Is my ADHD taking over?

I told myself repeatedly to get back onto writing MQM but always found something else to do. Emails. Messaging with people. And, at times, just zoning.

I finally reminded myself I had to go to the PO to send a parcel off to my niece, but I was still almost unable to move because I also wanted to get lunch. But where would I go and how much did I want to spend and...and finally just made chili Tostitos, here, because it was too much trouble to decide.

Then I went out and after the PO got a cone at DQ. I also thought I'd get a couple of things at a grocery store. But the second I found they were completely out of something I wanted...I put everything else back and came home. Got into a funk and took a 2 hour nap.

Of course, then I found out I'd left my daily planner in the shopping cart at the grocery story. Now I have to go get it, tomorrow, since the customer service office was about to close.

So I made Fettuccine Alfredo for dinner...and ate it all...as I sat at my laptop...and wound up writing a chapter connecting Simon's release from jail through ReShawn's discussion with his wife to the ending I'd written. Added 1200 words...which got a first draft of the last third of the story done.

Without intending to. It just happened.

I really do wonder if I have Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. It's difficult for me to regulate attention, filter distractions, and control impulses. I can barely stay focused, am very forgetful, struggle with organization, and frequently lose items. I also have trouble finishing tasks. Just no hyperactivity, on my part.

Seriously, there are times when I just stand in the middle of the room and try to figure out what to do, next. And on many occasions I've talked myself out of starting something because it takes too many steps to complete.

So if I do finish this book, I'm close to thinking it will be a miracle. And I have no idea how well it will turn out...or even if it will make sense. I guess the point will be getting it done.

The simple fact that I'm still managing to move forward with it in any way is amazing to me. Just like it was with APoS. So maybe I was born with some mental or emotional glitches and am just now catching on to how deeply ingrained they are. Or something.

Stupid is as stupid does...

I binge-rewatched the Acorn production of Murder Before Evensong, last night. Well...into 4:30am. And like it even more. But I still didn't go to bed till nearly 8am. Only got a few hours sleep. And all day I've been cranky and unable to focus.

It was a stupid thing to do, and very self-indulgent. I didn't even shower, which is really unusual, for me. I hate going to bed not feeling clean.

Not that I'd done anything in the way of sweating. Yesterday was rainy and cool. I just went out for more DPZ and bananas, and had no intention of leaving my apartment today. Which I didn't.

It wasn't a total waste. I had a couple ideas come to me for connecting the state police and AG taking on the investigation of Simon's murder to ReShawn's conversation with Viona to him taking his son to a little league game. I've run over the conversation he has with Arlon and expanded it.

Prior to that, ReShawn will also have a biting back and forth with Elissa on the responsibility for Simon's death. He's found out who revealed where Simon was staying to a podcaster named Frahnkly Frank, so he could try to interview him.

He is angry she and Dillon were trying so hard to convict Simon and suggests she helped create the situation that led to his death. But she shoves the responsibility for it back onto him, pointing out he could have taken Simon home and to the bus depot the next day, but instead put him into a hotel.

"You didn't want him near your son," she says. "So don't get all moralistic with me. Deep down you felt the same about him as I do."

And there is no way to deflect that reality.

Another connection...that may not stay one...

Added 2,300 words, today, having Simon talk with Dillon and Elissa about the case. They are surprised he won't take a deal and have to meet with the judge to arrange a trial date. They really thought they would not need to worry about that.

It then connected with Simon's situation in 8th grade, when two classmates tried to blackmail him over erotic drawings he'd made and sold. They wound up discovering he didn't back down when he feels like he's being fucked over.

I'm just wondering if this is too early for that to come up. I may want to move it to after the first hearing, where he raises enough questions about the case the prosecution gets a continuance. It makes no sense to him, because they keep saying this is just a misdemeanor, but the prosecution also refuses to back away. Which forces him to make a third trip down to Barrington.

Question is, why? Is there any specific reason for Dillon to keep pushing forward? I need something better than just he hates to lose. Or his buddy, Officer Paley, is pushing for it because he's pissed at Simon for not being attracted to him. Or something. I don't know. It just needs to make a sort of sense.

I have a feeling this is going to be a serious stumbling block. Cops and prosecutors hate the idea of being forced to justify their actions in cases that have no actual stakes or meaning. They're lazy and prone to go for the easiest solution, which is just to walk away, most of the time. Look at how casual they are about rape cases...even when it's the assault of a child or a woman who's incapacitated. 

So I have a new aspect of this to worry about. Lovely.

Regrouping MQM...

I went through all the bits I've written and added up the number of words for each, and it's nearly 55,000. I know there's some repetition in them, and other parts that will probably be set aside unless something happens to fit them in...but still, that's a short novel, already.

I'll need to connect most of them with more chapters. Probably about 30K in wordage. I know pretty much what needs to go where and it's going to take some work to make them fit. The fun will be in getting me to do it.

I'm finding myself too easily distracted by nonsense. And not just on social media, though that has turned into a cesspool thanks to the MAGAt Cult. I never knew such a large portion of America is populated with such vile, deliberately stupid creatures.

But it's not just in the US. It's around the world. Monsters cheering on Russia's slaughter of people in Ukraine as if it's just an online game. Others from God knows where using ChatGPT to write fictional stories about people facing down adversity in their families but presenting them as real. Others supposedly telling histories or biographies with information left out to skew it to suit their agendas.

I actually saw a post on FB that gave a brief outline about Itzhak Perlman's story...without once mentioning his name. Another was pure gossip. They show up on my timeline because the algorithm works out I like being told about people and history.

I'm not an historian, but I know enough to tell when I'm being bullshitted. Like the story of Constantinople being sacked by the Christian Crusaders...and leaving out that it was a Christian city. Just the wrong kind of Christian. Instead, it was strongly hinted that it was Muslim.

What did I read somewhere? We used to think stupidity was caused by a lack of information. And now we know that was never the case. 

God help us.

17,500...

Officially. Up to the point where Simon will be heading in to talk with Dillon and Elissa about the case. He hopes his information will cause them to back down, but he's learned they tend to give favoritism to people with connections so he's not under any illusions.

I also worked in another occasion where his stubborn streak kicked in and nearly got him arrested. And that's partially because he was gay-bashed and tried to report it.  Which was similar to something that actually happened to me.

I joined a gym on Fredericksburg Road when I was at Trinity University, wanting to get into shape before I graduated. A powerbuilder who was a regular pulled a stupid stunt against a woman who was there and I called him out for it. I wasn't the only one who yelled at him, but he focused on skinny-assed me.

Came over, all huffy and expecting me to back down as other guys tried to calm the situation. But he had been a dumbass and I refused to take it back, so he sucker-punched me. Knocked me into a barbell and I was out cold. Had a concussion. Was taken to the ER. I later heard he was afraid I knew karate because I wasn't afraid of him.

While there, a cop came in to ask me about it. In uniform. I'd seen him in the gym a couple times. He quietly talked me out of filing a report because the guy was saying I came onto him. And no one was going to contradict him. He pointed out the anti-sodomy laws in Texas...which at that time applied to everyone, not just gay men...and said I could easily wind up in prison.

I stupidly backed down. I managed to get the dumbass to pay the deductible on my insurance, but that was it. No acknowledgement he was wrong. No apology. Nothing but a check through his attorney.

I used a version of it for Everett in APoS, so pumped it up a bit for MQM. Made it nastier, overall, and Simon is not as innocent. But unlike Everett and myself, Simon doesn't back down. Oh, he doesn't file charges; he just gets even in a way that ends the problem.

I almost think that's better.

Gathering info...

Today was research time, making certain I'm setting up the legal aspects of the story correctly. First note to come up? Since this is set in Ohio, the DA is actually referred to as a Prosecutor. There's an office for the city, one for the county, and sometimes a Misdemeanor office in the middle. Sometimes.

Simon's charge is a 4th degree misdemeanor since he has no criminal history, though it could be the cop who arrested him is trying to bump it up as a 1st degree misdemeanor by claiming it happened within a school's safety zone. And never mind it was at night, long after school was out.

Simon had evidence to show his arrest happened outside the school's safety zone, but the law is written in such a way as to offer flexibility in that for the prosecutors. So that's coming up as a point of contention.

Thing is, if he gets the enhancement removed, then he could lose the right to a trial by jury. It's all so fucking complicated. But I sort of work around this by keeping it at his pov so he's just as confused as anyone about the possibilities.

This also gave me a place to bring out some of Dillon's and Elissa's backgrounds. And lay the groundwork for another case where a young man is accused of the same thing that segues into potential CSA charges but is dropped because his daddy is friends with all the top judicial people in not only that town but the state. This will be something for ReShawn to refer to, later.

So...it's moving forward.

On another note, there's lots of flooding in the Hill Country north and west of San Antonio, but so far none of my family or anyone I know has been directly affected. And in a typical Texas-side step...they're starting to crow that Lake Travis is back up to its proper depth.

Woohoo...

A bit of Simon's background...

Simon remembers the first time his stubborn streak kicked in...when he was four. It comes after he finishes the cataloguing and packing and drops the boxes off to UPS. He's also met with an attorney who told him to just take a deal...which he refused.

--------

He drove back to his hotel, emailed Amir and Olivier the tracking information for the shipment...as well as a copy of the XLS list...then sat staring at his laptop. 

His now blank laptop. 

Devoid of any folders except Olivier’s and one titled Ditties. 

He opened the latter one. Up popped more than two dozen Word documents and three more folders noted as being from the last three years. Little poems he's written about men. Most of them quite brutal.

He sat there, looking at the files. Unmoving. His mind drifting. 

Eberhardt was probably correct, when it came to the normal actions and attitudes of most people. Just bad luck. Get it taken care of. Over and done. And then he'd never have to come back to this goddamned town, again.

But Simon was unable to work like that. There was some sort of glitch in his makeup. Or DNA. Or mentality. He didn’t know which. And it was not a consistent thing...not, at least, on the surface.

It was just that sometimes, when he believed someone was trying to take advantage of him and he did not want it to happen, he would turn to stone. His inner self would erect a brick wall and he would not let the perpetrator past it. Could not. Period. No matter what the threat. He would simply say no. And mean it. 

He wasn’t sure how it came about but the first time it definitely showed itself was when he was four and his father had wanted him to eat a bowl of split pea soup. His parents loved that soup. It was from Schilo’s, a deli down by the Riverwalk and considered the best in the state. His grandmother had brought a tub of it in after work, one day, and everyone had gathered around the table to feast on it. Chattering happily.

Everyone but Simon. 

He hated that soup. To him, it looked like vomit. The smell made him ill. So when a small bowl of it was put before him, he had pushed it away and shook his head. 

His father had pushed it right back in front of him, saying, “This is dinner. Eat it.” 

Simon had pushed it away, again. 

That is when his brothers and sisters had begun giggling and mocking him, making both his father and mother angry. 

Norman had sneered, “Simon thinks he’s special.” As if being the oldest and getting away with all sorts of nonsense wasn’t. 

Thomas had added, “Hims wants hims anudder cheese sammitch.” Already snotty at nine years old, he soon proved to be a chore to deal with. Mainly because he would use truth to make his snotty comments. He knew Simon actually had liked Kraft Deluxe Processed Slices of cheese on white bread, so using that line of attack only added to Simon's stubbornness. 

Arrabelle had laughed, “With lots and lots of mustard.” Which she always hated and once swore he only liked the stuff to be mean to her. Looking back, he had to admit she might have been partially right. 

He had simply glared at them...and pushed the bowl of soup even farther away.

His father had plopped the bowl back in front of him, again with a growling, “That’s your dinner. You ain’t leavin’ this table till you finish it.” 

The others had heard the anger in his voice and grown silent. 

His mother had said, “Just try a taste of it, Simon. You may find out you really like it. It has ham...” 

Then Coralynne had pushed a jar of French’s to him in her too-sweet way, saying, “Put this on it. You’ll like it, then.” A year older than him and he already didn’t like to be around her because she treated him like one of her dolls. 

He hadn’t looked at her. Just curled his hands around each other and gazed upon them, unmoving. His brain must have locked down because he could not recall a single thought at that time. All he could remember is that he did not budge. 

His father had sat there. Huffing.

Read the Evening News, then the Light. Huffing and growling, "It's cold, now. Ain't reheatin' it."

No reaction from Simon.

Then had played himself in tic-tac-toe, over and over. Glancing. Huffing. Growling.

Until nearly midnight before he finally gave in. 

“Put him to bed,” he had snapped then got up to get ready, himself. 

So his mother had. 

He didn’t actually remember being hungry, at all. As if he’d entered some state of Zen before he even knew anything about that. Good thing was, they had never tried to make him eat that filth, again. Even on the rare occasions where they dined at Schilo’s. He’d get his cheese sandwich. Put on the yellow mustard, not the brown. Have a root beer and be happy. 

That wall had built itself a few other times, in his life. Usually one brick after another until it was solid. But he hadn’t really understood how intense this stubbornness could be until eighth grade, when he almost wound up being arrested for assault. That brought a smile to his face.

If that didn't make me back down, he thought, nothing will.

And for sixty years that was how it had played out. And was going that way, again. And he could not change his course.

Ending is done...

So this evening I wrote what I am 99% sure will be the ending of The Murder of a Quiet Man. As mentioned, I set it as a conversation between ReShawn and Dillon's father during the last inning of a Little League game. ReShawn's son is third base; Dillon's son is a pitcher. Both are 7 years-old, on opposing teams, and focused solely on the game.

That's when Arlon Walstead, Dillon's father, joins ReShawn on the bleachers and they talk about the boys' form and focus, noting how good sports is in preparing kids for life...

Without ever exchanging names, they know who each other is, and ReShawn understands this forced casualness was deliberate. It comes out, very obliquely at first, like in mere conversation, that Dillon is quitting the DA's office and going to work for his father's law firm.

Arlon thinks Dillon's stubbornness will serve him better in corporate law than in the system of justice. Because as ADA, he had lost sight of the fact that sometimes a case is better withdrawn than being forcibly taken to the end.

The DA is going to run for the state legislature, so he's gone. The judge who oversaw Simon's case is retiring. Nothing will officially be done about the cops who killed him except the case will remain open. And Arlon says that's how things have always been.

The universe will correct itself, a little, Arlon believes...but ReShawn is not so sure. They have reached the point where everything is out in the open, albeit still low-key...and that is when ReShawn says, "You're saying there's nothing left to be done..."

Arlon's reply? "Not true. Take care of yourself and your family. That's the best you can do. And accept that sometimes it takes a dead man to bring about more change than a live one."

"How did we let things get to this point?"

"We didn't. It's how the world has always been."

Then the game is over. They part ways. ReShawn takes his son to get an ice cream cone and they take a cup of it home to mom, with sprinkles...and that's how it ends.

I felt it clear to the center of my very being. Now I just need to write the rest of the story leading up to it.

No energy...no focus...

Just one of those days where I had to fight myself to keep from just standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, and letting my brain shut down. I managed to make myself go to the bank, get some DPZ and dryer sheets, and a refill of a medication before returning home to go blank, again.

This is why I have cut the Democrats out of my life. The stumbling over themselves to wax on and on about the death of a monstrous man. Even Kamala got in on it.

I will never, ever vote for a Republican, but Democrats should not think that means they automatically have support from me. If I don't like a candidate they present, I'll write a name in. They will not get my vote.

This isn't about political purity. It's about facing reality. Aside from a couple of members, Democrats have shot us the middle finger as much as the GOPedophiles have, just not as overtly, and I'm sick of it.

We need another party, and I don't mean The Greens; they aren't serious. The Progressive Party. Made up of people who will put the well-being of Americans above the wealth of billionaires and money from AIPAC.

And we need to cut out anyone who thinks playing games with people's live is just how politics works.

More of ReShawn on the porch

It's chatty but dense with info...

----------

He nodded. “Thanks for letting me know. Want me to make you a plate?” 

She eyed him. Noticed the fingers of his right hand were caressing his phone and grinned. “No, you never put enough sauce on. I’ll make my own.” 

She rose, kissed his forehead, then she looked deep into his eyes. They were wary; hers were worried. “Re...” she began then hesitated and stroked her fingers over his eyebrow. “Are you going to be okay?” 

He grinned and nodded. “We will be.” 

She hesitated then rose and went inside. 

He waited a moment before calling Winslow. 

The man picked up on the second ring. “ReShawn...” 

“Win. You know anyone at the State Bar?” 

The man chuckled. “Is that a serious question?” 

“There’s gossip running around...that Eissa Manville’s in contact with them. My bet is, she’s laying the groundwork for a cover your ass claim of I never really thought we should have prosecuted Simon Halloran. Which would be absolute bullshit.” 

“I thought we had a tight lid on the investigation.” 

“Come on. We’re in the woods. We found a body. It doesn’t take much for the people who put him there to work it out. Add in that I’m involved in the crime scene. My guess is the cops know, too.” 

“So you think she’s part of it?” 

“Maybe.” 

“You don’t think she’s being honest?” 

“Not in the slightest.” 

“All right. Fancy a trip to Columbus, tomorrow? I’m calling a press conference.” 

“I have court. Two pm.” 

“I’ll make it for noon; bring you in on Zoom. There’ll be questions only you can answer.” 

“Okay. I’ll be at the courthouse, ready and waiting.” 

“That’s a nice-looking building. Put your phone on a tripod and use the outside as a background. I’ll have Hester set it up.” 

“Will do.” Then he ended the call and put one through to George Kaplan. 

“Hello, ReShawn. Which case is it?” 

“Halloran,” ReShawn sighed. “Ellison’s holding a press conference, tomorrow noon. I’m patching in via Zoom.” 

“All right...” 

“Also, I’ve heard Manville is already talking to the State Bar, and Bush is in deep discussions with Walstead. And his father.” 

“His father?” 

“That’s the word.” 

Kaplan was quiet for a moment than asked, “Are you getting a continuance for tomorrow’s case?” 

“No, I don’t want to. She’s already been through four.” 

“Still aiming for self-defense?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Let’s see what tomorrow brings.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Between you and me? My bet is, Ellison will have his people hit Bush’s offices and take any and all documents in regards to Halloran’s cases. He’ll want those in hand before he faces the media. After that, Bush will be so preoccupied with how his office is now under suspicion, he may be open to dropping all charges. Not because he thinks your client is innocent, but because it will look good for him in the papers.” 

“That would be nice.” 

“Come into the office, first. We’ll go to the courthouse, together. Moral support. Besides, I helped you find the body so there may be questions for me, as well.” 

“I’ll want to be there and set up by noon.” 

“Sounds good. Tomorrow, then.” 

ReShawn felt a lot lighter now. Having George as backup might help mitigate the expected wave of racism and hate sent his way. At least a little. 

His next call went to Benny the Snack. “Benny, get ready. All hell’s going to tear loose, tomorrow.” 

“Roller coaster, huh?” asked Benny, as cheerful as ever. 

“That body we found in the woods...” 

He heard the joy whisper out of Benny’s voice. “Simon’s...” 

“You already heard the gossip?” 

“Shit, Re, when I add two and two it ain’t twenty-two. That air-tag. It wasn’t broke, was it?” 

“Nope.” 

“It...it fuckin’ led you to him.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Shit. FUCK! I was hopin’...” 

“Me, too.” 

“You know who did it?” 

“Maybe...but no proof.” 

“Talk to Viona ‘bout upping your security. Phones. Online. House. Cars.” 

“She already has.” 

“Yeah, she would. Fuck, Re. He was just a quiet little guy.” 

“Sometimes even that’s too loud.” 

“You need any help on anything, just lemme know.” 

“Thanks. I will. Same to you.” 

“Aw, cut it out. Any motherfucker wants to mess with me, he’s gonna get served a shitburger.” Then Benny ended the call with a soft, whispery, “Fuck.”