I began writing "Place Of Safety" at precisely 12:01 am this morning, since you ain't supposed to do no writin' till the 1st and I was feeling antsy. And I posted my first 1700 words even though they probably don't make a whole hell of a lot of sense. I haven't even noted that Brendan is the narrator, yet; he's still planning to do the reveal once he's laid out his family's situation in March 1966. Little sneak. Face like an angel but a devil's mind to him.
God, I hope I can keep in mind all I'm doing is a first draft, so I won't do my usual self-editing...which I've already begun to do and which slows me to a ludicrous pace.
But here's the opening paragraph --
"Those who knew Eamonn Kinsella -- and were being honest with themselves -- had to admit that had he been born but ten miles to the west or north, his murder would have been seen as the fitting end to a hard and brutal man. That he drank too much was not the problem; so did most of the men in his pinpoint of the world for it was often the only comfort offered by their existence. Nor was it that he was quick to temper when one too many pints had wandered into his brain. Sometimes anger was the only emotion men like him were allowed to hold dear. And if his wife was seen at market with an extra layer of makeup over one eye or across one cheek, well...she, herself, was not one to be known for gentleness. Besides, occasionally the only way a man can claim he still is lord and master of something is by proving it to his missus. But when your sons come to school with plaster on their skin or a cast on their limbs, and your daughters wear long blouses to hide the markings on their arms, and when the nearest priest is called to quiet the house twice a week, on average -- well that was beyond the simple need of self-justification."