thing going on? Can we deny that Midna and Link spent a hell of a lot of time together over the game, often sharing some rather touching and friendly moments?

BUT CM, you'll hurry to shriek, Ilia didn't remember him half of the time, and Midna was an imp!

Yes. And Link worries (as far as we can deduce) for Ilia, depressed that she doesn't remember him, and they "share a private moment" once he does restore her memory. On the other side of the spectrum, did you see Link's silly (and slightly iffy) smile when he sees Midna in her true form? Excuuuse me (I couldn't resist, I'm sorry), but that's not a smile that says, 'Wow, Midna, I'm happy you can go back to your kingdom now and that all these ordeals are finally over'.

Let's not even get into the whole, "Link... I..." Midna debacle. I can picture the translators sitting back at their desks, over at NoA and saying, "Hey, guys, these are the last few lines of dialogue in the game. How do you think we should translate this?" I can imagine them innocently exchanging smirks, saying, "Oh, think we can mess with their heads just a little more?" "Oh, alright. Let's hint at something else, Bill."

That's probably how the line was born. Because I imagine them snickering, going, "ohohohoho, yesh, yesh, thish will be vunderful," and drinking a martini.

So what now? Midna and Ilia are messing up the natural order of things, and they're making me doubt my own ship. Okay, not really. But they're giving us a lot of room for interpretation. I personally find it kind of upsetting that, for the game that was most characterized, where we expected them to finally make the Zelink pairing official (I know you're with me on this one), they instead chose to avert the issue completely and make it even more complex by not adding just one new lady, but two.

My conclusion is that Nintendo likes to mess with our heads. If you've been following the whole Timeline theory war, you'll know where else Nintendo likes to mess with us. Seriously.

How will this newfound Love Quartet (Link-Zelda-Midna-Ilia) affect my fanfiction, you might wonder, considering that I don't deny Midna and Ilia's legitimity?

Well, I won't burn them. I love them as Zelda characters, but they're not automatically going to end up with Link. In my stories, I mean. I personally find Midna a more interesting character to include in fanfiction (and I might already be writing her in--but that's a secret for now) but I won't discard Ilia either.

Being that TP is still so recent in the fanfiction overworld, I'm curious to see (after it's done spawning all the prequels and sequels that are seemingly mandatory to the fanworld) how the new elements integrate. Maybe it'll inspire me.

Or maybe I'll just keep doing my thing and write more AUs with the yummy broader palette of characters...? ;) I find I kind of like that idea. What do you think?

Much love to all (singles and couples alike),

CM

Crying...

...sucks.

Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. Crying your eyes out and feeling your nose clog up (inelegantly, might I add) so that when you're trying to sob, all that comes out is a sickly sort of hiccup that hurts right into your ears, not to mention there's a particular area above the bridge of your nose right up to the very top of your head that begins to throb and numbly hurt. Your eyes are poofy, your nose is running with slimy water like the bloody Niagara, and your voice comes out wobbly and hysterical... That sort of crying.

One might argue that crying like this is completely gross. And on that, I completely agree.

I hate crying. Maybe it's because I have this deeply ingrained hatred against those stupid Hollywood movies where a gorgeous actress can cry and just have a dainty tear slide down her cheek, like somebody Botox-ed her right up and the only expression she can summon is a faint, somewhat tortured tear. Maybe I'm just a nutcase.

Seriously, though. I'm not a crybaby. Most people would probably claim I'm insensitive (hey, just because I wouldn't help an old lady to cross the road doesn't mean I'm insensitive ― it just means she didn't ask to be helped), and heck, I wouldn't argue with them. Most people assume I'm always cheerful, always blunt, and some people might also think I'm emotionally retarded. But I don't hang out with those unkind people.

Fact is, I'm not overt about my emotions. I don't really like to be. Because it leads to crying. And I hate crying. Because it hurts my head and irritates my nostrils (Royale Ultra paper tissues aren't exactly soft on that sensitive skin after wiping away the runny nose for the eleventh time).

So how do I feel now (except emotionally drained, bloody tired, and completely bonkers ―as usual)?

Well, I'll tell you.

I'm pissed. I'm sad. And I'm acceptant. I'm the three final stages of grief at once.

I kind of skipped right through denial, which is the first stage of grief. I've been in denial for weeks, it seems, so adding more of that drama and idiocy seems kind of pointless at this time.

Slim and I will never be together.

There, I've said it. Does that make happy? Hell no.

I'm downright pissed at Josie, because after she figured it out (she used extorsion on me, I swear; she verbally cornered me, using logic and my inability to lie about my feelings to checklist every guy I ever knew and finally figure I love Slim), she still had the cruel heart to say, "Sorry, but there's no way it's going to work."

Um, hello, Josie? Aren't you supposed to be my friend? Aren't you supposed to be sympathetic? I didn't tell PB back in the days when you were in love with him. I sympathized with you. Why aren't you giving that back? Little memory loss, here?

Thing is, I've been in denial. Of course, I suspected things with Slim would not work out. Josie (I love her, I really do, she's a great friend, really, in spite of who she is) seems to be working at getting him for herself, getting him to give her greeting kisses on the cheek and all that hoopla.

Excuse me, but ouch?

That said, I didn't cry then. I was kind of in shock. You can't blame me. I mean, I knew she'd probably end my dreams the moment she knew (I didn't want to talk about it because of this). I was afraid. But I didn't expect her to downright scoff and just say, "Sorry, but there's no way it's going to work."

So. I skipped ahead of denial and got straight to anger. I mean, I don't believe in shooting the messenger, but Josie really could use a few lessons in diplomacy, and this is coming from the Queen of Blunt herself.

I actually managed to keep a straight face and joke. I managed this façade for three hours. Kitty gave me a lift home, and when I shut the door behind me, after waving at Kitty and Josie with a smile, I leaned against the door and felt the house's obscurity weigh down on me.

I cope with solitude better than most, but I fear it now. Solitude means I'm left alone to be mortified and examine every single one of my flaws, every single mistake I ever made, and wonder if somehow that's what made things fail.

After anger, therefore, came this deep depression and intense sadness, like I hadn't felt in years. It seemed so unfair, so cruel. It was like a hand had clamped right over my insides and dug its sharp nails into them. I started blaming myself for not being perfect ―I should have been, isn't that what he would have noticed?― and wondering why I had to be born with such-and-such attribute or have this-or-that flaw.

I hate self-scrutiny too, did I mention that? It's like every time, I come out utterly miserable.

Rather than refuge myself in my room immediately, I joined my parents in the living room, where they were listening to Comedy Fridays on CBC. My mother called, "So how was your day?"

I just said, "It was fine." I hadn't cried. I didn't look affected. I mostly looked blank.

"And...?"

"And it was fine," I say. "What are you watching?"

"Royal Canadian Air Farce. Come, sit."

I sit next to my mother. My father hasn't said a word yet. My mother sees how my pace has slowed. I'm usually upbeat and cheerful, after all.

"Is everything alright?"

I nod, unable to take my eyes away from the screen, where muted ads are playing. "Yeah."

"CM."

I look at my mother. My father too is looking my way inquisitively. I'm close to my mother, but there's nothing I have to hide from my dad either.

I say, "I'm depressed because Slim and I... it won't work out."

My mother looks surprised. "What? But―"

"Look, I just know, alright?" I don't mention Josie. Somehow, I know my mother would find a way to blame her in an attempt to make me feel better, and that wouldn't be the point of the whole thing. "I've known for a while now."

I break off, mostly because I feel tears welling up. I hate crying.

Rather than press the matter, my mother and father turn to look back at the comedy show. We laugh a little, but in the silence of muted commercials, between the smiles, I feel something weighing on me. I really want to talk to my parents. I really do. I know they'll make things better, that they'll be sympathetic, that they'll maybe advise me, that they'll let me cry and not laugh at my antics. I've never really had secrets from them, and this mostly by choice. They never forced me to talk to them, but in all honesty, I'm not dumb enough to discard their experiences and wisdom just because they're my parents and teens aren't supposed to talk to their parents. I willingly had them become my confidantes, my reality-check...

I stand and leave. I need to gather my thoughts. I need to know why this hurts so much. Is it losing Slim, or losing the idea of Slim that hurts more? Will I miss loving him, or will I miss being in love? Am I angry at Josie for what she said, or am I angry that she's right? Until I know, I can't make a judgement or allow myself to cry.

The answers to those questions are irrelevant. In the end, what matters is that something in me has shifted. And I don't like change that comes with sadness.

Maybe that's why, when my mother came downstairs to listen to me, I started crying, sobbing, and basically going hysterical. It all poured out, like the water from my nose, non-stop and difficult to mop up.

Mom listened to me like she always does, wordlessly, expressionlessly, never interrupting, never adding her comments, until finally I paused long enough, heaving, now tormented by a skull-splitting headache. She reached for a kleenex box and placed it on my desk, still quiet. And I was going on again, shouting about how stupid and naive I was, about how hopeful I had been and how much it all hurt now.

I know Dad was there too. He stayed behind, also listening, in the same respectful way as Mom. He made no comment during my whole rant, even when I stopped wailing and Mom took over, he didn't say a word. Still, I was grateful that he was there, just because I knew he was concerned too, and that seemed all-important then, after Josie's harsh truths.

Mom said, not reaching out to hug me, just letting me mop up my tears and make a pile of used tissues on my desk, "I wish I could make it better, but I can't change your heart."

I nod. "I know."

"It hurts, I know. I could say that we've all been there before, but you've heard it all too often lately, haven't you?"

I nod again. She sighs.

"This is going to sound really corny, but as Julie Andrews from the Sound of Music said, 'When the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window'. It's a life philosophy." She rubs my back. "If things don't turn out well with him, then give yourself a chance. You might find someone else now."

I blow my nose loudly.

"Give hope to new people. If Josie hurt you, then let time pass. You're tired, too. You're depressed by the weather. It's normal to be sad. Neither Slim nor Josie wanted to hurt your feelings. They just didn't realise how important it was to you."

"I haven't spoken to Slim today at all." I hardly saw him more than thirty seconds.

"No, but the boy is blind anyway." How true. If music were a woman, he'd already be married. How can anyone compete with that kind of passion?

"I feel so stupid."

"But you know you're not." She has a point. I'm not stupid. I just feel that way. "CM, if things didn't work out with Slim, then keep your eyes peeled. There's something better for you in store." She smiles gently. "You're 18. Life hasn't even started yet."

I smile a little too. "Right."

I hate crying. But at least afterwards, I feel better, cleansed, free.

"Now come on, I'll get you some Tylenol. You should sleep. La nuit porte conseil."

Night brings council. That's true.

I bet it gets rid of killer headaches too.

Love,

CM

Shame!

I've come to realise over the passing months that my personal life has taken up more and more blogging space up here on Twitchy Notes, to the point of nearly eliminating all writing news. This wasn't my original intent at all. My mission statement in creating TN was to be able to give regular writing updates and post rants on every fan-related subject I deemed mentionable.

Over the past months, it seems my personal life became as much of a drama (to me, at least) as the stories I write, so I considered that they were worthy of being posted, considering they're probably as insane as whatever I might summon with my mere imagination.

But with winter came a little bit of depression. Things aren't moving as I wished they were, my friends are getting divided by their schedules and maturation (or lack thereof). The only thing that keeps us all together are our old habits, our past friendships and the promise of parties that won't happen. Frankly, it's all rather depressing.

Until I become certain that either things will return to how they once were (sadly doubtful) or take a turn for the better after the stumble (hopefully), I will keep to myself on the matter.

As such, I intend to post less about my life and more about my true love: writing. ;)

That said, I must admit that after the amazing success of Only in Hyrule, I'm uncertain. I don't know how I could possibly expect to surpass OiH, so I vowed not to worry about it.

The thing is, I'm at that phase between stories that I call the "What Now Phase", where I sit back and contemplate. I hate this phase because it doesn't involve actual writing. It involves manic self-inflicted mental torture to answer this ultimate question: "What now?" As in, "What do I write about now? What characters should I focus on? Where should they be set? Do I write an original fiction for once? Should I stick to AUs? Should I practice with oneshots or write a multi-chap?"

What now?

This phase also involves a lot of trial and error. It involves writing stuff that I know will never reach an end. It involves a lot of scrapping, a lot of revision, and mostly, it involves getting entangled in more mental threads than one is typically able to handle at once. It involves writing excellent story beginnings and struggling to figure out where they're going. Trying questions along the lines of, "Okay, this is good, but where is this headed?" are not rare. They're only too common.

More often than not, it's where all my energy is wasted. It's tiring and frustrating.

Example:

“I heard you were getting engaged.”

His voice was soft but it carried well in the still, thick air of her study. The moment his words reached her ear, she had trouble breathing, and already dust started gathering on the page she was holding.

The light that hit her obliquely from the small window wasn’t warm, and it hardly brightened up the dark, dusty room. When he’d opened the door, a bright sliver of light had illuminated the floor.

She didn’t turn to look at him, but she could guess his thin, muscular frame in the doorway, and the muffled padding of his boots on the creaking wood floor as he took careful steps in her direction.

His voice seemed hoarse, uncertain. “Rumours are spreading fast. I heard…” He didn’t finish his sentence, but she could guess what he wanted to say.

There was a pregnant pause and she dreaded breaking it, but inevitability and his new silence gave her no choice.

NOW WHAT?

It's frustrating, isn't it?

How about this one:

“Can’t believe this.”

Link said nothing, leaning against the car, staring into the void. Zelda was, in a fit of rage, ripping up the map. Sheik, of course, was shaking his head in acceptance, shoulders high, lips pressed firmly together after uttering that single sentence. Malon was still seated in the back, a sigh on her lips and eyes drooping in exhaustion.

“I can’t fucking believe this.”

“Did he give us the wrong directions?” Zelda hysterically asked, looking murderous. “Did. He. Give. Us. The. Wrong. Fucking. Directions??”

“In light of our situation,” Link mumbled, “I’d have to say… yes.”

“I can’t believe he gave us the wrong fucking directions!!”

“Well,” Sheik said, his air still looking like he was accepting the evidence, “I’m getting around to it…”

“BASTARD!”

Malon, in the car, jumped a mile high. Sheik turned to Zelda with a hurt look. “But… Zelda…”

“Not you,” Zelda sighed, looking up and down the road. “I was talking about that jerk.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Sheik breathed. He turned to Link, who had walked a ways down the road to look around.

“Yo, Link,” he called, “what’re you doing?”

“Looking for a gas station, dare I hope?” Zelda mumbled, glancing down at the gasoline meter, which read a near empty tank. “We’re pretty much out.”

“And in the middle of nowhere.”

“With a faulty map.”

“Without food.”

“And no sleeping arrangements,” Malon observed, looking up at the darkening sky.

Sheik huffed. “Figures.”

Link, who had, until then, been relatively quiet, turned back to them. “I think we’re lost guys,” he commented wryly. “So before we think of a solution, let’s make an inventory of what we have.”

“A dried-up car,” Zelda mumbled. “A ripped up map, empty soda cans, leftover chips and some apples and water. And,” she glanced at their surroundings, “a lot of wood.”

In the fading light, the forest on either side of the road was growing dark and ominous. Link nearly shuddered as wind rustled through the thousand leaves and whispered to him loudly. He stepped back towards the group. “I think we ought to not panic,” he said. “Maybe we should just push the car on the side of the road and keep cool. We should… I dunno, wait for people to pass us by and ask for help.”

Zelda looked up and down the deserted road with a shiver. “Maybe we shouldn’t count on people too much.”

Sheik smirked. He stretched his arms high above his head, leaning against the car and shoving his hands in his pockets with a smile. “People, this is going to be the time of our lives.”

“I really hope you’re sarcastic,” Zelda sighed. “You can’t possibly enjoy the situation. We’re going to starve if no one stops for us.”

“Think of it this way: we won’t die. Nothing here can possibly kill us. One day,” Sheik declared with supreme confidence, “when we’ll have found steady and boring jobs, with a couple of kids each to rub sunscreen on in the middle of the afternoon and little suburb homes with eight-year old cars and cable TV and a barbecue, we’ll all look back on this and laugh.”

“And wonder why we were so dumb.”

“I can’t believe he gave us the wrong fucking directions,” Zelda repeated. “I can’t believe it. What the hell did we do to him?”

“Maybe if you and Link hadn’t antagonized him,” Malon smiled, “we wouldn’t be stranded.”

At that, both Link and Zelda flushed deep red. “We didn’t antagonize him!”

Sheik sighed, running a hand through his long hair. “The guy was hitting on you, Zeldie. Face it. If you hadn’t shoved him off and taken the time to figure who he was—”

“Look, since when do gas station owners hit on their customers?” Zelda exclaimed defensively. “I hate greasy guys. Besides, I didn’t ask anything from him.”

“No, but he saw you talking to Link and figured he was your boyfriend—”

“Did not.”

“Did too,” Sheik snapped. “Face it, guys, the man thought he could get on vengeance on both his victim, her boyfriend and their friends! Give him any reason not to fuck with our directions. It was too easy. Link didn’t realize he was being told lies, took down this random route—and here we are!”

“In the middle of nowhere,” Link sighed.

“We’re screwed,” Malon whimpered.

“No, we’re not. We just have to—” Sheik was interrupted by a loud, distant howl. He shuddered.

“Was that a wolf?” Malon’s voice was squeaky.

“No.” Sheik shook his head stubbornly. “No, it wasn’t.”

Get my drift? What now??

On the upside, I have managed to advance a few more stories. Two, to be more precise. A oneshot and a multi-chaptered story. The oneshot is closer to the original OoT world than anything, with a mention here and there of TP characters, but not enough to warrant a spoiler warning or whatever. It's coming along slowly, very slowly, but at least I know, generally, where I want it to go. The execution of it is frankly elusive, but at least I have an idea of where it's supposed to be headed.

The multi-chaptered story, on its part, will be shorter than OiH, for various reasons. Mainly, I don't have a plot-related reason to make it longer than ten chapters (at most), and also, I don't want a commitment as big as OiH for a while. The setting is still a secret, but it's AU. Characters from TP will also play roles in the story, so I'll probably wait a while for a majority of people to have played it. This story involves research (geeky, but it's one of my favourite parts) on the setting I chose, and it allows me to look for fun expressions and language turns, so it should be an interesting noir style. Whoops, so many clues! I'll shut up now!

The thing is, with my brain the way it is ―half-frozen by winter (augh!) and completely confused by its own thought patterns― it's unlikely either story will be ready before a long, long time.

I don't feel bad for this. There are other rising authors in the LoZ fanfiction section that are worth a look and a read, so it's not like the whole section depends on my stories or anything. I would rather take my time and write something worthwhile than post half-assed chapters just to keep popularity alive.

Speaking of which, thank you once again, everyone, for a whooping 721 reviews in OiH! Keep the joy coming, it makes me giddy like a moron everytime! Maybe one day I'll post a picture on me going "eeeheeeheeee!" as I read my automated review alerts, while shaking my fists in joy and going cross-eyed with glee.

Or maybe not, now that I think about it.

Anyway, thanks-a-plenty! If I got a penny for every gleeful giggle you provide me with, I'd be rich enough to buy my own jet...

"Giggle!"

PLINK!

"... Mom, look! Another penny fell out of my nose!"

Well now, I'll stop this post, because if there's a single rule to follow in writing, as the wise old Writing Ninja once said, it's that 'When one begins writing onomatopea and one-liner scripts, one must cease writing altogether until one's mind is back to its usual rested state.'

And you don't disobey the Writing Ninja unless you want a pencil planted in your eye socket.

Also, I want to head upstairs and immerse myself in a very loud playthrough of the Return of the King, because I just don't know every line of the battle for Pelenor fields by heart yet, and that's a travesty, as I'm sure you'll attest.

"What, CM? You won't be writing?"

Nope. I shall listen to the Writing Ninja.

;p

Love,

CM