And petering out. "Lyons' Den" is too lean and clean a story for me to add anything much to it without it seeming tacked on and lumpy, let alone double it in size. I should have draft one done this weekend and can decide then. Thing is, there's nothing about it, right now, that I'm pleased with.
I've been so off focus, this week. Have to force myself to write, and when I do I barely pay attention. I know it's partly because of the catastrophic election and Obama's wimpy response to it. I've got friends thinking of moving to Canada because just about everyone I know can see the next two years in the US are going to be hell. Problem is, Canada don't want us. Can't say as I blame them; we're a screwed up lot, Americans.
On top of this, Brendan is making himself known, again. "The Banks of Claudy" keeps bouncing around in my head. It's the tune Brendan sings as he's off to warn his brother, Eamonn, of the danger he's walking into...not realizing he's walking into danger, himself. During the walk, he dreams of a girl named Joanna walking with him, in solidarity, even though he's Catholic and she's Protestant and this is Northern Ireland just before the troubles exploded.
I'm finally seeing this sabbatical, of sorts, from "Place of Safety" as something good. Giving me a bit of time and shift in focus to gain a better perspective on the story. I've already decided one bit in the second chapter happens too early and needs to occur after Brendan and his friends have been over to the Protestant side of the River Foyle and had their fun. And I need to take more time during a series of chapters about Brendan being arrested; I'm pushing through it too quickly.
Jesus Christ, I want to move to Ireland and work on this and some other stories in my head that're set there. Why'd I take so damned long in my life to find out what I really wanted to do?