APoS settling in...

This is the part where Brendan is given an idea of how he got out of the country. It's the beginning of Chapter Five in New World For Old. Still a bit chatty, but workable, now...and sets up an issue for later in the story.

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The city she drove me through was a tangled mass of homes, commercial buildings, wide car parks and massive streets. Aunt Mari pointed out everything she could as we went, but my head was pounding and the cloth with ice got paid more attention to. At least it had stopped the bleeding. 

I know we passed Rice University, and that it was across the road from a large, shabby park cut through by another boulevard. Behind us was the city center with its sudden office towers and cranes aiming to build even taller ones. Ahead of us was another mass of high-rises she referred to as the medical center, and I couldn't believe the size of it. Altnagelvin was a county clinic in comparison. But what struck me hardest was how flat the land was. Never-ending flat. Streets that went on forever and drove straight into nothingness. 

This is to be my new home? That, I was not yet so sure of. 

There was room enough in her barge of a car for me to lie flat in the rear seat, if I’d wanted, and it floated like we were riding on water. The seats were as fine as I’d ever sat in and the air conditioning blasted icy enough to give you a chill. 

Aunt Mari was not exactly forthcoming with the information, telling only enough to calm my questions. She thought. What she actually did was provide me with a path into understanding what had happened. 

To start, while she never said so, I figured my rucksack was still around my shoulder when I was dragged away and, in fact, it was the reason I was not more severely injured. For I hit that wall hard, breaking my left arm and three ribs, so it cushioned me, somewhat. I also had plenty of cuts and bruises but here's the stunner -- I was halfway into a heart attack. Colm striking me cold probably saved my life. 

The reason I know this happened? It was my passport used to take me out of the country. No need to mention the hundred-and-fifty pounds I'd also had; without question that wound up in someone else's pocket. 

I was taken to a safe house that had a doctor available, and despite arguments from others, I was attended to. Given a nitroglycerin tablet! Little bomber boy. And I was kept there to heal. Under medication because I was still close to hysterics, until I was finally nothing but numb. 

It was a passing comment Aunt Mari made that told me why I'd been given the opportunity to live and not be buried. 

"When Mairead called with the news," she said, "I had your uncle talk to some people." 

I'm sure my shock registered in my voice as I said, "He has contacts in PIRA?" 

"NORAID. Then I flew over, and when you were ready we were taken across by the ferry and down to Ringway to fly you here." 

"Taken?" 

"Father Jack drove us." 

Of course. Cannot avoid him, can we? "You had no problem with the army or customs or...?" 

"Not between your British passport and my American one. It was something of a shock to your mother that you had it. And she showed me your letter. Brendan, what did you think you were doing?" 

"Off to work on a ship. I had an offer." 

"Without a word till you were off?" 

"Seemed a good idea at the time. And I could've sent money home." 

"How? The way the British are being with the mail?" 

To be honest, I hadn't really thought about it beyond that. So I just shrugged. 

"Well, it's better that you're here. And I think I've talked your mother into opening a bank account so I can transfer money it. It's expensive and is reported, but if it's needed..." 

I nodded, which was a mistake. It made me feel a bit weak in the stomach. So I swallowed and said, "Ask Mr. O'Faelan or his missus about that. They have one with the savings...um...the Catholic, no, credit union...I can't think of the name..." And my head was back to pounding. 

"Is that the one set up by John Hume?" 

"Yeah. Yeah." 

"Father Jack mentioned them. He sent me their information and said he'd work with Bernadette on it." 

"Aunt Mari, it's been six month." 

She sighed and nodded, then said, "I know." 

Good ol' Ma. Won't be pushed into a thing she doesn't want to do, no matter how smart it might be, or helpful. And money should never be sent through the church, for they'd surely take their part. Something Ma seemed to finally understand. 

My head was back to merely hurting, so I asked, "When you brought me...I feel like I was...well, was drugged up the whole time?" 

"You were on sedatives. For the pain." 

That last sentence was said a bit too quickly for me not to understand it was just to let me know enough said about that. 

"So how'd you put me over?" I asked. "Coming into America?" 

"Told them you were simple." Then she cast me a wink. 

And that did shut me up. Details not needed. Just bringing the idiot child with me for a bit of a change. 

However, what all of this told me was, the Brits did not know I'd been caught in the blast. Perhaps not even that I was there. Which was a massive relief. They couldn't have used me to get to Eamonn. Something else must have happened and the bomb was their excuse. Obviously, Scott and the B-girls, as I now called them, had been filled in on none of it beyond I had suffered a shock that had brought on a heart condition, so I was here to let that be handled. In fact, the doctor we were off to see was a heart specialist who'd been treating me. But the divorce from my past now seemed to now be permanent and the smile on my face was not from relief, as I'm sure Aunt Mari supposed, but joy. Still there was one last thing needed to be known. 

"You said Eamonn's in jail," I said. "Do you know the names of the other two lads?" 

Aunt Mari sighed. "It was in one of Mairead's letters, but I paid it little mind." 

"May I read them?" 

"If you like." Again, said in a voice meant to silence me on the matter.

Still moving forward

 I made it through another chapter of APoS-New World For Old, as well as the outline. This one is where Brendan realizes he's been banned from returning to Derry...and is thrilled. It took a fair amount of reworking because this was the one where I'd worked up all the machinations used to sneak him into the US and hide him at his Aunt and Uncle's...but that's no longer valid. They just bring him in, under medication, and present him as simple. Meaning mentally deficient.

Research into getting a medical visa for him showed it would have to be done through a US Consulate, at the very least, and would require notes from the NHS and a physical by a doctor of their choice. So the hell with that. Also gone is him getting a new identity to be snuck in. He's still Brendan, who just winds up overstaying his visa by 8 years. 

Officially, he wouldn't have an issue departing the US when he does decide to leave or, probably, getting back into the UK. A guy I knew in Houston had a problem like that with his new wife. She had moved to Houston to be with him and overstayed her visa by a couple of years. When they finally got married, it was back in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, where her family was. She slipped back into the UK, fine. They assumed once they had a marriage certificate she could come back with him, just as easy.

Nope. Took nearly a year of paperwork and investigation by the embassy in London and interviews out the wazoo for both of them before she was even granted a visa. After that, it took her five years to get a green card so she could legally work. Didn't stop her from working...but she couldn't get a Social Security number till she was legal. At least that's something Brendan doesn't need to worry about; he's not returning to the US.

But that's in Book Three, The Return...which is a bland subtitle. I gotta figure out something better.

Bad mood...

 Rough day. Headachy. Managed to get groceries but had to keep to the Kenmore area because Buffalo is still shut down. Made a peach cobbler to cheer me up since no-place in this pathetic town sells one...and it was okay, enough. I should have drained the canned peaches and covered the casserole dish for half the time it was cooking.

Think I'm gonna watch Glass Onion, again.

Tomorrow maybe I'll be better. Maybe. But I am feeling very cranky, right now. Very...unsure...

Writer gripes

Sometimes it's close to impossible for me to make myself sit down and just do the work on my stories that I know I need to do. Distractions pop up, like tweets about Ukraine and the latest GOP travesty (AKA: George Santos, who claimed to be Jewish but swears he only meant he's Jew-ish, or something dumb like that) and then I get going on tweeting and deciding to make a meatloaf...just crap stuff. So I'm lucky if I make it through a chapter a day.

Which I did, today. Chapter Three of APoS-New World For Old. That also went off on a tangent when Brendan discusses his two female cousins and how they harass him. They actually suggest he's not really part of the family because he looks more like Jeremy, their brother, Scott's Jewish best friend. I had to follow through to the end and found it actually added to Brendan's turmoil, at the time...so will probably keep it.

This brings the full story up to 110,000 words and that's before I get into the parts that need expanding. However, there will also be some cutting with the new direction the story is taking so it may not be too bad.

What's fun is, Brendan suddenly revealed he's never had a cheeseburger, which I hadn't realized. But Jeremy admits he doesn't keep kosher because he loves them too much, and promises to bring Bren one from Champs. He would just take Brendan there but Uncle Sean won't let him. First indication that the man is hiding something and doesn't want Brendan out and about.

Doesn't help that I've built up a near-headache and I seem to be diving deeper into a form of dyslexia. I keep reversing letters in words or flat out scramble-spelling them. Which may be old age or simple lack of focus. I haven't left my apartment since Friday, except to take out the trash. I'm fine with food and such, and don't really feel the need to go anywhere, but I am tired of cooking my own meals.

Baby Steps...

Small changes make for great ones. I think. Here's the opening of A Place of Safety-Book Two...which I do think I will subtitle New World For Old. If you want to compare it to the first version I posted, that was done on December 16th.

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Rebirth 

 A thick line of swirling black crossed my eyes. 

Slowly. 

Slowly. 

Slowly drifting into focus. 

Silently cutting straight through the middle of this horrible white...white...white evil that was smothering me. Hot and vile. Holding me in a world from which I could not move. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly the dark line expanded. Took shape to finally reveal it was the sill to a pair of narrow windows before me. Paint weather-beaten. Dried and bleached by the sun. Curled into little shreds. Creviced lines in the wood, gray and deep and dark, that used to be the grain. Bits had been shredded away by rain and wind. And the color was not consistent in tone, with some fresher-looking and the rest almost dirty. Maybe from someone’s careless pulling at the splinters. Maybe it was me did that. The possibility nudged my brain then softly wandered away. Not that it mattered. The wood was so lovely in its weaving grooves and patterns. Each line exquisitely positioned to add to its gracefulness. 

The work of an artist at his peak. 

The exquisite care taken in placing each line exactly right next to its brother. 

The flow of it poured into my soul and brought tears to my eyes. A flow emphasized by a steady line of ants scurrying back and forth across a half-straight section to...to swirl over and dismantle what was left of...of...a half-eaten sandwich? It looked like it could be. Glimpses of it appeared under those swarming creatures and it was on a dish. With crisps. Greedy little buggers wanted those, as well. 

They were set by the center post between those two windows. Looked like some sort of meat salad on light bread. Part of a crust lay next to it, neatly bitten into. 

Had it been mine? 

Possibly. There was a taste in my mouth that was rather fishy. And in my hand was a short bottle of Coke. Sweaty and half gone. Barely chilled. If it was me who sipped it, I didn’t remember but... 

The tea and cakes I shared with Joanna were so gentle and tart and real, and she loved them as much as me and...and... 

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God... 

Eyes closed. 

Eyes closed. 

Deep breath. 

Long and slow. 

Long. 

Slow. 

Long... 

Slow... 

Until the moment passed. 

Until I could open my eyes, again. 

Look at the window sill, again. 

See the black and gray was still there. 

See the ants swirling and racing back and forth. 

See the sandwich and crisps were now just a mass of the busy little beasts. 

I coughed. And drew in a deep breath. And let my heart slow its racing. Let myself think of nothing things. 

Like being seated on a chair. Old. Wooden. With arms. Dowels in the back that ran from the seat to a curved banner. I let the fingers of my right hand explore it. Smooth and polished. And creaking when I moved. But solid enough to be my anchor. 

I needed it. Needed something to brace myself with. 

The windows were narrow and near tall, and half of both were raised to let in a breeze. I looked though it and I...I almost felt as if I was floating above the ground until I saw...no, I noticed...no, realized...I was actually on the second floor of a house, looking down at a yard that was nothing like what you would find in Derry. 

And which could have used some tending. 

Half was covered in red bricks set into the earth, with grass forcing its way between them in ragged strands. A large rectangular swimming pool held the other half, more bricks and mortar encompassing it. Clumps of leaves and twigs had scattered about. At the far end was a large hutch built of similar bricks, with sliding glass doors under a narrow porch and a slanted roof made of tin. 

This was curious. I'd never seen a hutch like that in Derry, before. Brick, yes. Roof, yes. But not with doors that were so large and fragile. Was this some of the new construction up Creggan? Pennyburn, maybe? Up the Strand Road? Except...there was nothing new about it. Thick strands of ivy twisted up its corners and along the top of that porch, also enmeshing a wire fence that ran from its back corner before mingling with deep green vines of thick, drooping, leaves and fragrant yellow and white flowers. The fence surrounded the yard, and those flowery vines wandered cross the earth to wind up a pair of trees that flanked the little house. Trees offering such a lovely deep cool shade. A bunched-up strip of colorful cloth was strung between one of them and a post of the porch. An old bicycle, rusted but repairable, was propped up against the other post...and it was all so quiet and dark and still, it felt almost like a hideaway. A place to make over like was done for Mairead and Tur and where you could live and not have to think ever again...ever... 

No, Brendan, no, don't think, don't think, just look. 

Look to the shed to your right, the other side one of the trees, standing unto itself. Large and well-kept and also under a tin roof. A second hutch? 

This was growing more and more curious. 

There were two large wide doors facing a well-tended gravel drive...so it must be a garage. Maybe. No, certainly, for an old Volvo was parked in front and... 

And that bloody para snarling "Ye know cars," over his shifting column while fingering his gun and snarling, "Where'd you come from and tell us why's your mate hurt there and did you really work on a car an' weren't tossin' stones an'...and...?" 

Deep breath. 

Long and slow. 

Long. 

Slow... 

I coughed...and almost chuckled. 

Tossing stones? 

Who didn't on this side of the Foyle and why were people always wanting to know that and pushing in on you and demanding of you and not happy with your answers no matter how true and taking from you...and taking and taking, without asking if you wanted to talk and not caring about your worries and hopes and dreams like those bloody ants that were taking the last of my meal without so much as a by-your-leave, just taking it, the bastard things, and... 

I used that coke bottle to crush half of them in the line. Spilled some of it on them. 

They scattered and scurried about, and I chuckled, deep and angry. Greedy little fucks. No care for anything but your own belly. I brushed more off the sill into the air. Sent the sandwich flying with them, still on its plate. Watched it float out of sight then heard it break as it hit the ground, far below, and I smiled, thinking, Take from that, you bastards, as... 

Ma dug at me, screaming, "What's this? What's this?" waving fifty pounds before me as Da grabbed my hand and near crushed it to make me hand over the five pound note I got for my birthday and it was mine and...and... 

I bolted up from the chair to catch my spinning mind and smacked my head against the ceiling. For a moment, I saw stars. Beautiful stars, gleaming and sparking...and wondered if I was flying...then dropped back in the chair and the stars slowly drifted away. 

Brendan, Brendan, Brendan, the window is in an alcove cut into a wall and...and it slants forty-five degrees from the floor and...no, not the floor; two feet up from the floor. A gable window in a roof, and the ceiling keeps that angle halfway up then cuts across to the other side of the room, nice and flat and...and... 

Oh, bugger.

I'm in an attic.

My favorite Christmas movie, bar none...

This discussion is absolutely right.

 

KISS...

AKA: Keep It Simple, Stupid. I got so lost in trying to find a workable way to get Brendan snuck into the US and to live with his Aunt Mari, in Houston, I lost sight of the simplest way. His sister and his aunt. When everything happens, they hear about it and put a hold on the rush to judgement. Aunt Mari is able to do that because Uncle Sean gives money to NORAID. Mairead gets Eamonn to work with the guys in PIRA to give Brendan time to physically heal. Then one day they simply take him away.

And keep him in the attic. Because he's still in a virtually catatonic state thanks to the trauma and the drugs he's being fed, and he doesn't come out of it for months. By which time, things have moved on from the bombing. Later, he thinks his rucksack with his passport were found at the bombing site, but that will turn out not to be the case. The only connection he has to the bombing is he was injured by it. People in PIRA know he was seeing Joanna, but her family, while suspecting she was being sneaky about a boyfriend, don't know.

So it was by removing all the dancing I had going on around getting Brendan to Houston and just kicking it back to minimal that helped me get past the meltdown. He still vanishes from Derry in a way that could lead people to thinking he was killed and buried, but it's only ever supposition. Not even Eamonn knows it all, because he cannot keep a secret.

I've gone back through the first chapter of Book Two and changed it to reflect that, and somehow it's become more emotionally complex. It's also given me a simple explanation for why he needs to remain underground -- he's overstayed his visa and is subject to arrest.

Jesus, Kyle, sometimes you can overcomplicate things to the point of absurdity. 

And now it'll be a very Merry Christmas...

Into the valley of death...

Ah, the joy of writer's block. You never know when it's going to hit you or why or anything until suddenly -- WHOOP! There it is. And I've got it. Over a logical issue with A Place of Safety that I can see no way around. Not right now.

Again, at the end of Book One, Brendan witnesses a horrific bombing gone wrong and is seriously injured by it. This inadvertently brings attention to one of his Chinas and wreaks havoc within the Provisional IRA. The easiest way to minimize the situation is to make him vanish...let him die of his wounds and bury him. No one need know what happened, and there's no trail for the British Army to follow.

Instead, I have them go through a huge rigamarole to set him up with a fake identity and have him brought to the US on a medical visa, because he's gone into an Akinetic Psychosis. And there is no reason they would do that. I cannot find any excuse. It's too dangerous to everyone, and too obvious a setup...unless I have him hidden in an attic like something out of Jane Eyre. But then, how do I get him into the country? Across the Texas border with Mexico? Yeah, right. And again -- why? It would be expensive and dangerous.

I've tried a number of possibilities and nothing works. None of it. Tying it into his father's mysterious past is even sillier. I tried to make it so Da was part of the IRA's 1956-62 anti-British campaign, but that was a flop and besides, it didn't even start till after Brendan was born. It would have to have been something in the late forties or early fifties...and nothing much was happening then.

I sat at my window with a note pad and watched the snow roaring down, and it was blowing hard, and tried to find a way back into the story, but got nothing. So I gave up, joined Netflix, watched a couple episodes of Derry Girls, season 3 and then Glass Onion to clear my head. Normally, I'd go for a drive and do nothing stuff to let my brain settle, but it's whiteout conditions thanks to the Arctic Bomb. All day...and still going.

God, I hate it when this happens. But i guess it's better than having it published and someone pointing that out.

Collapsed...

My head is a dumpster fire, today, thanks to Book Two of APoS, in Houston. All of a sudden I started wondering, Why would the IRA or anybody involved with it go through the trouble and expense and danger of transporting an injured boy from Derry to Houston? He had messed up an IRA operation, which caused some of their members to be arrested and imprisoned by the British. Not deliberately, but that wouldn't matter. His actions exacerbated a bad situation.

He got carted off by Danny and Colm so he wouldn't be arrested, sure, but then why would they go through a lot of trouble to get him set up in the US under an alias? By rights, he should have wound up in a shallow grave in the middle of a forest. It's not like his mother would make an issue about it. Same for Eamonn, who's been rather weak, so far. They could say he died from his injuries, and that would be the safest, easiest way to handle the situation. So suddenly the whole of the Houston section was shattered. 

Same for Book Three, when he returns. I have things happening because they need to, not because it makes any sense. Everything is fine up to the end of Book One; everything after it...I don't know. What's sickening is how long it took me to wonder this. I've reworked the last two books several times and it seemed okay...until now. Working up the outline jolted me into understanding the setup is fake.

I spent the day trying to figure out how to make it work, again...and may have a possibility, maybe, using Brendan's father's murder or his mysterious past. I don't know if that will make any better sense, and it will require some reworking of Book One, but I can't let this story fall apart. It's become too enmeshed in my DNA. Brendan is also nudging me to keep going with it.

I just need to know it's going to make logical sense...and I don't, right now.

I have nothing to say, after this man's speech....

 

Slava Ukraini

KDP is still being puritanical

KDP is pulling the usual boneheaded thing of repeatedly sending me the same message when I ask them why Carli's Kills was refused. We don't publish anything that violates our terms and conditions. I point out my book doesn't, and they ignore that. It's like I'm not dealing with people but an algorithm that is unable to adjust to the moment.

I'm not really going to fight on this. It's too fucking exhausting to do this over a book that isn't really selling and is still available in ebook. It was different when they pulled the same damn thing over HTRASG. That was doing very well when they banned it in both print and Kindle, and the 10 week lapse before they reinstated it killed the sales. Never recovered, not fully.

This time? I haven't even hit a hundred total sales, between paperback and ebook. So I'm being more of an asshole about them pulling this shit on me, and I will keep it up for a while. And let people know. That's about all I can do.

I'm also working on quoting another job, one that entails travel, so did no more writing or condensing, today. Tomorrow, I have to call the UK, but that should be it. I'd like to get back to working on APoS, but I don't feel a major sense of urgency, right now. I've been involved with trying to help Ukraine in their war against Russia's terrorist army, what little I can do. That's also kind of exhausting.

And there's Elon Musk's destruction of Twitter in a narcissistic stunt that is also destroying Tesla. I finally had enough and now I don't deal with trolls on that platform; I block them. I even blocked Musk, himself. I can't handle anymore of his shallow, self-serving tweets. My attitude has extended to tother platforms I'm on, as well -- Instagram, Tribel, Facebook, Tumblr. I'm too old to have to put up with the bullshit of children.

Hell, that's why I never had any.

Busy day...

Got to working on a shipping job from the UK to the US and guiding the people doing the packing on what to do to make it better...all of which they chose to ignore. But we're going to crate the boxes so I can live with it.

I did manage to get 60% of the information I needed to better prepare our people at Heathrow on what to do. I'm hoping to get the rest of it, tomorrow.

So no writing done...but here is what I wrote for the outline of chapters one and two of Book Two. 

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Rebirth

Brendan slowly emerges from a stupor, focused mainly on a window sill, a line of ants scurrying across it, and the remains of a sandwich he realizes he was probably eating. He crushes the ants and throws the plate outside. Memories crash in on him and send him into a painful panic mode. He has a mantra to calm himself and has to use it, over and over. 

He describes the room he's in. He does not recognize where he is or understand why everything is so different from Derry. The back yard and pool. Garage and pool house. He manages to go into the bathroom and recalls being tended to by a couple of men. Looks in a mirror to find himself haggard and his beard patchy. Overwhelmed, he collapses. 

Aunt Mari finds him, takes him back to his bed and lets him know he was brought to her house in Houston. He has been there for five months, much of the time in an akinetic catatonic state. Hit with memories, he realizes Joanna is dead and passes out. 

Rejoining 

Brendan wakes late in the day. Luxuriates lying the bed and forgets where he is, for a moment, then hears voices and smells food and is very hungry. He makes himself get up and go to the bathroom to freshen up. Just brushing his teeth exhausts him, and the taste reminds him of Joanna kissing him at the circle fort. 

Wary, he tries to creep downstairs but his met by his uncle Sean and the family dog, Angus. Brendan realizes Uncle Sean is one who bathed and dressed him. Has a slow Texas way of speaking. He's taken to the living room to meet his cousins, Brandi and Bernadette, both around ten years of age and always arguing. He remembers them complaining about his crying, and recalls a son named Scott who helped Uncle Sean. 

Brendan learns he was brought to Houston in October, and it is now April, 1973. More memories jolt him until Scott returns with a friend, Jeremy, both with a hint of pot's aroma on them. Jeremy leaves and dinner is served. Then the girls try to mess with Brendan by claiming to be each other, so he snaps at them that he's mad as a march hare so be careful. They grow quiet. He's given a small amount of food on his plate due to not having been eating much, told he has a doctor's appointment in 10 days, accepts what has happened and says a prayer for those long dead.

Forward, again...

I've gone through Book Two's Chapter 3, working it down into a brief description of what's going on, and it seems longish. It's 32 pages, double-spaced in Courier 12 point...so I may be getting picky. The first two chapters were short -- 15 and 17 pages -- and cutting Chapter 3 in half would correspond to that...but I dunno...

Screw it, I just did it. And wound up adding more to Brendan's emotional state. Made sense. I should listen closer to my instincts on this book. I'm being guided through its final stages by those who know the story and their character better than I ever could.

Right now, Book Two is 484 pages, 108,000 words. And while I tell myself I'm not going to do a new draft, I'm making changes as I go along to align it better with Book One...and it's going to wind up a third draft, anyway.

So here's the last of Chapter One, AKA: Rebirth.

-----

“Bren?” asked the kindest voice one could imagine. “Are ya all right, son?” 

I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think of words to say. 

A woman wandered into my room, looking about, short and round and hair black as coal, with eyes as kind as any you’d see. I'd not seen her since Da's wake but remembered her enough to know she was Ma's sister. But what’s this? Aunt Mari was in Houston. In America. 

What the bloody hell was this!? 

She saw me in the bathroom and came over, wiping her hands on a dishrag. “Are ya all right?” 

I made myself nod, afraid of her, for some reason, and tried to pull myself back to my feet. 

She came over to help me. “Come along, me boy; back to bed. You’ll need a bit more time to rebuild your strength.” 

I backed away from her. She seemed not to notice, just took me under the arm and guided me from the washroom. 

I finally managed to croak out, “Aunt Mari? What...what’s this?” 

“Don’t ya remember, Bren? Do ya recall anything?” I shook my head as... 

Ma slapped me, screaming, “What have you done? What have you done?” and Eamonn pulled her back and Father Jack joined them but I hit him and Danny was to one side to whispering and I’d never seen him so white and afraid and near weeping, but why was he in my home when he was in Armagh, and how was I here when I was in the Waterside waiting for Joanna and...and... 

I coughed. Over and over until finally...

“Where...where am I?” I asked as Aunt Mari put me back in the bed and pulled a sheet up to cover me. Then she turned to set a small circular fan to going. I hadn't even noticed the bloody thing. 

“Good. Two coherent questions in a row. There were some feared you’d never come out of it.” 

“...Aunt Mari...?” 

She gave me a look that could mean a thousand things, then she said, soft and easy, “You’re in my home. In Houston. They sent you here after...well...” 

After... 

White filled the air with smoke and debris and a single child’s leg flipped through the air twisting over and around like some form of ballet and Joanna fought to free herself as the flames danced, danced, danced closer and closer and filled the world and the sound of someone screaming in my voice crushed my ears and... 

I gasped. Gulped in air. Sharp hideous whimpers burst from me. Aunt Mari wrapped me in her arms. Held me close to her. Smoothed my hair. 

“Shh-shh-shh-shh-shh, me boy. You’re all right now. You’re safe here.” 

It took me some moments to stop breathing so fast and sharp, but her holding me did much to slow my pain so I could whisper, “I'm not in Derry. I'm gone from Derry. I'm here. Here. How long?” 

She hesitated. I pulled away from her, my eyes begging, so she murmured, “Just over five month.” 

Five months? 

Five bloody months gone to nothing? 

Five months since...since... Joanna was no longer. 

I had seen her die. I tried to fight off the horror growing within me, for a deep part of me acknowledged I could do nothing to change it. She’d be long buried by now. Food for those bloody fucking ants and other creatures that feasted on the dead, with no thought of them who’d dreamed with us and hoped with us and prayed with us and loved us and...and... 

Joanna kissed me by the door and smoke enveloped us and flames laughed around us and... 

That god damned hideously awful blinding white filled my world with silence.

Sidetracked...

This was an interesting day. I was working right along, doing my step outline for Book Two and suddenly I could not figure out where Brendan's room is in his aunt's house. So I went looking for the diagram I thought I'd worked up to show it, but couldn't find it. So went online to look at house layouts from 1970 and started trying to work it out, again...and got totally lost. Because it also matters where everything is on the main floor, when he finally comes downstairs.

After a couple hours of working up diagrams and hating them after thinking they were okay because they sort of worked and finding nothing online that could even begin to fit into the story, I began storyboarding it.

That helped me work my way back through and make up a new diagram that worked. Here it is...though I see I forgot to allow for the chimney on the right side. But I know it's there.

This picks up immediately after Brendan's annihilation of the ants --

--------

Then I heard...

"I'm telling you, he's not all there. The accident hurt him bad, and considering what he saw..." with eyes cold and hard under a policeman's cap glaring straight into mine as words growled, "I think he's just drugged up" in a Dublin accent that made no sense even as it did...it did...it did. 

I spun in the chair to catch up with my spinning mind. Then I chuckled and stopped it, for I didn't know if I was spinning in the right direction to do it. I wound up facing away from the window. Silence wrapped around me and the steadiness of it all was driving me mad. I looked about the room, seeking an anchor, my breath fast and hard. It was larger than Ma’s, with a massive bed and frame against the wall, diagonal to my left. Bigger than the bed I'd shared with Eamonn. 

Eamonn. 

His face almost as white as his eyes, shaking and fighting with Ma to pull her away from me, and me fighting over nothing for nothing could be done and I wept howled and screamed and cursed and...and... 

I wrapped my arms around me and jammed my eyes closed. 

Tight. 

Gasping. 

Gasp... 

Breathe in. 

Soft out. 

Slow. 

Steady. 

Over and over and over until I finally...finally could open my eyes, again, and slowly let more of the room become visible. 

The space was dark and light, both. Tables beside the bed held lamps and one had a digital clock that read 1:42. A unit of shelves to the other side of it was filled with books that looked like they'd never been read. To this side of the bed were a door and a comfortable chair next to a pair of sliding doors that I think opened to a closet. I turned back to the books and finally noticed a writing desk was jammed the other side of the window, across from the foot of the bed. 

No...windows. Two windows. Me seated by one; the other over the desk. Letting soft beams of light dance in with little flickers of dust to make it seem happy and carefree and late in the day. 

But it wasn't late; the clock said early afternoon. 

I looked at the walls. Paper with soft lines of golds and browns and oranges and greens covered them while plain tan paper swept across the ceiling. Picture-prints in black frames hung here and there, with areas around some of them faded, as if there had been larger items in their place. Most of them were of skies filled with clouds and... 

Clouds passed below me as I hummed and could not believe the beauty of it all, even as I sang "The Banks of Claudy" and walked in the night, Joanna beside me...but no. No, I'd not met her yet, and... 

I grimaced. 

Did not move. 

Did not breathe till my lungs were bursting for air. 

This room...it made no sense. It tore at my mind in little ways that I didn't understand. Over and over and...and... 

I ran my hands through my hair and rubbed the back of my neck. 

Just look. Don't think. Just look. Just look. 

I opened my eyes and took a view of the desk. On it was a typewriter under its own cover. A cup of pens beside it. A lamp behind it. A light layer of dust on them, showing they'd not been touched in a while. 

I turned back to the bed. Its covers were mussed. Slippers and a robe lay on the floor. That is when I noticed I was in pajamas. Bottoms only, and it was good they were. The air was warm and thick, not at all like early winter... 

But like milk fresh from a cow pouring into our tea, in Malcom's tender farmhouse, and Joanna sipping it so much like a lady as children laughed in the distance and a boy and girl chased each other from a shop, dancing about in full happiness until the boy fell against the car and... 

I bolted from the chair to pace, my breath harsh and sudden, my arms wrapped around me. Panic filed my entire body and I put my hands to my ears but the laughter haunted me. Mocked me as I walked the length of that room, back and forth... 

And back and forth... 

And back and forth and shaking and coughing until the sound faded and I could slow my pacing and let my arms curl down so my hands could cup my face. 

I noticed a smell that came from my skin. A scented soap so clean and fresh and... 

My shirt was removed by two men, one my age and one twice as old, and I was sat on the toilet to remove my boots and socks then guided to my feet for one set of hands to tug at my pants as the other held me up and... 

I turned to look at a door beside the closet. I knew it was the loo before I crossed to open it. 

Which I did. 

Slowly. 

Carefully. 

The door creaked, and I thought, Could use a touch of oil, then I looked inside. 

It was a room far too bright and long and narrow and happy to be real, with a massive tub and shower curtain to the left side. A pair of wash basins below a tall mirror were opposite. Two small windows in the wall flanking above the mirror let in light and there was a door at the far end that I knew...somehow I knew...would be locked. 

I slipped in and saw the toilet was behind a partition on the far right corner. Everything was in perfect condition, save for towels that hung haphazardly from neat little bars affixed to the wall by the sinks. I smelled one and it held the same lingering aroma of that soap and... 

The older man rubbed me down with one, wiping away warm trails of water and talking in a voice that made no sense, as the younger one brought in the pajamas and robe and my hair was toweled off then combed, as if he’d done it a hundred times before and... 

I drifted down to sit on the edge of the tub, not so much from confusion as from dizziness. I was still breathing quick and unsteady, and that bastard cough would pop in every now and then...but the panic and fear were less. 

I was not in Derry, anymore, I was sure of that. But I had no sense of the time. Was it the day after? Two days? A week? Was I in the Republic? Down to the south? Did it grow warmer, down there? No...no, the weather was warm to the point of hot and the stillness of it oppressed almost to where you couldn’t breathe. This could never be winter in Ireland. Nor even summer. Was I in the tropics? 

I made myself rise and lean against the sink to look in the mirror. Looking back was a hollow-eyed fellow with scruff as a beard. Well, scruff in the places it would grow. My hair was long to my shoulders and ratty with curls. My skin was grey and my bones showed on my sides. Like twenty years had passed. I began to shake and my knees gave out and I dropped to the floor and... 

I flew through clouds of the finest mist molded into perfect playthings, with the sky above them as blue as blue could be as seen through a small window with rounded corners that distorted everything but I didn’t care because the clouds were my prayers and wishes filled them to bursting and hopes danced in the shadows of their billowing tufts as they soared past like dreams and a hand touched me and I looked around and... 

Someone entered my room, without knocking.

Opening to Book Two of APoS...

This is pretty much settled as the beginning of A Place of Safety - Houston. I'm thinking of changing the subtitle to New World for Old...but could that be too cute or obscure? Still thinking on that.

Brendan was caught in a horrific bombing in Derry and injured not only physically but emotionally.

-----

Rebirth 

A thick line of swirling black crossed my eyes. 

Slowly. 

Slowly. 

Slowly drifting into focus. 

Silently cutting straight through the middle of the horrible white...white...white evil smothering me. Hot and vile and holding me in a place from which I could not move. 

Slowly. 

Slowly. 

Slowly the dark line expanded. Took shape to finally reveal it was an old windowsill before me. Paint weather-beaten, dried and bleached by the sun. Curled into little shreds. Creviced lines, gray and deep and dark, that used to be the grain on a sort of wood. 

I think. 

But what else could it be? I could see now...that bits had been shredded away by rain and wind. Maybe someone’s careless pulling at the splinters. The gray was not consistent in tone. Maybe it was me did that. The thought nudged my brain then softly wandered away. Not that it mattered. The wood was so lovely in its weaving grooves and patterns. Each line exquisitely positioned to add to its gracefulness. The work of an artist at his peak. And all this for a mere sill to a window. 

How perfect. 

The beauty of it brought tears to my eyes. The exquisite care taken in placing each line exactly right next to its brother. But what added the finest compliment was a steady line of ants scurrying back and forth across a half-straight section to swirl over and dismantle what was left of...of a half-eaten sandwich? 

Oh...and crisps on a dish. Greedy little buggers wanted those, as well. 

Both were set in the corner of the window, just to my right. Looked like some sort of fish salad on light bread. Not dried out or so very old. Part of a crust lay next to it. 

Had it been mine? 

Possibly. There was a taste in my mouth that was rather fishy. And in my hand was a short bottle of Coke. Sweaty and half gone. Barely chilled. If it was me who sipped it, I didn’t remember but... 

The tea and cakes I shared with Joanna at The Diplomat were so smooth in the mixture of gentle and tart and real, and she loved it as much as me and...and... 

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God...eyes closed.  Eyes closed. Deep breath. Long and slow. 

Long. 

Slow. 

Long... 

Slow... 

I finally opened my eyes. 

Looked at the window sill. 

The black and gray was still there. The ants still swirled and raced back and forth. The sandwich and crisps were still a mass of busy little beasts. 

I coughed. And drew in a deep breath. And let my heart slow its racing.

I was seated on a chair. One that swiveled back and forth with a gentle creak.

My anchor. 

I needed it, for by looking outside the window, I was floating well above the ground and...and I saw...no, I just noticed...no, realized...I was actually on the first floor of a house, looking down at a yard that was nothing like what you would find in Derry. 

And which could have used some tending. 

Half was covered in red bricks, with grass forcing its way between them in ragged strands. Clumps of leaves and twigs were scattered about. A large rectangular swimming pool held the other half, more bricks and mortar encompassing it. At the far end was a small house built of similar bricks, with its windows trimmed in black and a slanted roof made of tin. 

How curious...I'd not seen a building like that in Derry, before. Brick, yes. Roof, yes. But the windows were of a modern type that seemed wrong for my part of the world. Was this some of the new construction up Creggan? Pennyburn, maybe? Up the Strand Road? 

Except...there was nothing new about it. Thick strands of ivy twisted up its corners and along the top to a covered porch. A wire fence laced with deep green vines of thick, drooping, leaves and fragrant yellow and white flowers extended from it to surround the yard and wander up a pair of trees that flanked the little house. Trees offering such a lovely deep cool shade. A bunched-up strip of colorful cloth was strung between one of them and a post of that porch. An old bicycle, rusted but repairable, was propped up against the other post. It was all dark and still and felt almost like a little hideaway. 

A large, ragged clap-board shed was to my right, before one of the trees, standing unto itself. Also under a tin roof...and much in need of painting. This was growing more and more curious. No, confusing.

No...no...frightening... 

Two large wide doors faced a well-tended gravel drive that led up to the shed. No...it must be garage...maybe...for an old Volvo was parked to one side and... 

And that bloody para with the shifting column fingering his gun and snarling, "Where'd you come from and tell us why's your mate hurt there and did you really come from workin' a car an' not from tossin' stones an'...and...?" 

Deep breath. 

Long and slow. 

Long. 

Slow... 

And I coughed...and almost chuckled. Tossing stones? Who didn't on this side of the Foyle and why were people always wanting to know that and pushing in on you and demanding of you and not happy with your answers no matter how true and taking from you...and taking and taking, like those bloody ants were taking the last of my meal without so much as a by-your-leave, the bastard things, and... 

I used that coke bottle to crush half of them in the line. Spilling some over the greedy little fucks. No care for anything but their own belly. They scattered and scurried about, and I chuckled, deep and angry, and brushed more off the sill into the air. Sent the sandwich flying with them, still on its plate. I heard it break as it hit the ground, far below, and I smiled, thinking, Take from that, you bastards...

APoS - Book 2 - Houston

I've started building the outline for Houston from the second draft, while going through it and updating bits in it that reference back to Book One. For example, in Book Two Brendan has a memory of taking Joanna to Wee Johnny's for a lemonade but he never does that in Book One. There'd be too much chance someone he knows would see them there and word get around that he's dating a Protestant girl.

Of course, word does get around, eventually, but he's covered by no one knowing for sure what religion she is until Danny mentions some IRA guys recognized her mother as being the wife of a Protestant paramilitary group leader. Then Colm tells him to end it or else, convincing Brendan he has to leave Derry to protect Joanna.

I've gone through the first two chapters. I'm not rushing this, but I'm also not doing a real rewrite of the story. Just making sure I have the info right. Plus, those two chapters are more about him coming out of a psychotic break and back into the world than any sort of story really happening. He's still going to be dealing with PTSD, which wasn't called that, back then. It was just battle fatigue and applied only to soldiers in a war, like Viet Nam.

Houston was really starting to explode in the early 70s. The city's size is already overwhelming, as is its wealth. The city was working up a master plan for the downtown area that included developers and corporations and politicians all on the same side. Which actually worked; a lot of the skyscrapers downtown actually fit together nicely, unlike Dallas' downtown. His uncle is a successful owner of a couple bars and about to buy another one. His aunt's family is in River Oaks, the rich area. But Houston is still very small town in attitude, as is revealed as the story goes along.

Something this outline will help me do is work out where to add sections I want in the story. Like when Brendan and a couple friends go to Austin to hear a punk rock band from San Antonio play at a bar called Raul's. It's needed because it factors into a moment in Book Three, when Brendan returns to Derry.

Trying to think ahead as well as behind.

What a fun day...not...

Seems I got too pleased with myself so the fates slapped me down. KDP sent me a notice that they would not accept CK for distribution. It violated their terms and conditions. No further information. Bastards.

So I've done my usual thing of asking why and pointing out to them that they accepted it last week and that all I'd done was correct some typos so wondered what the deal was. I also pointed out they've already sold one of the uncorrected copies. Now they're doing the usual, We'll look into it and get back to you, next week.

If that doesn't work, then I'm going to push for a detailed explanation and use the violation of contract aspect. After all, they did accept the book and they have sold a copy, showing intent. It's a ludicrous long shot to get Amazon to pay any attention, but you never know.

It's probably just some grunt in their New Haven office who decided what I wrote is pornography because it has sex in it, and never mind it's not as detailed as you see in 50 Shades of Gray or 9 1/2 Weeks, or even a Jackie Collins novel. But...Carli does kill some people after sex. Like what happens in half the teen horror films of the 70s, 80s, 90s and since. The capriciousness of it is infuriating.

TBH, if this goes against me I'm tempted to just leave it in ebook. I sold more through Smashwords and it's just not worth the $45 it would take to set it up on Ingram, again. The cost would not because I've removed it from there; it's because I've changed the text and altered the cover, so both would need to be uploaded as fresh, anyway.

This is another reason I'm going to push really hard to set APoS with a mainstream publisher. Amazon won't pull this crap with them, nor will Ingram.

Anyway, tomorrow starts Smashwords' latest sale. Hope this does well. I could use the money...and the verification that my books can still sell and be read. I just wish people would give me some reviews. I refuse to pay for them. 

Done in time...

I went through Carli's Kills and got the typos corrected...the ones that I found. To my horror, I'd actually placed a period in Dr Pepper. Unforgivable. I'm sure there are others hiding from me, even now. But it's really fucking irritating. I had this thing proofed and edited and it still happened. Anyway, it's re-uploaded onto KDP and into Smashwords in time for the sale that starts on the 15th. Whether or not I shift CK to Kindle depends on how things go during that sale.

If the sale does well, I may keep my ebooks at $0.99. Sales have been declining over the last year so maybe that will boost them. That or my books are at the end of their retail life. I'm also waiting to see how CK does with KDP before I decide on shifting The Alice '65 over to it, though just in paperback.

But that made for a couple of long days at the laptop. Tomorrow I need to get milk and some things, and shift my focus back to APoS Book Two, but may take the day off for that part. Let my head clear.

It's funny, but reading CK backwards made it seem even more like a long-form screenplay than a novel. It's nowhere near as rich in detail as APoS Book One is. That's not a criticism or self-put-down. I've been working on APoS, overall, for nearly thirty years, much as I hate to admit that. So small wonder it's got details out the ass. I'm writing the biography of a fictional person who's become so very real to me, I want to make sure I do him right.

CK is more a fun erotic-horror-thriller-romance kind of genre mashup that skates along. There's some character depth, but not in a novelistic way. Only as much as it takes to keep the story going. I guess I should throw in it's kind of pulp-fiction-y, too. Like Elmore Leonard or John D MacDonald. Quick cheesy sleazy fun.

A truth is proven...

It's long been said that if you want to find a typo in your book, have it edited, proofed, published and then, when you get your copy, open to a random page and there it will be. Well...that actually happened to me, today. I got a print copy of Carli's Kills from KDP and opened it to check the printing and formatting -- all good -- and then I looked at the next to the last page of the next to last chapter...and there it was. His instead of This.

I howled.

Then noticed a second typo -- a missing "." partway into the last chapter. So working on APoS went out the window and I am now going through the book, backwards, zoomed into 400% on the text and checking all the way. I'm at the mid-point, now, and my eyes are crossed, but it did help me notice one step I take did not go through, and I know I did it.

I sometimes cut off dialogue with a - " to indicate the following speaker interrupted the person speaking. Problem is, Times New Roman reads the quotation mark as being at the beginning of a sentence instead of the end, and puts it in backwards, as is evident on the image, midway to the left, in comparison to one just above it. I usually do a replace all to correct that...and I'm 99% sure I did it on CK, bit it didn't take. And I didn't notice. So I'll be re-uploading the text to KDP, once I'm done. That's too many to ignore.

The one issue with going through the story like I'm doing is it takes a long time and is rather tedious. Of course, it also makes it impossible to get caught up in the story. I do about 1/5 a page at a time, on my laptop's monitor. But now I'm so paranoid that I have more typos, I'm pushing through the whole book.

Partial-page-by-partial-page.

Social media isn't

Got myself into a couple of fights on Twitter and Instagram with rightwing trolls, something I told myself I'd never do...and I reminded myself why I should have stuck to that attitude. Those fuckers are so full of hate and anger, they are incapable of rational thought. Just rabid dogs, nothing more. It's too bad euthanasia isn't allowed for their type; the only alternative is to isolate them.

So today was spent clearing the fuckers out by blocking them. Did some on Tribel, too. But reality is, it's a lot of effort for very little actual payoff...except in not having to deal with their bullshit.

To clear my brain, I watched a couple of Charlie Chan movies on YouTube -- ...in Monaco and ...at the Opera. Both classics. Warner Oland is always going to be the best Charlie Chan. He has Asian features thanks to his Finnish lineage and had the gentle demeanor down pat. Sydney Toler is okay, but his voice is close to whiney and he acts too superior. Warner Baxter's version is unwatchable.

I also worked out my financial situation and got truly bummed. I'm deeper in debt at the end of this year than at the end of the last, though only by just under a couple thousand dollars. I guess that's okay. But it's another year of no giving to anyone. I've got to reverse this slide into poverty. Good thing is, I'm getting a bump from Social Security that might help a little. It'll mean an increase in my rent; that's a percentage of my SS and will still be less than when I was in a smaller apartment.

Part of the issue is I'm supporting my youngest brother, financially...and will be for another year until he reaches the age where he can get early SS. That'll just about wipe my savings out, but it's that or he's homeless and that's unacceptable. My sister in Texas is helping with him, but my other brother isn't. No further comment on that.

Tomorrow I'm getting back on APoS and doing the outline for Book Two, then comes Book Three.

Brain dead...

Today was a frustrating day trying to get GoodReads listings straightened out and not succeeding. So I'm just putting up another song by Wardruna...a group bringing forth ancient Norwegian songs that cut deep into me.

I listened to them when I was working on the first part of Darian's Point, for they bring that ancient structural vibe out so beautifully. Turn on the CC and catch the wording...

Changes...

Okay...first, I've input red pen correction of the long-form synopsis and only added 200 words. Doin' good. I'm not going through it, again; I could do that for the rest of my life, changing a word here and comma there. Not worth the hassle.

That was emphasized to me when I went into the Word file for Carli's Kills to change the ISBN and note it's a 2nd edition...and did a minor polish on the first chapter. I actually had to force myself to stop, save, save as a PDF and turn to updating the cover. I removed the barcode (Amazon provides their own)...and then adjusted the tag line on the back page and started to rethink the synopsis on it...and did a major kicking of self.

Meanwhile, notice finally came in that Ingram has removed CK from distribution. I had to send in a second request. So I uploaded everything for the paperback to KDP. I got an almost instantaneous proof to go over and am now awaiting confirmation that it's acceptable to them. There's some intense sex in it, so I made sure to note it's erotica as well as a suspense thriller.

I'm not deciding about shifting it to Kindle until after the first of the year. Smashwords is having a year-end sale from December 15-31 and I want to see how that goes. I've lined my books up with it, so all are at $0.99 each during that time.

If this turns out okay, I'll shift The Alice '65 over, next, in paperback. I'm still leery of Amazon and its quirks, but hell...if Ingram is going to start pulling the same shit I may as well go with the big dog.

Print and red pen the synopsis...

I printed the synopsis out and while waiting for my car to be serviced went through it with a red pen. Found more typos, of course, and a couple points that needed a bit of clarification, but once this set of corrections is input, I'm done with that part.

Next, I'm going to update the covers and text for CK and A65 and set those up on KDP. I'm still hearing uncomfortable things about Amazon and their algorithmic quirks, but I've got to try something and this will be it. Ingram isn't exactly giving me the warm and fuzzies, right now. I asked to have CK removed from distribution last week and have yet to hear back from them.

After that, I think I'll work up a preliminary outline for APoS Book Two, in Houston, then maybe Book Three, in Derry. Both are in second draft stage so I have them fairly well plotted out.

I bought a small bottle of Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon...with a screw cap! Had a glass as I watched a ludicrous 1937 movie written but not directed by Preston Sturges. Easy Living, with Jean Arthur and Ray Milland...and it was weird. Almost awful. A secretary has an expensive fur coat land on her head while riding in an open air bus (it's in New York) and people start thinking she's the mistress of the very rich man who threw it off a balcony to punish his extravagant wife. Chaos ensues along with nonstop misunderstandings that no one would even begin to misunderstand until all ends well.

It was free on YouTube so I'm not bitchin'. And the wine was good. I should have had some cheese and crackers with it. But now I've toasted this step in my success and I'm ready to move forward. Maybe I'll check to see if Warner Oland's Charlie Chans are on there. I had a full set of them but they got sold, in San Antonio, while I was taking care of my mother...as did 75% of my DVD collection. But if you need money to live...

Happiness...

I want to share something that surprised me. I went through the long form outline for A Place of Safety-Derry to streamline and trim. It was 29 chapters condensed over 16 pages and 8900 words long. I went over it in one swoop, today, also correcting typos...and in cutting it back I added 800 words and one page. My goal was to make it readable because I'm going looking for a mainstream publisher for this book, and it does flow better and gleans some of the emotional connections in the story. I feel it builds steadily to the bombing that nearly destroys Brendan, but is it too long for this sort of synopsis? I don't know, because...

When I hit the point where to be continued in book two is positioned, halfway down page 17...I started bawling. Lost it, completely. I'd never gone through the book completely in one go, before...it had always been in segments and chapters and bits & pieces until now...and when I finally got a full sense of the story, as it currently stands, suddenly I couldn't handle the fact that I wrote this.

I fucking wrote this!

A story about a boy, over six years of his life, and the way he is shaped and formed and made, in more than 580 double-spaced pages and nearly 133,000 words and years dancing with it and working around it and pushing through my doubts and concerns and fears...and I now had it in a state where it's close to being done. And I wrote it.

Me!

Fuck...I could not stop crying over it for five minutes, I was so fucking happy...and so fucking proud of myself. It's not perfect, yet; I need to do one more pass for clarity and consistency, but that's immaterial. I fucking wrote a fucking novel that I never thought I'd be able to write. And I am so fucking proud of me...and thankful Brendan never gave up on me.

Now I only have to make sure Books 2 and 3 match it.

Respite into rerouting...

While doing chores, today -- laundry, cooking, cleaning, dusting, all so damned domestic -- I also tried to figure out what to do about a couple of books I have up on Ingram that are not doing well, sales-wise. The Alice '65 sales died months ago, and Carli's Kills is going nowhere.  So I'm thinking of shifting them to Kindle and KDP to see if that will do anything for them.

I know part of the issue, if not the main part, is I don't know how to do marketing for them and cannot afford the cost of having someone do it for me. I'm still in the red on A65, and CK...it's a complete loss...so I've come to the conclusion that I should just bite the bullet and assign two of my last three ISBNs to set them up as new editions with KDP; at least Kindle doesn't require one for ebooks Make them as good as I can.

It just means I have to redo the covers by taking off the barcodes, and redo the texts by changing the ISBNs in them. I may withdraw the hardcover of A65, as well; it wasn't a very good idea. And I'll go through them and correct any typos I missed or were missed by my editor. One or two of the little bastards always manage to sneak through.

Might do the same for The Lyons' Den, as well, if this works out. Update the cover. It helps that Kindle has apparently stopped letting people return books they've read. Now the buyer can't have read more than 20% of the book, as I understand it. I better verify that.

Another something I'm considering is setting up How to Rape a Straight Guy under a new title, with KDP. Maybe call it Curt, and note on the copyright page it used to be HTRASG. Ingram still won't tell me why they stopped distributing it, but Amazon still has it listed. Meaning, 4th edition.

This is why I'm trying to set APoS up with a publisher.

Book One synopsis/outline is done

I have the full outline/synopsis of Book One completed, for APoS. I'll need to go back through it and do some cleaning up. Maybe simplifying. Each chapter keeps getting longer and longer. I won't post any more of it unless people want me to. I don't think it's very easy to follow the story in such a shorthand way.

Next, I'm going to do the same for Book Two, set in Houston. After that comes Book Three, which I know I need to add a fair bit to, when Brendan returns to Derry in the middle of the hunger strike. I'd like to have them all ready to show potential agents or publishers. I'm going to hit hard at that after the first of the year, once the holidays have calmed down.

I'm also shifting a couple of my books from Ingram Spark to KDP Print. I might do them in Kindle, as well, now that Amazon's stopped letting people return books they've read for a refund. Not crazy about it, but reality is these two really need a boost and access to a wider audience, and I can't get that through Smashwords and Ingram. Plus, I'm leery of Ingram after what they pulled with How to Rape a Straight Guy.

I'm feeling the need to complete my writing projects ASAP because I'm having more and more difficulty at the keyboard. It's like I'm developing a severe form of dyslexia -- missing words, hitting the wrong letter key, reversing letters in words and, lately, inputting combinations of letters that make no sense. For some reason, I'm prone to type could as caoudl, now, and I did and as wkna. That sort of thing. Makes me nervous.

I do wonder if I've always be a bit dyslexic or prone to ADHD or something. Such issues were not diagnosed when I was growing up, and I wonder if I just developed coping mechanisms that are wearing out. I asked my doctor about Alzheimer's and did the test, and I passed it okay. But that was a year ago, so...

I'm just old junker of a car and falling apart, finally.

A long section

I'm debating breaking the Danny chapter up because it's long, by my standards. 40 pages, as typed. But I'm not sure. I could remove the memory Brendan has in the second half...but not sure where else it would work. Still, here it is...

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Danny 

It's 1970, and Brendan turns 14 with celebration, including a cap with an Apollo 11 patch on it. He gives his Apollo 7 cap to Rhuari. Ma is still joyous about Michael Paul, and Mairead is pregnant, again, and let go from her job. Eamonn is at Queens. Brendan does half-days at school, works steadily at McClosky's, and still does extra jobs. While looking into repairing a TV, he sees Father Jack's Cortina nearby, even though the man is supposed to be in Dublin. 

Heading home, he sees Colm, Paidrig and wee Eammon heading up to Long Tower for some footy, so joins them. They see Father Jack drive past, on Bishop, with someone who looks familiar with him, then come across a moody Danny. Paidrig makes a funny comment then Danny attacks him. The others separate them then Danny runs up on the walls. Brendan chases after him as Colm and wee Eammon tend to Paidrig. In a bastion overlooking the Bogside, Danny reveals he knows about Joanna and tells Brendan her father is in the Ulster Volunteer Force, a virulent anti-Catholic group. Brendan fears for her safety, but Danny says he's told no one else about them. 

They talk about how the British are paying more attention to Protestants than Catholics, and how the Bodgside wasn't so much protected by the Army as made into a ghetto. It comes out that Danny was at a meeting with Father Jack and Father Demian, and he told of being molested by the latter one. It was denied and Danny's own parents backed up the priest, and Danny is torn up about it. 

Brendan recalls an earlier occasion when he saw Danny struck by his father during an argument and he ran off, bleeding. Brendan took him to an older woman's house to get him cleaned up then they went to Woolworth's for candy. But then Brendan said something wrong and Danny crushed the candy under his heel. They never spoke of it, again, but now Brendan sees it was part of a pattern and wonders if Danny's father blackmailed the church into giving him a good job. Brendan then considers the possibility something similar happened to his father at the orphanage he'd lived in. 

They share a joint and Danny comments on how Brendan sometimes seems to play both sides of the fence, especially now he's seeing a Protestant girl. He's almost back to normal but turns down Brendan's offer to go to the circle fort and smoke and drink and look at the stars all night. Danny leaves and the next day his family moves to Armagh, letting Mairead and Tur sneak into their house to take over. Eamonn takes over the hutch so Brendan is alone in his bed. He tries to find out more about his father but his mother furiously beats him and demands he stop. He does...for now. 

Hidey Holes 

The RUC is re-organized into the Police Authority with no real change. Demonstrations keep devolving into rock-throwing, which the Army is growing impatient with. Brendan's mother is drawn deeper into Nationalist organizations and harsher with her disparaging of him. With Mairead gone, the tension between them is on the rise. 

Eamonn comes home from Belfast and says he will not return to Queens. His clothes carry the scent of burned wood. Brendan knows what's happening there thanks to a news agent letting him read the Belfast papers, and asks Eamonn about it. Most of the fires were in the Ardoyne, away from Queens. Eamonn reveals he hasn't been at Queens for some time, and Brendan works out that he's joined with the Provisional IRA. He reveals he smuggled a pistol into Derry and asks Brendan to hide it. 

Brendan takes the pistol apart and hides it all over the house, in pieces. He also finds a box of bullets in the hutch and hides those, as well, irritated. He refuses to let Eamonn know where the pieces are because the push and shove between Catholics, Protestants and the British army is growing more and more intense. Bernadette Devlin is sent to jail for aiding in the Battle of Bogside and Derry is not happy about it. More families are burned out of their homes, and a British politician begins talking about an acceptable level of violence. 

Brendan and Joanna keep managing to meet, but on the Protestant of the Foyle, at Marianne's Tea Shop. They keep it going till Brendan's 15th birthday, in 1971. The first British soldier is killed. The Catholics are blamed. Bombs are now going off, almost daily. Cars are hijacked, Catholics rousted by the Army with some being killed, businesses on both sides are being forced to donate to their respective causes -- IRA or UVF. Aunt Mari stops sending money because of restrictions on mail. McClosky's is burned out so Brendan has no job, just the occasional work. The area is spiraling close and closer to full civil war. He wonders why stupid people are always in charge.

More of the outline/synopsis...

Continuing from yesterday....

------

Fleadh

Brendan bathes and sleeps better than ever, waking to find Eamonn also asleep, Aidan sleeping downstairs, and Tur in the hutch while Ma and Mairead fix their evening meal. Mairead gives him a cup of tea and peace is everywhere. The British Army is welcomed and the IRA disparaged with the title I Ran Away, thanks to their amazing lack of support during the battle. 

Word comes a celebration Fleadh will be held at the end of August -- Derry Merry; Derry Free -- in honor of their victory. A gable wall on Lecky Road is painted with You Are Now Entering Free Derry. Bands come from Ireland and England. Dances are everywhere, as is food. Discussions. Media outlets asking about what happened. People wander about, finally enjoying what they've achieved. There is still a lot of back and forth in negotiations regarding reforms, but the feeling is they now have forward movement. 

The second day of the Fleadh, Joanna appears with two of her friends and snatches Brendan's Apollo 7 cap to wear. Brendan is startled...then nervous because Jackie is coming over to find out who these unknown girls are. He makes up an explanation and Joanna plays along, flirting with Jackie and his mates. All is good, for now, so Brendan escorts the girls around the celebration then takes them home to the Waterside.  

Brendan is invited into Joanna's home. Their name is Martin and he claims to be Billy Corrie. Her brother, Charles, is suspicious but he impresses the parents. Even fixes a toaster for them. He leaves for the bus, proud of how he handled himself, but is caught up to by Charles, who finally recognized him from the bus depot. He is nearly brutalized but manages to escape and get home without much damage. Then he dreams about Joanna, again, knowing its foolish to want to know her...but thinking she's worth any trouble it would take. 

Joanna 

Derry's autonomy is accepted as de facto and life goes on. Mairead gives birth to Michael Paul and Ma is joyous around him. Brendan finds the checkpoints are difficult to deal with so lets Danny handle clients on Waterloo and up Strand Road; he already knows how to quietly bribe the soldiers with Marlboros. Brendan gets on part-time with Mr. McClosky's auto repair and both boys work with shopkeepers in the British Pound's change to decimalization. Father Jack was in the US during the Battle but comes back with his usual both-sides attitude. Eamonn, Jackie and Aidan are back at Queens. Colm's back to smuggling and makes sure Brendan and Danny always have Marlboros...for a price.

Charles tells his parents who Brendan is, but that doesn't stop anything. Brendan writes Joanna letters and has truck drivers post them in other towns, so there's no recognizable postmark. Asks her to meet him at a cafe for tea and cakes. She agrees. Brendan finagles his way past the checkpoints into Waterloo, does some customer checking then finally sees Joanna with her mother. She sees him and nods. He makes an order at the Diplomat Cafe and she sneaks in to join him. 

Their conversation is low-key but her off-hand comments make Brendan think better of himself. They meet more times then comes Christmas. He buys her a pendant and she gives him a set of tiny screwdrivers, to help with his repairs on smaller items. He's overcome...because it means she listens to him. She hears him, even when he doesn't speak. He's never had that, before.