I spy my stye...

Not a day for writing. Not when you're dealing with a stye on your right eye that makes it difficult to focus. My left eye is not my strong one, but the right is a bit puffy and nagging at me so I cannot see, very well. I'm calling my ophthalmologist in the morning to see if he'll work me into his schedule. 

It's been years...hell, decades since the last time I had one. And that time I got an ointment to put over it to kill the infection. But right now eyedrops are only barely doing anything. Warm compresses have helped, however.

So what did I do instead, on Easter Sunday? I cleaned my stove. I was baking a casserole and it overflowed, making the oven smoke enough to set off the smoke alarm. Had to slam the windows open, get the fans going and punch the mute button three times to make it stop before the fire department was called. Talk about a comment about my cooking...

So the smoke is cleared out. Laundry done. Dishes washed. Casserole partially eaten. And nearly 3 hours spent cleaning the damn oven. That stuff was caked onto what I think was previous dinners' remains from before I moved in, it was so damn thick and crusty. Used two whole Brillo pads and every paper towel in my apartment to complete it.

I'd never paid attention to the base of the oven, before. When I baked something, it was no issue. Never even looked at it. But now it's clean. And my hands are raw. And my back is not happy.

But...I think I have an idea of what to do about Brendan's emotional turmoil over the waitress' murder. Currently, he talks about it with Everett on the phone. That's getting cut. I like it, but it's muting his relapse. I might be able to put it later, but at this point in the story he is having a visceral reaction to what's happened and is cutting himself off from everyone.

Maybe his talk with Everett is what begins to bring him back...

Difficult moments...

I'm not sure I'm doing a chapter in NWFO correctly. It deals with the death of a waitress Brendan works with at his uncle's bar, and it feels glib. Brusque. Almost like it doesn't belong...but it is necessary for the story. It marks him, because he'd grown close to her. Protected her against her abusive husband. And feels responsible when the man kills her and himself.

He'd been able to battle back his sense of guilt over the death of Joanna. Accept that her father would have been a target of the Provisional IRA no matter what, and that the bomb went off prematurely due to circumstances beyond anyone's real control. But this puts him back to square one.

So it's right, where it is. It's blunt and brutal.  But it's missing something to anchor it better to the story. And that's what today's been all about. Catholic guilt is all through it, sure. Depression. Would adding self-harm work within this? I don't get the sense Brendan would do that to himself. He's not the least bit suicidal.

He just takes it all in. Berates himself. Drinks and smokes and does pot and pills...but not to a massive extent. He gets angry and is hurt, but he's always been a step back from everything except when he's repairing something. Is that what I'm missing? I'm leaving him stuck in a form of limbo and not following through with his way of working?

I don't know. That also seems a bit trite. But it is closer to his normal way of dealing with life. I can't fix people but I can fix this radio.

I'll deal with it, tomorrow. I've got some kind of infection in my right eyelid and need to tend to that.

A third of the way through...

I reworked chapters 11 and 12 three times before I was happy with them. Lots of shifting around comments and combining moments to remove any trace of repetition. Brendan also chatters along, a bit, and I'm trimming some of that back. The word count is down to just over 145K from 146K and feels a lot better. I'm beginning to consider sending it out for feedback and proofing/editing when I'm done with this draft.

And officially speaking, this is the seventh draft, considering the amount of rewriting I'm doing.

I increased the size of the document I'm going through to 200% and it shows errors a lot better. I'm also using the mouse that fits with the Caladex PC laptop I have. It has a little connector that I plug into a USB extension so the Mac can use it, and it is nowhere near as freaky when my hand goes near it, not like the Mac Magic Mouse is.

That thing, if I even think of moving my hand anywhere near it, all of a sudden I'll have scrolled down 2-3 pages and not know where I am. Or if I'm in Ps, it'll shift the image all over the screen and I spend half my time putting it back where I want it. And that's on the least sensitive setting. But the most ridiculous aspect of the mouse is, they put the plug where you recharge it on the bottom, so you can't use the damned thing while it's connected to a power source.

I don't know what the fuck is going on with Apple/Mac, but those people have no common sense when dealing with how people can actually use the great and glorious designs they come up with. 

The B-girls take over...

Brandi and Bernadette have been giving Bren the silent treatment because he won't let them come and go in his room as they please. But that didn't work with him, of course; he loves being left alone. So they're changing tactics...

------

After two weeks of silence, the B-girls decided it was time I be made acceptable to them and their circle of friends, for my general appearance was not cool. So a makeover was started, and I went along with it.

Why? I have no idea. I'd never cared about that nonsense in Derry. But their incessant nattering kept my focus on them and not my past life, so I let the fanatical two lead the way, with one condition--that we keep the price low. My ready cash was not so very great. 

“We could just ask mommy for her charge card,” said one. 

“Like for Joske's. Maybe Penney's,” said the other. “No Sears. No Montgomery Wards.” 

“Not Frost Brothers or Neiman's, yet.” 

“We gotta establish your style before we go upscale.” 

“What's upscale?” I asked, truly perplexed. 

“Designer duds.” 

“No upscale, at all,” I'd snapped. 

“Well, we're not talking Yves St. Laurent,” said one. 

“Or Christian Dior,” said the other. 

“He doesn't have men's clothes.” 

“I saw one of his suits at Holleran's.” 

“That was Burberry. From England.” 

“You don't know what you're talking about.” 

And off they went, no longer discussing designer duds for me. Thank God. Instead, first was my new wardrobe. 

“Those pants are just plain ugly,” said one, after I'd about given up hope of ever telling them apart. 

“What's wrong with my trousers?” I'd growled. 

“They're for old men, not boys.” 

“And nothing but white t-shirts?” said the other. 

“With stains on them!” 

“And holes.” 

“From cigarette burns?!” 

“You have to get out and be around people.” 

“But we don't want you to be embarrassing to us,” 

 “So this is for your own good.” 

“No hip-huggers, either.” 

“I don't know; David Cassidy still wears them.” 

“Not like he used to. They're closer to his belly button.” 

“I still think he'd look good in them.” 

“But they are so last year.” 

“Gracie Venable wears hip-huggers.” 

“Yeah, and look at her.” 

“Oh. Yeah. No hip-huggers.” 

Levi 501 jeans, is what it wound up at; not Wrangler, thank you. Dingo boots. Sandals. Madras button-ups and undershirts with pockets. 

“No tie-dies.” 

“Very last year.” 

“Worse, very 1970.” 

“Now that's just mean. We were wearing tie-dyes last year.” 

“You were. Not me.” 

“Now you're being rude!” 

And off they would go into one of their arguments, and they'd forget about me. 

Of course, I could not forget completely about Derry and Belfast, because it seemed every night's news carried a new atrocity. Constables and soldiers grabbed and murdered. Protestant workers, with the same done to Catholics. Bombs dealing death and destruction to people out and about at the time. Politicians nattering on and on with nothing to show for all their talk. Bleating from Westminster about how best to settle the matter and the planning of a new government beholden to none and all, after the June elections. Stories with little depth or understanding of what was happening. 

The intrusion of the B-Girls and their demands grew more and more to be a sanctuary against the arbitrariness of what was happening. So every Saturday, they'd be knocking at my door, ten am--until I growled a reminder that I hadn't got home till near four and needed my sleep so I could do it all, again, that night. So they shifted to noon, with time enough for lunch before dragging me here or there, on the bus. 

Fortunately, the little beasts had accepted that everyone agreed second-hand shops were cool enough to shop in. 

“Sarah Wakeman told us about this great one on Bissonnet,” said Brandi, one Saturday, “so we need to go.” 

“I'm working tonight,” I said. 

“Plenty of time,” said the other, pulling out a bus schedule. 

It took a bloody hour to get there. Then they dug through several racks of shirts and coats before finding a real leather bomber jacket in a wonderfully shabby condition, with a name sewn in it. Oh, did they sigh over that. 

“I bet this is from the Second World War.” 

“We're learning about that in history.” 

“Bombers flying over the Channel to destroy Berlin.” 

“Kissing the girls they leave behind.” 

“Sister Joseph played A Guy Named Joe in our class.” 

“I saw that one. So romantic.” 

Even though it was twenty dollars, it was settled I had to have it. And wear it home. And sweat my arse off in that bloody, never-ending Houston heat to the point I needed another shower. But it was that or listen to their chattering, and I'd melt before I do that a moment longer than needed. 

They also took much pleasure at filling me in on what the newest sayings were. 

“Cool is okay.” said one. 

“But groovy is dead.” 

“Radical is a fun word.” 

“So is awesome.” 

“But do NOT ever, EVER say What's up, pussycat.” 

“That's so middle-aged.” 

Fortunately, they never concerned themselves with music for me. 

“Boys have to find their own songs.” 

“Usually pretty bad choices.” 

“Seriously! Ramblin' Man?” 

“Saturday Night's All Right For Fightin'?” 

“Money? Really stupid.” 

“All barks and growls.” 

“And howls.” 

So they studiously ignored my eight-tracks...so long as I didn't play any of them when they were over. 

By this point, my curls had returned, but they weren't going to let me cut them...until they saw how thick and wild they became in the heat. Then they dragged me to a salon on West Gray, within walking distance, and forced this amazingly patient woman to make it smooth and well-behaved. Which extended to instructing me on how best to care for it. 

“A hundred strokes in the morning,” said one. 

“And a hundred at night,” the other added. 

“I'll go bald, like that,” I growled. 

“That's what Mommy told us to do.” 

“Are you saying she's wrong?” 

Both said with a great deal of hostility, but the woman working on me said to them, “Oh, but your hair is silk--” 

Like Joanna's. Blowing in the breeze. 

“--while his is more like cotton, and needs a different way to be treated. You don't wash a cashmere sweater with your sheets, do you?” 

That, they had to agree on. So the woman gave me a spiky sort of brush and said, “This'll be easier on you.” 

“Looks like what you use on a dog,” I said. 

She'd just smiled and winked, and the B-girls had giggled. 

I managed to catch the woman to one side before we left and whisper, “You giving lessons on how to talk to those two?” 

She'd giggled, patted my cheek and said, “Don't worry, honey, you'll catch on to it.”

Respite...

Watched a lovely film on DVD and relaxed after a long couple of days at the office. Made enough to pay my taxes. Tomorrow, it's back onto NWFO.

What's fun about The Farmer's Daughter is how it shows cynicism, double-dealing and fascism have long been in the shadows of American politics. Two more good ones are Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and His Girl Friday.

These are my space-holders, today...

Tootie my horn...

I now have three excellent reviews for APoS-Derry. All posted on Amazon. This is the latest I've seen:

5.0 out of 5 stars Incredibly written and riveting!

Reviewed in the United States on March 11, 2024
Verified Purchase
I loved this book! Sullivan has created incredible
characters. I felt like I was in Derry experiencing
all these incredibly sad historical events. I can’t wait
for the next book in this series!!

I didn't notice it until today. Makes me feel good. Praise for your work always does. I'm hoping to get more reviews, but for now these work their magic.

I'm through 8 chapters of NWFO in this rewrite, and sensing it'll need more work that I expected. I went through the explanation of how Brendan was brought over, again, and tightened it up, some more. Then the B-girls -- Brandi and Bernadette, who like to pretend they're twins even though they're 10 months apart -- popped in with more of thier back-and-forth arguments.

I'd like to think it's humorous...two blond pre-teen girls always arguing with each other in nonsensical ways. But then they commit a serious violation of Brendan's space and act like it's no big deal, which nearly sends him back into catatonia. I need to fiddle with that some more, then maybe tomorrow I'll post it to see how it works in this format.

Found out today that a biopsy off my right calf was pre-cancerous, but had been completely cut out. So I'm fine. I guess this is going to be my life, from now on. Skin cancers here and there, thanks to my Norwegian heritage.

Happy, happy, joy, joy...

So much fun...

I'm dealing with inconsistencies, now, that I actually ignored in earlier drafts. For example, I wanted to see where everything was going, so I wound up with a contradictory explanation of how Brendan wound up in Houston. Dropping one that kept him as a blood relative to Aunt Mari helped clarify the other and make it more believable.

He's now put forth as a cousin to an uncle's wife. A relative by marriage. The cousin had a son who died in infancy and no more children. Then the man died in a horrific accident and the wife wasted away, so that was used to build Brendan's new background.

I think I've mentioned this, before, but it's now clear and simple. This was before passports were really checked in detail, at customs. So long as it looked good and wasn't on any cautionary list, you were usually free and easy into the US. Now, you couldn't get away with it. The customs officers don't even stamp your passport, anymore; it's all electronic.

I miss that.

Anyway, I'll need to keep this in mind as I go through the rest of the story. And I'll use the attached UK passport as a template to work up Brendan's for the book's dust jacket. It's similar enough to Ireland's, and the one he actually ordered and received would have been exactly like this.

And I like the idea of John Lennon being helpful in my book.

Reformatted for proofing...

I've found if I reformat what I've written for a book, I notice mistakes more easily. So I've redone APoS-NWFO to go through it from beginning to end, and that's exactly what I'm finding -- typos and missing words and such. When this is done, I'm printing it out and doing the red pen. Then comes feedback and proofing.

I also test-formatted it into the basic size and style I'd use for the final hardcover book. Looks like this will be around 360-375 pages, including title pages and such, and over 145,000 words. I've gone through three chapters, so far, and cut about 400 words, so it's possible that might go down as I get into the more volatile parts I've written, but I know better than to plan for that. It's like my psyche takes over and decides, No, we need to explore this whole sub-plot in full detail as Brendan thinks and considers his life.

I also think I've found the basis for the dust jacket of the book. I really like the feel of this young man's pose and expression. I'm going to try and add some bits to make it look like a passport photo. Just need to see if I can smooth it over. I'm not all that versant in Ps and am finding it difficult to use. But we'll see how it goes.

I actually licensed the photo from Shutterstock, so I'm not worried about using it. I may seek out an actual Irish passport from 1972, if there is anything like that around. Then I could lay this photo into it. You never know, with today's web...

But at least I'm moving forward, again.

"A thrilling tour of an historically volatile conflict..."

I've been in the foulest mood for the last few days. Did no writing. Hated even the thought of doing anything creative. Furious about all kinds of shit. Which I had to keep tamped down while working in the office.

But then Friday I got notification from Kirkus Reviews that they were done with A Place of Safety-Derry. I was actually afraid to read it. Thought they'd see through my lack of background in Northern Ireland. Annihilate my syntax. Mock me for thinking I was a writer. I had to make myself sit down and pull it up...and this is what they said:

A young Catholic boy in Northern Ireland is drawn into the political tumult of the 1970s in Sullivan’s novel.

In 1956, Brendan Kinsella is born in Derry, Northern Ireland, a Catholic town imperiously controlled by a Protestant-dominated government. Just after his 10th birthday, his father, Eamonn, is savagely murdered by two Protestants, an event that transforms the volatile alcoholic into a political martyr. Brendan is unabashedly happy he’s dead—Eamonn’s drunken irresponsibility kept his family in squalid poverty. 

Brendan’s mother, Bernadette, thinks her son dimwitted, but he’s actually just a peculiar loner, disinterested in making friends or playing sports, with an uncanny knack for fixing things. As a young boy, he’s largely indifferent to the political acrimony between Catholics and Protestants—he knows he’s cheated by both, and that his priest, Father Demian, is a hypocrite and likely a pedophile.

However, as violence mounts in Derry and his mother, a nationalist zealot, encourages him to hate the other side, he becomes deeply embroiled in the bitter disputes of the time, a transformation deftly portrayed by the author. Brendan meets Joanna Martin, a Protestant from an affluent family, and quickly falls in love; his devotion to her undermines his blind partisanship, which is gradually replaced by a contempt for both sides. 

“What struck me most was the lunacy of those in control, on either side, who thought they could end this cycle of death by threatening even greater death, but that’s what they did.” 

The arc of Brendan’s maturity is depicted with great subtlety and restraint by Sullivan, who artfully and admirably avoids any sententious proselytizing or earnest sentimentality. In addition to the power of the novel’s emotional drama, the author also provides a historically rigorous look into what came to be known, with astonishing understatement, as “the Troubles.”

This is an engrossing and intelligent work.

---------

I was so shocked, I actually loved myself for a whole five minutes before thinking, "Shit, I'll never be able to keep this going in New World For Old." But at least I'm back to thinking I can finish this book.

Bothered

Something's bugging me about the last three chapters of NWFO, so I'm digging back into them, tomorrow. Just those three. Then I will print the full book out and go through it the old-fashioned way, after which I will input the corrections and start asking for feedback and proofing.

I haven't seen anything happen with APoS-Derry, thanks to the London Book Fair. No interest or queries or additional sales. Hell, any sales at all. When I get volume 2 done, I may need to look into refining my sales strategy. I can't afford a publicist or book promoter; I've already far exceeded my budget and my credit cards are too close to the max...much of which is due to prepping and publishing APoS-Derry.

Maybe I should start a go-fund-me page to build up money for either advertising or paying off my debts. That's the only way I'll get out of this fucking hole.

Aimless...and pissy...

Once again. Now that I'm done with a draft of a story it takes me a little while to return to the real world. I get grumpy and sad and don't know what to do with myself, and the last couple days have been emblematic of that.

And silly. I got into a ridiculous argument in a Facebook private group I belong to, over objectification of men. This is what I posted, with the heading:   Some guys are just as sexy dressed, as not.

Another member posted this, "Ah the comments, proving yet again that gay men are the exact same as straight men, they just objectify their own sex rather than the opposite."

I thought he was joking, so I replied, "I “resemble” that remark. (Was it Groucho Marx who first said that?)" Thought he'd find it funny, or cute.

He didn't.

He responded, "I mean, if a person is only attractive to you without clothes, you probably don't deserve to spend any time with that person, as you are probably a shallow git, who is only interested in people for whatever sexual pleasure they can give you."

Well...it went downhill from there. All over nothing. It really was ridiculous...and I'm ridiculous for being upset about it. But I am. Kind of stupid, too.

But I'm in a delicate mood. I got bummed when I went out to get some groceries and couldn't find any Dr Pepper Zero on special. Now I'm upset because I made a chocolate pie (from a non-fat pudding mix) with a graham cracker crust (pre-made by Keebler) and just had a slice...and didn't like it.

I'd like to say I'm not always like this, but I know better than to make that claim.

Time to regroup my brain...

I'm letting NWFO sit for a while before I go back into it. I may do a red pen correction, next time around. Meaning print out the text and make corrections. This is usually the best way to deal with everything in it. Typos. Inconsistencies. Mistakes in timing. It's easy to get lost in what part of the 70s Brendan is going through.

With me, the 70s were all San Antonio. I was working at Frost Brothers, an upscale department store on Houston Street, in visual merchandising. Dressing mannequins in Women's and Children's clothing and the front windows. I liked it. I was making a good wage. Had a car, insurance, apartment, and people I liked to hang out with.

I did some artwork, too, and sold a little. Helped with a few major functions, including fashion shows at the St. Anthony Hotel and the North Star Mall store. I also got to handle the gowns for the Fiesta Royal Court. (This link is to Maria Schell's commentary on a visit to the Witte Museum, when they had an exhibit of some of the gowns.)

“The royal robes were first worn in 1909 as part of San Antonio’s annual commemoration of the Battle of San Jacinto, the concluding battle in Texas’s 1836 revolution against Mexico. The celebration, now known as Fiesta, began in 1891 with a parade and rapidly grew into a citywide festival, currently featuring over 100 events.”

...It takes about three years to get the robes from idea to reality. There is one queen, one princess, and 24 duchesses. That’s 26 gowns at $42,500 a pop or approximately 1.105,000 million dollars. Now there are six dressmakers each with ten seamstresses for a total of 66 individuals working for maybe a year-and-a-half.

This was a huge deal in San Antonio, during Fiesta. There was an elegant ball at the Menger Hotel, by the Alamo, and for a local girl to become a member of the Court was great. To be crowned queen? The girl rode on that all year. The thing is, the applicants to the Court had to be well-off, because their families paid to have the gowns made.

Frost Brothers and Joske's had a deal. We both would display the amazing gowns in our main windows, for a week to ten days, and would alternate which of us got the Queen's gown, which was the most elaborate. A co-worker and I would pick the gowns up the morning after the Fiesta Flambeau Parade and set them up in the windows, where they'd stay for a week to ten days. The whole thing was like a highlight of San Antonio society.

One anecdote--when the Court and the ladies' gowns rode in the Battle of Flowers Parade, the floats would circle around by the Menger Hotel. A lot of the city's gay community would take up residence and watch the parade from the hotel's balconies, and as the floats wandered by they'd call to the ladies, "Show us your shoes!"

Which were always comfortable track shoes, not high heels. Poor girls had to be standing for hours in the hot sun wearing gowns that could weigh as much as a hundred pounds, so no way were they doing that in heels.

A Place of Safety-New World For Old draft 6 is done

It's 2am and I'm brain dead, but this draft is completed and ready for the next go-through.

653 double-spaced pages in 12pt Courier font, and 145,946 words, 34 chapters.

The last chapter still needs work due to me adding a visit by the Feds and a Brit to question Brendan, so I want to make sure that works well. But I'm never saying I'm cutting back anything, ever again. It's like my subconscious takes that as a challenge to add.

I'm ready to. This map is Houston in 1975. It's gone from abut 2million to being over 7million in populations, now. Insane. Small wonder the damn place is sinking below sea level.

Taking time off from the book, now. 

Updates

The job in Colorado is no longer for me. We're just having boxes of books collected, crated and shipped. Too bad; it was going to be up in the Rockies, deeper in than I've ever been.

A job in Los Gatos, CA is looking more real, as is. potential job in Sacramento. On the latter one, I'm wondering if it's a possible job we were approached about at the beginning of February but never got the information we needed to work up a price. Guess we'll find out.

I'm through chapter 31 of APoS-NWFO and took out a section that just felt gratuitous. Where Everett talks Brendan into letting him service him. I was being self indulgent and Everett was doing it to get something specific...and it was just wrong. But I now have Jeremy back from Hong Kong, so he, Brendan and Everett are back together as close buddies.

One more positive about changes made is they bring Everett and Brendan closer together as friends. Brendan sees his aunt's house as a prison, now, and being at Everett's place is like a respite from that. He's even given a room where he can continue fixing things to sell.

Going by the page count on the Word doc, I only have 45 more pages left, and three more chapters. They're going to be expanded, because some important things happen here and I don't want it rushed. That'll put me up over 145K but the book will be as long as it must be to tell the story.

I took a walk...

Just from my apartment to Walgreens and to get a haircut at Supercuts. 1.4 miles round trip. It's been a while since I've done that, but it was a nice cool day and I've found walking helps me think. It also makes my left knee ache. I hate getting old.

I'm feeling better about the direction APoS-New World For Old is taking. Brendan is willing to wait and see if Uncle Sean will do what he said he would, but he feels something like a prisoner. Like Rochester's Island wife in Jane Eyre. He's back in the attic bedroom, but has also made some friends, with whom he feels comfortable. So his life coasts for a while, aimless...until his mother is diagnosed with cancer.

That is something he has to be told about, and react to. As much animosity as there is between them, she is still the woman who raised him. So his confusion increases. He cannot contact her without revealing who he is, meaning he's reliant on his aunt and sister for information. It sends him crashing into a seriously rebellious punk mode, for a while, till he reconnects with his balance.

I spent part of the day dealing with two potential packing jobs in Baltimore and Sacramento. Can't do any estimation of costs till I get some more information from the people who contacted us, but both seem fairly straightforward.

It also seems like the China in Print Book Fair will be happening in December (6th-8th), but it's now called Firsts Hong Kong. I may be doing that, again, since I did both the move-in and move-out for several years before things went crazy, in 2017. It's being run by some new people so we'll see what happens.

This photo is from my last trip...2016. The book fair took place in the low building to the left of the ferris wheel, with the turquoise roof. I wouldn't mind seeing Hong Kong one more time. 

Confrontation part 2

This continues the scene from yesterday's post:

--------

"They weren't my friends!" He took a deep breath and let it out before continuing. "Just a couple guys at the bar. Saw you with that girl." 

"Evangelyne!" 

"Keep your goddamn voice down! They told me what was bein' planned." 

I advanced on him. "Who? Who was it? Bidwell one?" 

He didn't budge, except to bunch his right hand into a fist. "You ain't gettin' names, boy. All you're gettin' is what I'm tellin' you. They wanted to me to understand it was nothin' personal against me or my family." 

Ain't gonna hurt you much. 

Just put you in your place. 

Bidwell. Fucking Bidwell. Working with Lon. Bidwell saw me cripple Matty and did his gossipy bit. You see him, again, let me know. That kind of thing. 

"So I made a deal with 'em," Uncle Sean snarled. "Warned 'em 'bout your heart. Didn't want you left there to get found in the morning. Get it in all the goddamn papers." 

"You give over some of my pills?" 

"Just to be safe." 

"You fuckin' helped them!" 

"I kept 'em on a leash." 

"I still near died." 

"I know. They did go too far with their end of it, but there's nothin' I can do about that, now." He rose. "Sometimes you gotta make hard choices and hurt people in order to protect those you care for. So I'm sayin' up front, I'm not sorry 'bout any of this. It's half your own damn fault." 

I couldn't keep the sneer from my voice as I said, "Isn't that always how it is, with a coward?" 

He stood there, for a moment, tensed enough to hit me, again, and I made myself ready for it. Instead he sighed and said, "You're movin' back here." 

"Are you bloody mad? Why should I?" 

"We'll put you in the room upstairs. I want you here the next time those Fed bastards come snoopin' 'round. An' you'll tell 'em who you are. Brennan. McGabbhinn. I'll give you a bio to repeat." 

At that I snarled, yanked off my shirt and turned to show him the marks on my back. Even in the soft light you could see the scars. The words hissed from me. "And how about I show them this?" 

"You won't." 

I turned back to him. "You so sure?" 

He nodded. "'Cause you know as well as me, they won't care. It's somethin' for the local cops to handle." 

He remained a block of nothing in the kitchen light. 

I felt like I was floating. "I don't understand," I said, soft and breathless. "What good does me staying here do?" 

"Told you. I want this shit over Brendan or Brennan settled. I want my business back to where it was 'fore you came. With the ABC off my neck and no more shit from Washington. I'm gonna have David Landau make you fully legal. Get you a green card and social security number. Till it's all done, you'll be workin' at The Colonel's. Paid normal, with taxes out. Path to citizenship. Whatever. Everything legal. Helps to have a Jew lawyer who knows people who can do favors for you. And it'll all get done under your new name." 

I snarled, "My name is Brendan Kinsella." 

He shook his head. "It's now believed he died in that explosion an' was buried, nice an' quiet. Couldn't have a Catholic body show up in a bombin' aimed at a Protestant group. Especially one with connections to the IRA. Brit's'd have a field day, in the papers. Great propaganda tool. "So you are Brennan McGabbhinn, now. Born in Letterkenny. Relatives in Dublin took you in after an accident that killed your father. Decapitated him. Seein' it sent you off your head and exacerbated a heart condition. 'Cause of my charity work for Ireland, the Church asked if I'd sponsor you here. Get some specialized treatment for a sick boy who went a little crazy. 

"Your disappearance was part of this illness. Maybe. Something to that effect. And it was thanks to complications in your illness that you wound up over-stayin' your visa. It's a medical visa, so that's easier to get corrected. It'll mean some fines and court costs, but it's doable." 

My brain went into automatic. "Then you already have a passport for me--" 

"Expired. Gonna have to work you up a new one. It may mean goin' before a judge, makin' nice with the State Department, a few political donations. But I can get it settled. If you're here. Available for them to talk to whenever they want." 

"You're wanting too much. I-I-I won't do it. I'll leave this fucking city." 

His voice grew soft and like ice. "I seem to recall Brendan had a younger brother. Nice kid, I hear. Smart. Goin' to college in Belfast. Got married to a sweet girl. Mai loved tellin' us all about it. But just imagine--a Catholic boy in a Protestant town? Name linked to an IRA offshoot? These days?" 

I actually felt ice spread throughout me, and had to fight to keep my voice level. "You wouldn't." 

He said nothing. 

"But it--it's Rhuari. He's done nothing to you." 

Now he advanced on me, both fists ready and reminding me so much of Da I actually expected him to punch me--and I just knew if he did I'd lose any sense of control and tear into him and wind up dead, or worse. 

"Listen up, you little shit," he growled, his voice barely audible. "You been nothin' but a disruption since you came here. Bringin' that fag into my house. Attackin' a cop at my bar, over his slut of a wife. Chasin' 'round with a black girl for all my neighbors to see. I got the IRS auditin' me over money sent to NORAID. I spent more in lawyers in the last four years than my whole life. I want it stopped. Now. An' if that means me bein' a motherfuckin' asshole to do it, then I will be a motherfuckin' asshole. Family or no family. 

"But once I know for sure that it's all done, you can do what you want, go where you want, even move to fuckin' Canada. I know your sister'd like that. Fact is, so would I. So think about it. Brennan. Choice is yours. Make the right one."

Then he stepped back, gave himself a shake, and went upstairs.

Confrontation-part 1

This is part of what I came up with during the confrontation between Brendan and his Uncle Sean. He vanished from the house a year ago after being beaten so severely, his heart almost gave out. It's now July 4th weekend, 1976, and his sister, Mairead, is down from Toronto with Tur and her kids. He was talked into staying the night to be with them all...and now everyone's asleep...except for him. He thought.

-----

The stairs creaked, jolting me. I wasn't asleep but only in that near state close to it. I looked at the stairs to see-- 

Uncle Sean coming down. 

I bolted to my feet to face him. The kitchen light was behind him and the moon barely shone through the bay window, so while he could see me, well enough, I could make out little more than the shape of him in the shadows about us. 

"You ain't told us where you been," he growled. 

I shrugged. 

"Stayin' with that queer friend of yours?" 

"I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue about Rett. He's been more decent to me than you could even think of being." 

"After all I done for you?" 

"What you've done for me still shows! Care for a look?" 

"Keep your voice down!" He then gave a long sigh. "You really think I had somethin' to do with it?" 

So Aunt Mari had told him of my suspicions. Of course, there are no secrets between her and her husband, but I still felt a sting of betrayal. 

"I think you were there," I said, "and stopped it when I collapsed. Do you want special thanks for saving my life, after putting it in jeopardy?" 

He sat on the arm of the couch. A bit more of the kitchen light shone past while still sheltering him from my view. "When you left, I was glad," he finally said, his voice cool and matter-of-fact. "My wife wasn't, but ain't much to be done about it. Police report? Missin' persons?" He snorted a laugh. "She just had to let it go. 

"Till I got a call from the local FBI office. Lookin' for a kid named Brendan Kinsella. Knew I had an Irish boy stayin' with me. Had me come in. To talk. I told 'em I didn't know where that Brendan was, but I'm pretty damn sure they didn't believe me. Showed up at the house a couple weeks later, wantin' to talk with this Brennan McGabbhinn. A British spook was with 'em. Still didn't believe me when I told 'em you'd gone home." 

"Home?" 

"Back to Ireland. Dunno why. They said they'd check into it. Get back to me." 

It seemed he wanted me to say something more, but I only glared at him. I felt no need for this conversation. 

He finally nodded. "Sure enough, they come back a couple months later. No record of a Brennan McGabbhinn leavin' the country. Askin' if this might've been an Irish boy who'd worked at The Colonel's. I told 'em it was part of his therapy; get him used to dealin' with people, again." 

That actually made me laugh. 

He nodded. "Again, they didn't believe me. It's lucky I'm the only one saw 'em. Your aunt don't know 'bout it." 

"You don't give her much credit, do you?" 

He stiffened with self-righteousness, obvious even in the dimness of the room, and his voice grew cold and hard. "Y'know, Trujillo's got raided by immigration. Two of the guys deported." 

That jolted me. "Which two?" 

"You really care?" I said nothing. He finally continued with, "Hugo and Tomas. Rene thinks you turned them in." 

"He's a fucking idiot. Anyone who knows me knows I'd never do that." 

"Yeah, I know. They were really lookin' for you. Those two were just luck o' the draw. Good thing is, that helped me work out who was behind all that shit." 

"A cop?" I asked, oh, so sweetly. "One who brought me here in his station wagon?" 

He almost smiled as he nodded. "Stupid Bastard shot himself in the foot, with this stunt. Hurt the whole goddamn department. I used to give a nice donation to 'em. Pension fund. Help out wounded officers. Orphans and widows. All that shit. Thought it could help me. Instead, he set the ABC breathin' down my neck, makin' sure everything in my bars is a hundred percent perfect. Cost me shitloads of money. So...the last time they come lookin' for a donation, I told 'em why they ain't gettin' another." 

Again, it's like he wanted me to speak and was irritated by my silence. 

"Told Rene, too. Dunno what all happened, but he quit and moved back to New Orleans, soon after. As for that daughter of his--" 

"Evangelyne." 

He eyed me. "She's off to Washington. State Department, Jeremy said, real happy for her. He thought we were hidin' you; thought I'd pass it onto you. I didn't know she knew him, too." 

"Would it have mattered? You achieved your goal." 

"I didn't want anybody hurt." 

I had to fight a laugh. 

He still noticed and took in a deep breath, saying, "All right, all right. You, a little. Put you in your place. Just didn't expect as much as they did." 

I could barely keep my voice level when I spit, "What'd you do, barter with them? Pay them? Lay down guidelines? You ask for some of your money back after seeing the damage they did me?" 

He rose and growled, "Keep your voice down!" 

"I didn't ask you to come talk to me." 

"Goddammit, Bren, I gotta live and work in this town. It took a lot for me to let you come here, 'cause it broke all kinds of laws, but--" 

"Did I ask you to?" 

"Your mother did, you ungrateful little shit. She got hold of Mairead, who called my wife and we agreed to get you out of the country; to help hide you." 

"Hide me?!" 

"Not just from the army! There's people on your own side pissed as hell. Believe you me, if we'd left you with them, you'd be six feet under. We kept you alive and cared for you, and then to have you trash everything and endanger us? Threaten my family's livelihood? It was worse than ungrateful. It was destructive." 

"You told me none of this," I growled. "How was I supposed to know--?" 

"You got told more'n you should've. Thanks to my wife. You had more'n enough information to understand!" 

"No, no, no, no, no, you don't put this back on me. Giving me half-truths and semi-lies. Telling me nothing I could hold onto in order to make plans." 

"What plans did you need to make? You weren't supposed to be here; you weren't even well. Still aren't." 

"As your friends proved." And I fucking coughed.

Breakthrough, maybe...

Chapter 28 of NWFO is the one kicking me in the head. I've just rewritten it, twice, to both simplify and deepen the reasoning for Brendan to return to live in Aunt Mari's home. There are legal issues that need to be cleared up, and Uncle Sean wants Brendan there to be interviewed by the Feds to settle them. But not as himself.

He was brought over under the name Brennan McGabbhinn as a charity case in need of specialized medical treatment. False papers and all. British Intelligence wants to speak to Brendan about the bombing and thinks he's being hidden in Houston (which he is) but they've been told they're wrong. 

So they've sent people to Uncle Sean twice to see about talking to Brennan, in the last year. Only he's been secretly living elsewhere. This has also caused issues with Immigration, and a couple of guys Brendan worked with were undocumented, caught, and deported. The IRS is also digging into Uncle Sean's business, and the Texas ABC is questioning giving him another liquor license, something he's never had trouble with before.

So, Brendan has to agree to help clear up the mess by convincing them he's Brennan, or Uncle Sean will let the Protestant UDA know his brother, Rhuari, is living and working in Belfast...and that Brendan was connected to the bombing that killed a UDA leader. That would be like signing the boy's death warrant.

Brendan and his uncle have a cold, quiet, vicious argument over this in the middle of the night on the Fourth of July Weekend, 1976. But if Brendan tells anyone, Uncle Sean will deny ever threatening anything and use his recent illness to back him up.

I'm still not 100% on it, but this gets me over the hump.

I'm going nuts, again...

I'm still lost regarding this moment in NWFO. I get so close to thinking I know a way around this fucking brick wall...and then swoosh, change of direction. And this starling swarm is probably the purest reflection of my mental process that's possible, right now.

I know it's writer's block and I've tried a number of ways to break through, but all it's gotten me, so far, is a headache. And nails chewed down to nothing, along with cuticles. And too damn much crap eaten. Tonight, I was so mad about the whole process, I wolfed down two oversized cinnamon rolls and now want a tumbler of milk to chase them.

I'm not ready to let go of this book, yet, and work on something else. Maybe after the weekend. But right now, I want to maintain a clear line of communication with it and hope that something pops up before I surrender to my other main method of breaking writer's block -- writing another story, altogether.

I hesitate on that because then I lose focus and the main line of the book and would have to rebuild it. But maybe that's what's needed.

Circling...

I may be honing in on a possible solution to my dilemma with New World For Old. There's a moment during Brendan's confrontation with his uncle that the man mentions the FBI and someone from the British service (unnamed) came looking for him. They suspect Brennan is really him and have dropped by, twice, asking to talk with him. I'm thinking Uncle Sean wants Brendan back in case those guys return so he can settle everything.

He's got a lawyer with connections in both Austin and Washington, DC. Jeremy's uncle. And Jeremy's father is an oncologist at a place like MD Anderson and they're neighbors and friends of the family. Plus Bren and Jeremy get along well. So they might help.

That would feed into volume three, when he's found out and arrested. But it still seems a bit...I dunno...tenuous. Weak. I want something really strong and maybe even surprising. Not sure what. Right now, it's still on the back burner as a possibility. I know better than to rush things.

But I do hate it when crap like this happens, because I never know how long it will take for me to work the problem out. Normally it's not too bad. A couple days. But there have been occasions where resettling the story in my head has taken weeks...months, even. I am at the point where I trust the process, even if I do get impatient with it. I know it will come out better.

But will it mess up the rest of the story in any way? No telling.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit...

I've slammed into a brick wall. Brendan's Uncle Sean is forcing him into returning to live in the pool house behind their home--and suddenly I can't figure out why. There was some bullshit about being able to keep an eye on him and get papers together to make him legal in the US and the republic of Ireland and keep an eye on him...but why does he need to be there for that to work?

He still has his motorbike so can run around. He'd be working back at the bar he was banned from. The Feds have come looking for him at his Aunt's home, so if he's there when they come, again, it could all explode. He's already had a fight with his uncle over threats to send him back to the North to be killed. Why would this be necessary?

I know why he agrees to it; Uncle Sean threatens to target Rhuari for the UDA by letting them know his brother may have helped in that bombing. That is really harsh and I need a good reason for him to be that demanding. He's involved with NORAID and collects donations at his bars for them. If he helps Protestants kill a Catholic, that would make him a pariah. Which Brendan knows. So there has to be a good reason for this...and I'm lost.

It can't just be to make his aunt happy. It can't just happen because it needs to happen for the story to continue. And I can't keep ignoring how I've all but ignored this part of the story and just let it remain as is. Like a rickety bridge. I need a reason.

What's funny is, even Brendan is blank as to why.

Shit.

BritBox v. Acorn

I subscribe to both BritBox and Acorn, online, to watch British murder mysteries. Cozy little mysteries, like Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple, Misomer Murders, Agatha Raisin, My Life is Murder and even Vera (now that Joe is back). Unfortunately, the two are not alike in ability.

BritBox runs fine with good images and flash, almost like Netflix. Acorn has trouble with its streaming. Shows freeze then start up, again, and the image quality doesn't seem to be as good. But they are the only ones who have a full selection of the Midsomer Murders series and some of the Christies. So I either tolerate it or do without.

It's not like I need them. I've got a couple hundred DVDs I have yet to view, mainly of films I've only seen on TV in the past. It Happened One Night. Roman Holiday. Soylent Green. Laura. I just don't want to bother with connecting my DVD player to my laptop. I don't have a TV.

I only watch shows to wind down from writing. I got another chapter done for APoS-NWFO. Brendan sneaking away from his aunt's house to be off to himself. Like he's escaping a prison. He stays in Houston but cuts off contact with his entire family...except his younger brother, Rhuari. But even that is second hand. He's still keeping a low-profile.

There was a part in volume one where Brendan saw a pack of dogs corner a cat and threaten to tear it apart, but the cat wound up spinning into a furious ball of fangs and claws and got away. Went someplace to tend to its injuries. That's what Brendan's doing after being attacked over dating a Cajun girl. He'll be gone for a year before learning his sister, Mairead, has come down from Toronto with her husband and kids. Then he gets trapped into returning to live with his aunt and uncle, again, as they straighten out his existence.

I don't know if that works...so we'll see what happens, next.

LA Times Festival of Books

Okay...A Place of Safety-Derry is going to be exhibited at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, April 20-21. I don't have a booth number, yet, but it'll be with The Reading Glass Books. So that makes two major book festivals APoS-Derry is in, so far. I'm hoping this will get it plenty of notice.

I also worked up an online ad to use in a couple of places -- Twitter, Facebook and such. I don't seem able to format this properly for Instagram; too much gets cut off. It's a simple ad, but will do for the moment. Once I'm done with New World For Old, I'll see about working up something more.

I'm through the rewrite to page 480 out of 635, so I'm on the downhill slide. Brendan's been attacked for dating a Cajun girl and all hell has broken loose because he thinks his uncle was behind it. He's finally seeing that the intolerance in Houston is just as severe as it was in Derry, and is torn up about it. But it leads him to a respite, of sorts.

I have to keep reminding myself that it's still 1975 when this happens. He was brought over in October 1972 but wasn't cognizant till April 1973, so it's only been two years that he's been healing and having to deal with Texas' way of handling things. Just when he thinks he's back on top of his life, something knocks him off center.

Sort of like how life does, in general, doesn't it?

Development?

Seems I like to have one character who's an artist in my stories. Not all of them, but several. And I have one in APoS-NWFO. Everett does commercial art but wants to do better works, and it seems Brendan has become his muse. He does an oil portrait of him, not long after meeting him, and presents it on his 18th birthday. But it turns out he doesn't think it's any good while Aunt Mari and the B-girls love it and want him to do one of their family.

This parallels me, to an extent. For years until I started college I wanted to be a fine artist. Portraits. Faces. I loved doing them of guys, almost always. Got a couple of commissions, even, though I worked in acrylics instead of oils. I like those as well as colored pencils. But I had zero self-confidence.

Even when I shifted to film at Trinity University, the class I most enjoyed was a life drawing class where I did works off real models. But I got drawn more and more into the demands of film and sort of lost my way. It seems I'm using my writing to reimagine that part of my history.

I develop very slowly. Learn at a snail's pace. Always have. I was always standoffish and weird to people, something I've let become part of Brendan. Losing interest quickly. Having to fight with myself to finish scripts or books unless they caught me in som deeper way. Looking back, I wonder if I might have been diagnosed as Autistic or having ADHD or something like that.

Maybe that's why I started writing MM Erotica with a vicious bent. To keep up my interest in the story I'm working on. I dunno. Right now I'm just amazed I'm this close to finally finishing A Place of Safety, which it straight and regular fiction. Still, having an artist in this part of the book is helping me keep going. Having a gay man infatuated with a young man who's not interested in him that way keeps me interested.

It's weird, but as noted...I always have been.

2/3 done with this rewrite

So far, I've trimmed just over 1000 words from A Place of Safety-New World For Old. Brendan's being a bit of a rebellious teenager due to his uncle's anger over some of the things he's done. They have a massive argument and Brendan reveals he's a lot stronger than others think. He can't do much, just now, because he's still unsure as to what his situation is in the US, but he won't be bullied.

What's more, he's moved out of his shell and made friends with people he normally would never have known. Jeremy, a Jewish lad who's a year older and understands what Brendan's been through in Derry because he was caught in fighting during the Yom Kippur War. Everett, a gay man who's ten years older and sees Brendan's situation with a clear eye. Hugo, who's easy going and opens Brendan up to the freedom of riding a motorcycle. Evangelyne, a Creole lass learning Russian so she can join the State Department, who takes Brendan to Mardi Gras in New Orleans.

Uncle Sean disapproves of all of them. Which makes Brendan even more determined to keep them as friends.

This is a big deal for him. His buddies in Derry--Colm, Danny, Paidrig and wee Eammon--were almost foisted upon Brendan by his brother, Eamonn, as a way to get him out of the house. Their friendship developed over years...until Colm and Danny parked a car bomb in front of Joanna's father's shop. That not only nearly killed him, it shattered his trust, and he still carries anger over it, and pain.

So the fact he's willing to let these Americans get close to him is a big deal. I think. I may need to do a bit more with that, but it's coming along. Maybe I'll only need 26 more drafts to make it readable.

I got a copy of the Publishers Weekly that will be handed out at the London Book Fair, at the Reading Glass Books stand #2A114, and on page 78 APoS-Derry is posted as a Must Read. Makes me feel really good. Still waiting on the Kirkus Review and various other reviews promised. Hoping they're as good as the BookLife one.

Segue...

Gonna do a little tooting of my own horn, here. I found that I got another 5-star review on one of my MM books -- The Beast in the Nothing Room.

Well, that was seriously dark, twisted and futuristic. Finn is a cop in England who is on his way for a date when he gets called to check out some strange lights. He is then abducted and taken to the “nothing room”, where is raped. He then embarks on a journey to figure out what is going on as he finds several more victims, several that wind up dead exactly 24 hours later. There is a lot of rape and brutality in this book but it is so good. It is convulsed in the best way. The mystery that surrounds these abductions and rapes? Man it is very creative and cruel and wonderful. The writing is phenomenal and just a wonderfully dark, taboo, sci-fi read.

This is the fourth 5-star review it's gotten on Smashwords, with two 3-star reviews. On Goodreads, it's got a rating average of 4-stars, and on Amazon the written reviews are really great.

The concept of this book is...well, I don't know where it came from. But this is the tag line:

How can you stop a serial killer who kills no one and doesn't even exist?

This was a story that came together almost in order, like it was already written in my head and I was just spitting it out. One part of the inspiration was Nick Hendrix, on Midsomer Murders.

I don't know why, but this is the image that got me started on building Finn. Then a really bad murder mystery called In The Dark gave me another character, Rob (personified by an actor named Ben Batt). And I just started writing. 

There was still a lot of back and forth on what's happening, not to mention how and why, but it danced in my head in so many ways and with a lot less angst than usual.

I did make one mistake in not developing one relationship quite well enough, so I've worked to make sure that doesn't happen, again. But overall, it's my most inventive book. I don't know of anything else like it.

I'd love to see it made into a movie...but the sexual aspect probably kills that. A MM Sci-Fi/Horror film with male rape as an important aspect of it? Hell, it'd be hard to pull off even as MF.

Still...I can look at this and say, "I wrote that." And be proud.