Taking some time off...

I have a lot of thinking to do.

Crash and burn...

I hate the first two chapters of APoS. They're static. Boring. Unlived. No emotional connection to them, just information by rote. Brendan is telling what happened, not being a part of it...and it's crushed me into stasis. I am happy only with the opening and closing sentences of chapter one; all the rest is mere words.

I hit this wall hard, because the basic outline of both chapters has been consistent from my first real first draft...and this is number 4. I should have a better grasp on the story, by now. A better understanding of the characters' dynamics and not this A-B-C form of writing. I'm sick at how I've just realized this.

So nothing has been done, today. Nor will it till after I'm finished helping with Firsts London's dealers. Then I think I have to sit down and rethink the structure and relationships and sink myself completely into the book as best I can before Seattle happens. I'm flying out on the 7th of October and returning on the 10th, so I'm not sure I'll get this done before then. It's like I'm having to reimagine the whole Derry part...maybe my whole style...

Maybe it's too late for me to write Brendan's story. Maybe I've fucked around for too long and can no longer connect with it. Or I'm too locked into a superficial form of writing to deal with the depth and meaning it requires. Maybe I'm kidding myself that I could do this right. I don't know enough about the real world he lived in to make it sing instead of hum in an atonal murmur.

Maybe I'm just a loser...

Brendan tells about himself and the rest...

Now comes myself -- third born and named after the saint rumored to have landed on Greenland, for some reason. My looks I took more from my mother, being small, darkly-fair and wiry even for a lad of ten years. My face was broader than my brother’s, my eyes as wide, and my thick black hair was so massed with curls, it was always a struggle to keep from being tangled, unlike the straight brown mops of the rest of my siblings. Many a neighbor woman told Ma it was certain I took after the older Farrells, though none had been around for decades and Ma's few snaps of them were of poor of quality. She didn't truly accept that comparison; she thought me too odd. 

"It's only toys he cares for, and he tears them apart, like an idiot hound." 

She was having a craic with Mrs. Cahan, on the settee, each with a mug of tea refreshed from a kettle hanging over the hearth, and the woman gently said, "But doesn't he then put them back together? The ones he has are such poor things. I wonder if he's trying to smarten them up?" 

"Nonsense," Ma had snorted. "He barely pays mind to anything but them. I can talk at him an hour and he won't hear a word till I flick his ear. then he looks at me, huffy and irritated. None of the other lads around here are like that, nor will he even try to play with them. It's his toys, only. I think he's just simple...and isn't it perfect to have one like him, now? I can only hope this next one's not the same." 

It took me some years to recall them having this conversation, with me being not four years old and focused on making the wheels fit back onto an old wind-up Castoy so they'd stay. I wasn't having much luck. 

Still, Mrs. Cahan had a good eye for me and my being a rare duck. By the age of ten, I could fix just about anything, from clock to transistor radio to the electric light in the parlor. But all that mattered to Ma was the little money I'd make off repairing other people's things. She was always adamant I give it over. However, by the age of nine and seeing how she was with Eamonn's wages, over and over, I held back at least half and hid it in little spots I'd fix up around the house when she was asleep or out. I felt quite the lively little sneak in doing so. 

That next one was Rhuari, almost three years younger than myself and my shadow in every way he could be. His face and feel were plain and direct, with big eyes flanking a short nose, who could spend hours watching me work my magic on a broken wind-up toy. He had yet to take the form or look of either parent, which led Mrs. Keogh, of Doolin Street by Fanin Court, to be certain he was from what she called a friendship between Ma and a certain butcher. 

I only knew she thought this because I came up with a clock I'd fixed for Mrs. Cormac, her neighbor, who was nodding with pursed lips as they washed their stoops, so neither noticed me, at first. When they did, they acted as if they were discussing state secrets and fumed about me with anger, the old cows. 

After Rhuari came Maeve, but six years old, at the time, and so obviously the sister to him, Mrs. Keogh’s gossip extended to her. But she'd forgot that by the time Maeve was set into motion, the gentleman in question had long encamped for Australia and the prospect of a better life. And the truth was, both she and Rhuari had the look of Aunt Mari, more calm and gentle than any of us. You could tell from the photos she’d send from America; I felt it fortunate her three -- a boy and two girls -- took more after her big, bluff husband than herself. 

Last would be Kieran, born but five months after the death of our father and growing up never to know the burning hate in his father's voice or the question of whether he’d meet the end of Da’s fist or the back of Ma’s hand, if either was in the mood. He came early, as if impatient to get started, and his looks were tainted by Ma with none of Da noticeable about him. 

The three miscarriages were mingled in with these births, whereupon one midwife severely cautioned her against having another. But again...the church being the church, where science and sense had no place in man’s day-to-day life, that advice was ignored. A woman is there for her husband and God will decide who lives and who dies, and to interfere with that in any way was hubris of the most blasphemous sort. Considering how long it took Ma to recover from the birth of Kieran, leaving Mairead to care for us with Mrs. Haggerty's help, that made it one more good thing Da was gone. 

For Ma. 

Though I did not really understand this until many years later. 

After the second miscarriage, Ma became obsessed with us being clean. She was already tight on that but it became close to a mania with her. Everyone bathed every other day, even when not necessary. Nits were removed from our heads, at the same time, using a fine tooth comb she would soak in alcohol, then our hair washed with a vinegar concoction neither of the girls liked and which made Eamonn hate even the thought of vinegar on his fish and chips. Clothes were washed and neat. The ragged floor scrubbed and sheets fresh on the bed. 

This dragged me and Eamonn into fixing the hovel up so it wouldn't be too much of a danger to us. I came to realize Da had actually done some work on it before I was born. It had been condemned as uninhabitable before Ma and Da took it over, so he had shored up the stairs and bedrooms and slapped paper on the walls. Made it livable, but only just. Still, with some of Eamonn's friends, we got it all redone to a fine enough shape. That is to say, they were happy with it, but I felt we could have done better. 

I also happened to learn my parents used Mrs. Haggerty's address to sign on for the dole, claiming we were all in one room of hers. As I understood it, this helped with her rent and kept ours low. It continued long after Da's death. Adding to this, after he died Ma became more and more fixated on his martyrdom and Ireland's history of being oppressed. Not that we weren't told all of this in school by the brothers. The life of a Catholic in Northern Ireland was held up as that of suffering towards greatness, and made no sense to me so I paid little attention. You might think to have so many crammed into a maisonette only half-wired for electric and a toilet outside was horribly cramped, but it was not considered usual for the Bogside. Normal situation was one family per room and sharing the kitchen and hearth and toilet and pump, and rising quite a hideous stench. But then, most were related to each other, so I came to think Ma and Da being separate from their families is what kept us from being pushed into that same situation. 

Of course, my siblings and I were all born in that hovel, not in hospital or the infirmary. When it was my time, Eamonn and Mairead were sent to stay, with Mrs. O’Canainn and Da was off using the miracle of my birth to cadge a few drinks off the lads at McReady’s, which extended into more than one day. So when he came home lost in his spirits, he and Ma had a great set-to despite her post-birth condition, since nothing was left of the dole and there was no food in the pantry. 

Through which I slept, Ma wrote in a letter to Aunt Mari as she complained about her husband. 

Which brought Aunt Mari no end of joy, if her response was to be believed. “It seems he was born knowing how to deal with the both of you.” 

To which, Ma wrote back in her too-precise hand, “No, I just think he was born simple.”

More of Chapter 2

Continuing from yesterday's post --

----------------------

First born was Eamonn the younger, Da’s namesake and close to being his twin...well, save for not being as large and the searching eyes laid upon him by his mother’s mother, according to those older folk who'd known her. Large and brown, they held a careful vision of the world that could bring all but the hardest heart to want to comfort him, and by passing his GSEs had shown himself to be far more intelligent than Da, to my mind.

Until I said as much to Mr. Dermott, one of Da's longest friends.

He'd helped the man come home parlytic from the drink, a few Christmases past, and wasn't so well off, himself, judging by his breath, but he led me onto the stoop to say, "Your father's not a stupid man, lad. A man with no intelligence couldn't weave the stories he does while sipping at a pint of porter. Not merely once or twice, but over and over, each lovelier than the one before."

"What stories?" I'd asked.

"The tales he weaves in the pub. Come now, he shares these with you, as well, don't he?"

"Never that I've heard."

"Then you should ask him for one. To my mind, in another life, he'd have been a bard. He was just unlucky. Watch your older brother. He takes after your Da in more ways than you might think."

So I did ask Da, and the glare he gave me sent me scurrying to behind the toilet, despite the cold and rain and mud. I'd catch it from Ma when I came back in, she was so insistent on us keeping clean, but better that than the murder in his eyes. 

It was a few years later I remembered what Mr. McDermott had said, so went looking to Mrs. McCory, but by then she'd been moved up to Portalow and it was a devil of a time to find her. Then was more trouble to get her to answer my knocking. I only kept at it because I heard a woman calling, inside, "Ma, the door. Get the door! Answer the door!" 

When she finally did, she had dropped to half her size and twice her age, and had no idea who I was or what I was talking about. A moment later, her daughter by marriage came up, wiping her hands on her filthy apron, and took her by the shoulders, gently telling me, "She's into dementia, lad." I must have had some confused look on my face, for then she added, "Her memory's gone, and if you press her too hard she may grow upset. Who did you say you were?" 

"Brendan Kinsella. "We...we lived near her, off Nailors." 

The daughter nodded and said, "If she comes back, and she does on occasion, I'll let her know you called. So head along." 

I should have looked for her, sooner. But in truth, it wasn't till I was fifteen that I'd wanted to know more about Da. 

Anyway, I was already keeping watch on Eamonn the Younger, and by his fifteenth year he was showing a solid feel of Da, in looks. But he was also showing far more willingness to work. On many a morning, he'd be off in the wee hours to lie his way to shifting coal at the docks, before classes. I think the local masters liked how he was there but a few hours and was quick with his hands. How he cleaned himself, after, was a secret he kept from us all, but once home only the darkness around his nails showed he'd been working, that morning. Which Ma would notice, demand he hand over his wages, then use her scrub brush to finish cleaning his hands before Da could come home and see them, all the while snarling, "You're not to say a word of your wages to your father." 

"But can't I keep a shilling or two to meet with the lads, ma?" he'd all but beg, his voice tight from the pain of her vicious scrubbing. "See a picture at the Avco?" 

Ma would usually just jab him with a finger and snap, "Be still. We need this money to live on, not go galavantin'." 

Then he'd hush...and soon stopped bothering to ask. 

While I could see Ma's point, it still felt unfair. Da's work was occasional, at best, and his willingness to keep his wages and take from the dole, made worse by Ma's willingness to let him, cut into me. So on a couple of occasions when I'd had the scratch, I'd pass some along to my brother. It was a joyous little secret between us, and he'd tell Ma nothing more than, "One of me mates bought the tickets and drinks." 

No need to let her know that mate was me. 

Then at night, as we lay in bed, he'd tell me what film he'd seen and describe it as if I was seeing it, myself. I especially liked his joy over Thunderball, What's new Pussycat?, and so many others. 

"There's this girl in Swingin' Summer," he'd said one night, "she's got to be the hottest bird ever. Raquel Wells, or somethin'. We're thinkin' of seein' it again, just for her, 'cause she wears this bright miniskirt cut up to...to..." He groaned to complete his thought. 

"Can I go see it?" I'd asked. 

"Dunno. You're nine. But it had songs and silly stuff in it. I'll check the rating." 

It was gone from the cinema before he got around to it. 

Ma wanted Eamonn to quit school when he reach fifteen and six month and get a steady job with John Allen on the quay, but he wanted to try for Queens, in Belfast. Ma raised a fuss about the cost and waste and on and on, but in one of the few times I ever saw him take Eamonn's side on anything, Da supported him. Of course, that led into one of their worst fights, which both my brother and I stupidly intervened in. I suffered a bloody nose from it, though to this day I don't know which of my parents gave it to me. My brother's lip was cut, as well, but he'd mastered the art of removing his shirt before it was stained and could put a plaster over it quick enough the stop the bleeding. 

On that occasion, however, it was my older sister, Mairead, who calmly stepped between our parents and hushed them both, in a way I'd not seen before. 

"Now, Ma," she'd said, "you know if you make Eamonn out to be old enough to leave school, he's old enough to make his own decision about Queens, which means you'll have to give him your agreement, anyway. So why argue about it? And Da, if you truly wish to support him, take on sifting coal so he won't have to. Don't you both think that would be best?" 

They had been so shocked at her controlled manner, they had dropped onto the settee and just looked at each other for ten minutes before each giving a shrug of consent. I was too busy pinching my nose to even think of saying a thing. 

For the next week, Da actually went down to the docks and did what was needed. Ma never saw a farthing of his wages, but when the dole came she was able to use most of it to pay debts and put aside for other expenses. 

When later I asked Mairead where she'd learned how to silence our parents like that, she said, "You know of Sister Joseph?" 

Know her? She was half my size and I wasn't large, and she scared the life out of me just by looking at me, more than once in primary school. I'd been more than pleased she moved to another school that I would never be attending. So I nodded. 

"Well," Mai continued, "she once told me that you should know what you're saying and mean what you say, and even if you don't, you should act like you do." 

"I don't get the sense in it," I'd responded. 

She'd patted my cheek and said, "Nor did I, till just now." 

Which was bollocks to me, but that was all I could get from her in explanation. 

What I did was start a hideaway to build up a sort of fund for Eamonn's expenses, figuring I had near three years to fill it. 

Ah, Mairead. Second born and referred to as a handsome lass, since she also had our father’s look about her. Straight hair down the length of her back, practical in all matters from clothing to housework to our tea, with no time for foolishness. By the age of fourteen she was already blessed (or cursed, if you prefer) with a figure well-noticed by boys half again her age. She knew it and laughed at them, but unlike our father, her eyes never held anything but hope and love for us all. She had no interest in finishing her studies past her sixteenth year, our Mai, and often said so. "I could go to secretarial college...but it seems a waste of time. I think I'll get a job at Cooley's Shirts. Should happen about the time Eamonn enters Queens, so I can fill in for him when it comes to money." 

Which is what she did.

Chapter 2 of A Place of Safety...

Inputting changes. Got the first two chapters done, and it's here I made most of the adjustments. This is the first four pages of chapter two, AKA: Child of the Groundhog

----

I should mention, my name is Brendan Kinsella, third child and second son of this family line. My day of birth was the 2nd of February, 1956, and it seems my choice of this date brought my Aunt Mari no end of merriment when she heard. She’d been but two years in Houston, Texas, at the time, four-thousand miles and five worlds away. She and my Uncle Sean met when he was at the American Naval Station in Clooney and got themselves wed, then he took her home with him. Ma was not pleased, though it took me years to realize the extent of it.

"Sold herself for another world," she'd once said to Mrs. Haggerty, next door, when they were discussing a second daughter my aunt had borne.

"But couldn't she bring you all over?" Mrs. Haggerty had asked. "It's better opportunities in America than here."

Ma had pointed to her cheek and said, "This come from me suggestion as much to the mister. He thinks the Prods'll think he run from 'em."

"Nonsense. No shame in going where there's work."

"I know that. You know that. But my husband? Even Belfast is too far a jaunt for him. The sooner he's gone from us, the better for us all."

"Bernadette, don't think such things! Say a quick prayer."

"I have, more than once, this day."

And that is how I learned my mother's Christian name isn't Ma. Oh, and to be clear, I was but seven and seated at the table repairing a watch so could hear them both, with no trouble.

Anyway, Aunt Mari had learned of this odd American custom where if a groundhog pops up from his burrow and sees his shadow, it’s six weeks more of winter. She had called Mrs. Haggerty to see how Ma was going, and the midwife had told her I was finally of this world. They shared a laugh at how I’d started to come out in the morning, taken a glimpse of what was awaiting me, and slipped right back into my mother’s womb, refusing to reappear till it was half four and what little sunlight there was had stopped drifting in through the window.

From darkness to darkness only, thank you. Perhaps that's why I always preferred midnight to noon.

Of course, this gave my mother no end of grief, since she’d already been in labor for near thirty hours. If I had thought ahead, I would not have waited, for it gave her something to remind me of it anytime I did a wrong. Usually followed by a thump to my temple.

She was born a Farrell, my mother, off Clarendon Street, near Queen, next to the last child of a woman whose health forbade any future pregnancies. But the church being the Church and men being men, the priest brushed it aside and my grandmother died bringing Aunt Mari into the world. And never was it spoken of without also saying it was God's will.

God's will.

Funny how often that translates into what men prefer and not women. But that's between each and his own soul...and if a man's not capable of accepting a woman's needs are as important as his own, well...that is something I'm sure God will have him answer to when his time comes.

But this is why Ma wound up the mother of six before her twenty-eighth birthday, not counting three miscarriages or the long periods when Da would be in Belfast, working the docks.

That's where he was born, and hated to return there, I found out. Mrs. McCory was sniping at him for coming home parlytic in the middle of the day, and his response had been, "Feck off, ye ol' cow. I'm off t' Belfast th' next bus an' won't have the chance to partake. The bloody nuns'll see to that, while I'm there. Nosin' about. Makin' sure I work to the bone. All women do. To the feckin' bone, an' fer nothin'." 

I was five, at the time, so didn't understand what was being said. It wasn't till his wake, when I saw none of his family had come so sought Mrs. McCory out and asked her about it. After all, in Derry everyone knows your family back fourteen generations, and are happy to tell you about it with even so much of a hint as to being interested. But her only response had been to take me to a wreath that wore a banner saying In Sympathy across it. Then she said, "They're here in thoughts and prayers."

Which told me nothing, because it was from St. Ambrose, not people. Which I pointed out and was told to keep quiet

Which I did. 

For a while.

I was later to learn St. Ambrose was an orphanage near the Belfast harbor, and Da would room there because it was near nothing in cost. He had been left there at the age of five with a note pinned to his ragged shirt -- Eamonn Alwyn Kinsella, borne 9 September 1930. An older couple had brought him to the gate, rung the bell and hurried off. No one knew who they were, and young Eamonn was of no assistance, for he wouldn't speak.

Nothing more was known which, as mentioned, was highly unusual. Some even wondered if his name was truly Kinsella, for they could find no link to any they knew of that name. But still, that is how he remained, and as each member of the family was added, that is how they were listed in the register.

Shoved into rethought...

I spent some of today researching various literary agents to see if I can get APoS taken on by them and set with a legacy publisher. I found six I'd like to start with, but need to dig into each one a bit more deeply, first. Make sure they'll be a good fit.

I worked up a first draft of a query letter, but it needs to be trimmed. It fills a page, and I seriously doubt anyone will read the whole thing. They probably get dozens of letters like mine, a day. So simplify and rearrange.

I pulled up all three books of APoS and found I have over 1300 pages and more than 300,000 words, total. And that's before this next rewrite. Someplace, I have a simple outline of what is in the books...but I need to dig through my thumb drives for that.

I made myself leave the apartment and go get frames for the last 4 awards I have to put on my wall. All the way to Michael's, 10 miles off. Once I got there, it took me ten minutes to pick them out. Then I spent half an hour trying to figure out what I wanted to eat for dinner. I wound up at Texas Rodehouse and got a salmon filet...and it was okay. The mashed potatoes were good, but there was more bacon in the green beans than beans. Oh, well.

Ingram is still pulling the We told you why HTRASG was pulled from distribution when they have not. They're sticking with a vague rule that could be used to banish the Bible, for crying out loud. I want specifics. So off went a letter to the CEO, again, in today's mail. We'll see what this brings about.

Tumblr tried the old You didn't submit your query right trick on me, but I'm not having it. They seem to think me using my .com email address instead of my .me invalidates the query. It's ridiculous. But it does have me finally wondering if it might be a good idea to withdraw from social media for a while...because that bitchin' thing ain't really social. It's filled with assholes and idiots and drives me nuts.

Which has never been a very long drive, with me.

Secondary front on HTRASG

My blog on Tumblr has been disabled. Possibly destroyed. They claimed I put male nudity and sexual acts on it, which I haven't, and just shot it down without a word to me, first. Looks like the assholes complaining about my Blaze post convinced them to do it. I'm appealing the decision, but I have a nasty feeling it's all gone and with it many contacts with artists and other writers. Not sure what to do about that, especially since their main address is a box in a UPS Store.

Still no word from Ingram regarding my questions, so I'm popping another letter off to the CEO. I know I wouldn't be having any issues with them were I a big, successful publisher using them. It's kind of irritating that they're just blowing me off, assuming I'll go away.

Still...HTRASG will have been in publication for 15 years, come November. Maybe it's run its course, anyway. Maybe I should just focus on my new work and let the rest take care of themselves. I've been self-publishing for 10 years and I'm hardly in the best-seller range. Plus there are people claiming they wrote a 150 page book in 10 days and it's making them $15,000 a month, when I haven't made that much from all my books put together, from day one. Not sure I believe them but it doesn't help my mood.

I pushed my anger and energy into polishing up what I did on BA, Book 2, yesterday. It's now up over 4100 words. Had Luahl, one of the Oyim (the original Blood Angels) appear to assist Stephane with an issue, and have him pass a message along to Léonidès in a way that cannot be tracked back to them. I think it will have to do with Gabrielle, Leon's sister, making too many vampires to build up her retinue...but we'll see. I ended the chapter at that point.

God, I'm tired of the bullshit.

I'm a cat...

So...I sat down this morning to start inputting the changed to APoS from my red pen edit...but my inner feline pushed that right off the shelf and I wound up doing 2600 words on Blood Angel, instead, Book 2. No idea what I was doing with it; it just came out.

It's the 15th Century and Stephane, the youngest of the vampires in age when he was turned, is in Venice seeing off a shipment of goods for the lads when he's kidnapped by a couple of priests and taken to a seminary to be brutalized.

What they don't understand is, he can't be. He's a vampire. But he plays along. Finds he's not the first person they've done this to. Helps the victim he's meant to replace escape being killed, and learns he rather likes having a moral center.

The man he saves is Hebrew, as he puts it, with a wife and children in Bologna, and Stephane is pleased with himself for sticking with Léonidès' commands against turning someone without permission. He also gets some good merchants' advice to pass along to Loronce, who's helping build their business in Normandy.

This just fell together as I wrote. 11 pages. And I kept telling myself, soon as I reach a good stopping point, I'll shift over to APoS...but I never did. And when I was done, i was done writing for the day.

I found out an old friend died, back in LA, and was cremated. Her ashes were handed over to The Neptune Society to be worked into an urn or brick to set into the ocean, so coral has a place to build upon. I've been thinking of doing that, myself, but there's no office for them, up here, to ask about it and when I try ti find information online I'm directed to a local funeral home. Guess I'll have to do it that way. I'm getting up there in age and don't want to just get plopped in the ground, once I'm dead.

Morbid thought...but...

Interior fighting...

I have four books kicking and screaming to be worked on in my head, right now, and it's confusing me as to why. Of course, the main one is APoS, and BA is letting me know it would like to do section 2 and 4, but not 3...not just yet. Dair's Window is also scurrying around in the shadows, nudging and letting me know I should get this done within the next year. And Darien's Point and its sequel, Return to Darian's Point as well as the beginning of the story, set in Ireland's ancient times, are now also making themselves known.

I have no idea which direction to go, except I do want to get a solid draft of APoS set up by the end of the year. Work in details that will help situate the story properly. Then get feedback on it...and plan to start trying to find a literary agent and get it with a brick-and-mortar publisher, if possible. That will be a long process...

At the same time, BA has worked out the basics for Book 2 and I already have 75% of Book 4 written. Book 3 is aiming for Napoleon's march on Moscow, because it will bring a long-established vampire, Dmitriy, into the story, and Book 6 is shifting my original screenplay for BA into book format, but working in Léonidès and his crew.

Dair's Window has figured itself out, with the story being told by a dead man over the course of Dair's and Adam's lives up to the point where Dair casts aside his past and reclaims his art. He'd lost it after Adam died and the man's parents sued him.

As for Darian's Point, et al, I have two screenplays and maybe a third of the ancient story worked out. I just need to get it done, too.

Just a tad overwhelming, right now...so I've practiced full avoidance, today. Laundry. Making a stew. Watching a couple videos. I actually enjoyed Lost City, with Sandra Bullock and Tatum Channing, for the most part, and slipped into a cozy little murder series just to watch Nick Hendrix putter around, clueless. Feeling a lot more in control, and APoS gets priority.

Stunning...

Okay...I have a blog on Tumblr. Very MM oriented, where I also advertise my books and share images of guys that I like. So...Tumblr started offering this thing where you can Blaze a post you make, and I thought it would be fun to try it. Cost is $10 for 2000 clicks or something and goes for 24 hours.

I tried one for The Alice '65...and the book got ridiculed. People asked me why I'd written it. That it looked stupid and I should not have Blazed it. And on and on. Which was unsettling, but I figured since it's Tumblr it was just too nice an item for them.

Well, yesterday evening, at 7pm, I did a Blaze for How to Rape a Straight Guy...and got seven likes. But a lot of other people went ballistic. How could I shove this on them without warning? I'm making light of rape. I should kill myself. On and on, as if I advocated torturing kittens. At first it was jolting. I slipped into a deep funk.

Now understand, I don't choose who gets to look at this campaign. And the title of the book is pretty intense, but to me, Tumblr is a site that's cool with adult content. Which people ought to know. I mean, I've happened onto some pretty hardcore stuff, on there. Even the Anime can get intense. But I just back away and let it be. 

Well...today, the comments grew to be ludicrous. Accusing me of all sorts of nonsense. From people who haven't even researched the book on Smashwords, let alone read it. And even though the campaign finished hours ago, posters are still telling me to die. Over a book that does not glorify rape but presents it as something horrifying, and that severely punishes those who commit it.

I will say...one person was obviously having deeper issues and I did provide her with the number for Rape Crisis. Haven't heard another word from her. You would think Tumblr'd have a better filter than they obviously do. Just submit and they say, Yeah, sure, fine, we'll take your money.

Maybe I should have done more research before getting into this, but what little I was able to find online told me it's just a tool to get your work out there. No restrictions. We're not dealing with the puritans of Facebook, Twitter or Instagram, here, let alone Snapchat and whatever the latest thing is. It's not all kittens and landscapes.

In fact, on Twitter I'm following the collapse of the Russian army in the face of Ukraine's counterattacks, and sometimes the videos are pretty bloody and horrific. (#SlavaUkraini) So even there, you can find un-nice things.

But you wanna know the worst part? After all this...not one fucking sale. That's why I'm not doing it, again.

Battle stations...

The latest in my fight with Ingram Content Group...I got a ludicrous email this morning, with another veiled threat to close my account. It was in response to this email --

Craig, with all due respect your response still does not answer my question. You have just repeated what others in the CS department have said — “that” my book violated these guidelines, no “how or why.” Is it because of the word “rape” in the title? Will Ingram no longer distribute books like “The Rape of Nanking” and “The Rape of Lucretia”? Is it because of the sex in the book? Will Ingram also stop carrying the novels of Jackie Collins and Judith Krantz? Surely it’s not because that sex is gay? I know you don’t consider it Pornography because it does not meet the criteria as laid down by the Supreme Court. Even Amazon acknowledged that. So what specific guideline did I violate?

As written, #10 is so vague, it could be that I used too many ellipses in my text. So by what criteria do I violate it?

Please answer my question.

I thought I was being quite clear, in my request. Here's the response I got:

Dear Mr. Sullivan,

As previously stated, these guidelines apply to all Ingram Spark accounts equally. We understand that you may not agree with the removal, however, this action was taken pursuant to the terms of the Agreement.

Sincerely,
Craig

So, I sent the following, this morning, before being called into work, again.

Which STILL does not answer my question. WHAT was it about the book that caused Ingram to withdraw it from circulation? HOW did it violate that guideline? THAT is what I want to understand. Not this runaround that is simply restating that it did violate it. HOW did it violate it. Explain that to me. I asked using several different scenarios but you are still ignoring my actual question.

Then just to reiterate, I responded to each mention in the guideline:

Further to my earlier email:

Point by point with section 10:

1. Content that promotes, incites, or glorifies hatred, violence, racial, sexual or religious intolerance or promotes organizations with such views, including, but not limited to, content that depicts child abuse and exploitation? No. Curt, the MC, is full of anger, hate and blames everyone for how his life is, and does commit violence, but he winds up a double-murderer and back in prison. Hardly a glorification of what he's done.

2. Contains pornography? Not unless you consider man on man sex pornographic. I describe what happens on the same level as Judith Krantz, who made novels about male on female sex and shopping bestsellers.

3. Glorifies rape? No. The victims of the rapes in this book are psychologically damaged. One winds up on suicide watch; the other collapses into a near catatonic state. Hardly a glorification.

4. Pedophilia? There is NO sex with anyone under the age of 18 in my book. But my bet is Ingram does distribute "Flowers in the Attic", which contains underage incest that leads to the birth of a child.

5. Promotes terrorism or bodily harm...? Nope. Not in the slightest.

6. ...as well as or other material that may be inappropriate or offensive, including book covers and book marketing materials. This is so vague it could be used to remove distribution of "The Rape of Nanking", by Iris Chang, which includes depictions of rape, torture, slaughter and destruction in copious amounts. Same for any books dealing with "The Rape of Lucretia", the story of a noblewoman who is raped and commits suicide, leading to the foundation of the Roman Republic. Shakespeare even wrote a poem about it, and Benjamin Britten developed a famous opera. Is that inappropriate or offensive?

Which one of these caused Ingram’s puritans to drop distribution of "How to Rape a Straight Guy" after 8 years of distributing it?

Kyle

I am getting a goddamned answer.

Ingram is being a bitch....

Ingram Spark is all but refusing to tell me in what way How to Rape a Straight Guy violated their guidelines. I ask. They tell me, "We removed your book because it violated our guidelines." I ask how it did? I get the same response. I tell them I want to know what the book did to violate their guidelines. I get the damned response. Over and over.

I'm now specifically asking, "Is it because of the word rape in the title? Will Ingram no longer distribute books like The Rape of Nanking and The Rape of Lucretia? Is it because of the sex in the book? Will Ingram also stop carrying the novels of Jackie Collins and Judith Krantz? Surely it’s not because that sex is gay? I know you don’t consider it obscene or pornographic because it does not meet the criteria as laid down by the Supreme Court."

Most pornography is not legally obscene (i.e., most pornography is protected by the First Amendment). To be obscene, pornography must, at a minimum, "depict or describe patently offensive 'hard core' sexual conduct."7 The Supreme Court has created a three-part test, known as the Miller test, to determine whether a work is obscene. The Miller test asks:

... (a) whether the "average person applying contemporary community standards" would find that the work, taken as a whole, appeals to the prurient interest; (b) whether the work depicts or describes, in a patently offensive way, sexual conduct specifically defined by the applicable state law; and (c) whether the work, taken as a whole, lacks serious literary, artistic, political, or scientific value.

Even Amazon acknowledged that it doesn't meet this threshold. So what specific guideline did I violate? And I know it sounds like I'm making the argument that the book is pornographic, but the sex in it is described in as light a way as that you fund in Jackie Collins' novels, so I do not consider it porn.

As written, #10 is so vague, it could be that I used too many ellipses in my text. So by what criteria do I violate it? They are fucking gonna answer my question.

If they think pulling this shit will make me go away, they're wrong. I will get an answer. As for their veiled threats to close my account, all crap like that does is piss me off.

Travel plans and such

Worked on export licenses, today, for various dealers who need them to return home from FIRSTS London Book Fair, in two weeks...well, 10 days from now. It's turned into a fairly major fair, all of a sudden, with dealers pushing and shoving to be part of it. That bodes well, even if Customs issues are a pain.

I'm also doing the Seattle Book Fair, again, and set that up, as well. Airline schedules are insane, right now. In order for this to work, I'm flying out on American and returning on JetBlue. Another redeye, that last one. Irritating. And with a 3 hour layover at JFK, starting at 5am. Ugh. But Southwest is even more insane. At least it'll get me out of Buffalo for a bit...and I like Seattle. Doesn't hurt the guy managing the book fair is cute.

I wish I was helping with Firsts move-in and move out, in London, but that's not in the cards. Instead, I'll be at the office working with returning shipments, for a week or so. I can use the money. Pay down some debt. Prep for the expense of self-publishing APoS...

Or I suppose I could start making the rounds to see if any mainstream publisher would be interested in handling the books. Send them what I've got, right now, and ask if they'll back me in completing the set. I have a copy of the Writer's Market so could dig into that. I know Random House and Simon & Schuster won't even consider my work except through an agent they know, but I can check others.

I'd really like for this book to be handled properly, with marketing and bookstore sales, since I suck at that stuff. They'd get seriously edited and proofed, as well. My editor is close to the same age as me and can miss stuff just as easy as I can. Besides, I think the books deserve it. I've fucked around on the story for so damned long...

I guess first thing to so is see if I can find a literary agent.

Grunt work, today

I set up a new website. Very basic and straightforward. I had to because GoDaddy dumped my old one after they changed everything in their system. It was not easy to do. The names of the actions you need to set things up are completely different, and halfway hidden. GoDaddy is really geared more to you making your site a store for selling instead of just a relay to buy your stuff. If you want to check it out...

KMSCB

This thing is nowhere near what I want, but until I can figure out how to use their system...it'll do. I have all of my books listed and linked to where they can be purchased. Believe me, I'd have dumped them after this crap, but I have hundreds of dollars tied up with them that I cannot get back so I'm using it. Dunno if this will help sales any, but it is a necessity.

I also did more on the French dealers stuff, this morning. The UK leaving the EU has really messed up book and art dealers. They used to be able to transport books, art, photos and manuscripts between England and the Continent with relative ease; now it's a ton of customs work involved. And VAT charged on some item going into the UK, which is damn near impossible to get back once the items have returning to their originating country. 

Got a bit of reading done in Strong About it All, a book of interviews with women of Derry and the western rural areas. Talking about how rough things became in the early 70s, thanks to the Ulster Defence Association harassing Catholics. Their goal was to drive all Catholics off, and they had the backing of the British Army and the Royal Ulster Constabulary.

They used quiet forms of intimidation...like looking in the windows of people's home for spaces of time...and stopping cars to search them, even though they had no authority beyond a gun. Kind of hard to fight back against that sort of bullying when you're a woman surrounded by men, alone on an isolated country road with no one around to back you up.

I thought I'd lost this book, but it turned up mixed in with some of the larger books I had for Dair's Window. Very happy to have found it; it's hard to replace for a decent price.

Done, again...except...

Okay...this red pen edit of A Place of Safety is done, with lots of work to do as I input it. Most of the changes are in the first six or seven chapters, but I've also broken a couple of later the later one in half. Keep them from being too-too long. It's making for a lot of chapters, so I may rethink some of it...but we'll see. Depends on how much it gets expanded.

I still don't have Brendan established as tightly as I'd like. It covers six years of his life, so he's going to change some, thanks to events over which he has no control. From age 10 to 16, which is a lot for a child, but he's still soft-focus. Better than he was; just in need of further clarification. A smoother arc.

I'll try to work that out during the inputting, at least a little. But I also know I'm going to have at least one more, probably two more full drafts to do before this is over. Then maybe...maybe I'll open it up for feedback.

Blood Angel is proving to be a wash. Setting it up as book one of seven is not doing well. I might have been better off, sales-wise, using KDP, but I keep hearing horror stories of books being returned for credit and writers being told how to rewrite their stories. I wouldn't do well with that kind of nonsense being spat at me.

Of course, it would help if I spent more time doing publicity and sales for it, I'm sure. I don't really know how to handle that, and the successful authors I met online spend half their days doing nothing else. I actually asked one how he manages to find time to write, I saw him pushing his work so much, and his exhausted reply was, Don't ask. That makes me especially leery.

Ingram is still trying to ignore me over pulling How to Rape a Straight Guy from distribution. Customer Service's attitude is, We dropped it and that's all there is to it. No explanation. Nothing, after 8 years. Can't even get a response from them via their Instagram page. Irritating.

Bloody Sunday

I'm up to the chapter dealing with the British massacre of 14 civilians during a peaceful march on January 30, 1972...three days before Brendan's 16th birthday. He's part of the march and caught in the shooting, sees one boy shot in the back while running away, is almost shot himself, and is profoundly altered by it all. His first thought, after coming out of the shock, is to leave Derry...so starts making preparations.

He's trying to find out where Joanna plans to attend university so he can move there, but she's being indecisive. Maybe Queens, which would not work for Brendan, it being in Belfast and surrounded by The Troubles. Maybe St. Andrews, which Brendan thinks is in Edinburgh but is actually 35 miles from there, in Fife. The University of Edinburgh is a possibility because she has family who live close by, but she's definitely ruled out Trinity College in Dublin because the buildings are dingy.

Something that's bothering me is, there are hints coming out in their relationship that she is not as enamored of him as he is of her, and he's blinded himself to that. She almost seems to view him as a bit of rebel fun. Proving her independence to mommy and daddy, but he's not someone to take seriously as a boyfriend. Which I'm not sure will work for the story...and yet...I can't discount it.

Which I hate. Because he has her name tattooed on his arm, now, and that raises a complication unto itself.

That's not to say she doesn't care for him. She shows up at his shop a few weeks after Bloody Sunday to be with him and comfort him, and he takes her to the circle fort just across the border in the Republic and they talk and he begins to form a plan...get his passport, get a job on a passenger liner or freighter out of Cork, make money for a year and, once Joanna's ready for her university years, move to be near her. He'd send money home, as well, like so many or Ireland's youth did after leaving to find decent jobs off the island.

He knows she's safe from the hate on his side of the River Foyle, and this would free him, as well. So...

People are a pain...and so am I...

My intention was to get onto the next chapter of APoS, today, but I was asked to work on verifying the packing lists of some French dealers who are going to a book fair in London, in a couple weeks. I know just enough French to get myself into trouble, which is why this job came to me. So...I started going through them and...

It seems France did not get the memo that the UK is no longer part of the EU, so anything they ship there is subject to the UK's import rules and regulations. This doesn't matter so much for books; no duties or VAT involved, on those, and export is easy. 

However, Artwork, photographs and manuscripts, which used to also be easy to move in and out of the UK, are now subject to VAT -- 5% if over 100 years of age, 20% if under. Also, now all manuscripts must have an export license to leave the UK, even if they only came in for an exhibition. Same for any book valued at above the threshold of 65,000GBP. Not one of them really understood this.

The only proper way around that is to have them come in on a carnet, but what comes in has to go back out, and if a client wants to take an item they purchased with them from the fair, they cannot legally do so. It has to be returned to the dealer's address and shipped back out from there. Which NO dealer is really willing to put up with.

This is totally different from when the UK was part of the EU. Back then, dealers from the continent could bring books and such over in the trunks of their cars, if they felt like it. So long as they kept to the guidelines. But not no more.

So...I'm seeing aquarelles listed in the shipment, and I know they're watercolors. They might slip past the customs person handling the import...maybe...but if they are caught, the whole shipment can be seized for detailed inspection. Which can take weeks to do. Thus making all of the dealers in that shipment miss the fair.

After going through each list with painstaking precision, I sent the export agent in France a long email with my concerns. In French, though I added an English translation at the bottom just to be safe. Dunno why I specifically decided to do that, because his English seems to be pretty good. It just felt...polite. And fun. Sort of. I dunno.

But there went the day. Dammit.

I get too caught up...

I wrote myself out, the last couple of days, dealing with inputting notes I'd made for APoS and expanding other parts that needed more detail while clarifying areas that were over-written. I've also kept at the consistency issue. And this is just the red pen edit. I still have to input everything into a Word file then print it out to do another pass over.

Something I need to be careful about is not making Brendan too aware of the political decisions and actions being taken. He's 12-13 years old, here, and his focus is on repairing things for people, fixing up their home to be livable, and then building a relationship with Joanna that will endure despite her being Protestant and from an upper-middle-class family. His one goal is to be left alone by the growing trouble around him.

Which proves to be impossible. He gets caught up in the Battle of Bogside, all of which is told from his viewpoint. He helps by making of petrol bombs with a couple of his friends, keeping up with the news and gossip as best he can. It's a longer chapter but I don't want to break it up or remove anything. It all comes together, I think. Then follows the Celebration Fleadh and reconnecting with Joanna.

I made myself stop at the point where Brendan comes to realize his mate, Danny, has been abused by a priest and it's made him unstable. He'd been showing signs of anger and moodiness for a while, but once the priest was sent away, he grew steady. Brendan even used him to help with some repairs and such. But now it's 1970 and Brendan's just turned fourteen and is remembering things that pointed to the truth about Dany's instability. This is another long chapter but I do not want to break it in any way. So I'm going over it, again, tomorrow.

I sometimes wonder if I'm using telling this in first person as an easy way around much of the detail of the time. Brendan's thought of as simple-minded when really he's just focused and solitary. He hears much and says little. Thinks a lot but not in great depth. Is on the cynical side but still has hopes and dreams and prayers. I just hope I'm not being cute and coy instead of honest.

But I won't know till it's done, I guess.