Ch-ch-ch-changes...

Today I worked on Brendan going head to head with his mother over his return. It's rough, a bit cruel, and low-key. But playing off his Aunt telling him Ma rambled and said things that made no sense, it became a moment where his mother's mortality is brought home hard.

He realizes his aunt just didn't have the context needed to see Ma wasn't merely rambling; she was revisiting moments she's lived. And learns she never hated him; she hated an attitude that she saw in him where it seemed he thought he was superior to her. I think.

Oh, I just had a thought. Kieran has that attitude with Brendan. Sees him as a coward and traitor and refuses to share his room with him. But the hutch behind the house was made over to be livable for Mairead and Turleigh, when they were wed, and then was lived in by Eamonn. I think I'll have Maeve move him into that, after he gets snotty with Brendan.

"But it gets cold!"

"I'll give ya an extra blanket!" 

So now I'm through 5 chapters, and there are so many changes happening, I'll need to do at least three more drafts to make it work...maybe four. We'll see how things go. In reality, I'm restructuring the actions in this draft so the details can emerge.

Through July, Smashwords is having one of their ebook sales. I've set two books up at half-price, one of them APoS-Derry, and five books are free. The rest are $0.99 each, as always. Scroll down the linked page to see which is what.

It's amazing how many people will download a book that's free and never read it. Though I can't say much about that. I've got so many books I need to read, myself...and just added three dark works of gay erotica to the pile. They were written by a writer friend of mine...but still, I'm hopeless.

I'm currently working my way through a friends' daughter's first book, Truthfully Yours, which is a nice, sweet young-adult romance between a bi-girl with autism and a gorgeous-guy who's on a smash hit TV show. Her style is easy to read, but it's like a bright sunny day when I'm Mr. Midnight.

However...it's set in Scotland. That makes it more than worthwhile.

Beginning to take me over...

Today I reworked the below section away from Aunt Mari telling Brendan his father killed a man, which seemed really cheesy, melodramatic TV MOW crap, to something much simpler that ties in with the rest of the story a lot better. It's still kind of messy, overall, but getting there.

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

Aunt Mari sighed and sat on the edge of the bed to say, "Bren, I should let ya know...when ya see Bernadette, yer mother is...well, it may come as a shock. Try not to show it." 

That jolted me into breathing, again; I hadn't realized I’d stopped. "She...Ma does know how I'm coming, right?" 

"Mairead let Maeve know all about it." 

Probably meaning no. "She...she told Maeve everything about me?! Then what bloody good does it do for me to..." 

"No, no, no...not you, yerself. While she was there, she told Maeve about ya. As a cousin. And that ya'd be willin' to come and help. And I supported that. When I was over." 

I took in a long breath. The lie was never-ending. Now is was to keep Ma and Maeve from knowing it was me coming. Did they really think this would fool anyone for more a minute or two? So what was the purpose of it? That they might spread the story of a distant relative's arrival so the bloody cows would make it truth during their usual craics? It was a weak cover story we were offering up. 

I let myself sigh and continued with the last of my packing, saying, "Well, that passport backs you up."

"Yes," she murmured. "Sean showed me before he give to ya. Made ya legal." 

So there it was. No question now but that Aunt Mari was full aware of the callous blackmail Uncle Sean had used to force me back into becoming who I was not. Threatening death to her own nephew. Her own blood. Christ. In my childish way, I'd been clinging to the idea she'd been in the dark about that, but if she knew all about my past being legally gone, it meant she knew a great many other things I'd rather not have known she knew. It was hard to accept the betrayal I felt at this. The anger. 

But I managed to keep my voice even. "As he promised." 

"Yes," she murmured, again. "An' when ya return, ya can do as ya like..." 

Return? Here? Did she think I’d come back to this hell-spot? Or was she leading up to something? If so, I wish she'd just get it the fuck out of the way. 

"How long do ya think ya'll be there?" 

"Depends on Ma." I was impressed with how even I kept my voice. I looked back at her. "Will you be coming for the wake?" 

She shook her head, almost sad. "I've said me good-byes. No need to show off for others." 

I made myself chuckle. "I've never heard a funeral referred to, like that." 

"That's Ireland. People come from far and wide to say lovely things about the dead, and nothing bad, whether they knew them or not." 

I nodded. "I remember, from Da's wake." 

"He was always rough with ya, wasn't he?" 

"You know full well he was. With me and Eamonn. And Ma. Not the girls and the youngest boy. Kieran timed his birth well, to miss all his hate and anger." 

"Bren, it's unkind to speak ill of the dead." 

I just rolled my eyes and zipped my duffel closed. 

"I should tell ya something more..." Her voice trailed off. 

Finally! Finally. Still, my voice was sharp as I snapped, "Aunt Mari, I've hardly led what I would call a sheltered existence, so say what you need to. No hemming and hawing, as you like to say." 

It took her a moment but then she took in a deep breath and whispered, "Yer father may not have been born a Kinsella." 

As I'd already wondered. So if she thought I was going to be shocked or horrified or angry, I disappointed her. "May not have? Who says so?" 

She was quiet for a long moment before she finally said, "Yer mother." 

Of course. Ma and her secrets. Her anger when I went looking into Da's past. Her refusal to acknowledge her brothers. It all rang odd to me, even at the time, and now I was finding my suspicions were correct. That's probably why I was still so calm in the face of this revelation. 

"Kinsella's the name on the registry of my birth. I had to get a copy of it when I sent for my passport." 

"If I’m understandin’ Bernadette right, yer father took that name when he married her. I think it was from a solicitor she knew. His birth name...I think was Gorman."

"Understood her right? What does that mean?"

"She was babblin' on and...well..."

"Did she say if he was Catholic or Protestant?"

"Does it matter?"

"Does, over there."

"Catholic. I’d think. But I don't know. He was introduced to me as Kinsella and I had no reason not to believe him, or my sister. And some of the things she was tellin’ me...some of the stories...they didn’t make sense so they may have been nothin’. I'm still not completely sure Bernadette knew what she was sayin’. She’s under a painkiller and Percocet can bother your mind and..." Her voice trailed off. 

"What things did she say?" 

"Oh, nonsense. Like claimin’ yer brother was blessed by Eamon de Valera, when he wasn't even born till after the man's visit." 

"Aunt Mari, Eamonn was born in 1950. End of April. A year before De Valera came." 

"Was he?" She glanced around, confused. "Are ya sure?" 

I only nodded, wondering at how she could be wrong about that. She'd sent him cards and gifts, though never money.

She leaned her head against her hand, propped on her knee, and sighed. "It's hard to keep track of everything, now. The news about yer father was so off, I just got lost and uncertain and...and seein’ Bernadette like she is..." 

I let myself chuckle. "Well, that might explain why Da's past was that of a ghost. What did he do to make him change his name?" 

“She never said. But somethin’ else. Ya know of yer seven uncles?” I only nodded. “Bernadette swears she and I have no siblings. No brothers. And if any do show to see her, she will become a horror to them. Michael and his wife came over, while I was there. A very pleasant man, he is. And his wife is sweet. But to my shock, Bernadette near came off her bed to attack him when he was up in her room. She said, since they had abandoned her and myself, they were no kin to her.” 

I nodded. “So that’s why she never spoke to us of them.” 

“I’ve made contact with all seven, now, and they are aware of the situation. If any do show while ya are there, or come to the wake, they’ll know ya as Brennan McGabbhinn and ya may want to warn them off from her.” 

“Did any of them know me Da?” 

“No, all had gone across the water long before he came into the picture.” 

“When did you first meet him?” 

“At the weddin'.” 

“In Derry?” 

She nodded. “I was still held in the orphanage, so two nuns accompanied me. It was just us, the married couple, a priest and an altar boy.” 

“Why did they get married?” 

She hesitated then murmured, “To give yer brother a name.” 

“And Da never told you why he changed his name? Or Ma?” 

"Bren, she's dying and-and-and as I said, wasn't in full control of her thoughts. Maeve also is of a mind she's only confused." 

"So it may be best to leave it that way." 

"Which is why yer the only one I'm tellin’ any of this to," she said, weary to the bone.

A bit more of chapter one

Continuing from yesterday, since my left eye is hurting and I don't want to keep working...

----

Now if truth is to be told, I did not want to return to Derry. It's a city of ghosts, to me. Some of whom I had known. But familial duty has its demands, and despite what people have said against the once-was-me, I honor my duties. So here I am, about to leave a city I had never chosen to be in, or ever really existed in, though I had. 

I was set to fly out of Intercontinental on to Glasgow, where I'd shift to a short-hopper to Derry’s Airport on Logan Air. It was neither fast nor easy nor cheap, but from the moment I'd heard of Ma’s cancer I'd been saving harder than usual, so had well-over enough to cover it. I was even assured I could catch some sleep on the long haul across the water, if I wanted. 

When I’d revealed my date of departure, Uncle Sean had offered to pay the ticket, he was so glad to be quit of me. Which grated on me, for he knew full well I wanted nothing from him. In the more than four years since my sister, Mairead's visit, I'd found any polite excuse I could to leave when he entered the room. Aunt Mari had noticed, for little escaped her sharp eyes, but had said not a word. Not once. How much she knew of the confrontations between him and me didn't matter. It was she wed to him, not I...and to my sorrow, she had chosen husband over blood. 

Perhaps I should have fought him, openly, or argued with him or condemned him. Revealed him as the cold, vicious bastard he truly was. But his threat against my younger brother made me hold back. Now, in my eyes, he was not even worthy of my contempt. For as hard as my Da had been with his fists and words, not once could I could think of a time he'd ever threatened harm to any but Ma, Eamonn, or myself...or to those who had caused him immediate irritation, in a pub. And even then, it was only when he was in his cups, caught in a sickness and secrets that made him desperate, at times. 

At one time, I would never have thought his actions honorable in any way. Now, in comparison to my uncle's...they almost were. For this man had no honest excuse for what he’d done. That’s why I turned down his offer, and he’d snickered I was independent to a fault. The first time he'd said that, so many years ago, I'd thought he meant it gentle. Even at the ripe old age of seventeen I'd wanted to be my own person. Beholden as little as possible to anyone else, and never mind what I had just been through. It was my childish way of reasserting myself. Him repeating it now meant only that he had learned nothing about me. 

Aunt Mari had said nothing, having just returned from her own trip over and now feeling the jet-lag from it. She had gone through Shannon and taken a bus the back way up, and it had been quite the chore. 

"No trouble through Letterkenny," she'd said. "Oh, but the moment we reached the border. My little suitcase was rifled through as if I were carryin' guns or drugs." 

"Or cash," said Uncle Sean, smiling. 

"That they found in my purse, and didn't they make an issue of it?" she'd huffed, nearly shaking with anger. "Naught but two-thousand pounds, and that only to help me one sister have a decent wake and burial." 

"You're lucky you had an American passport," I said. 

Aunt Mari nodded. "Yes, those with Irish or British passports had it worse. Some men were physically searched. And the words used on the women! It would shame Judas. What do the British think they're achievin' with this sort of nonsense?" 

"Just reminding the little people of who once ruled the world," I chuckled. "They haven't the strength to admit they're nothing more than a tiny island of little significance." 

"They're more important than you let on," said Uncle Sean. 

"Aren't we all unto ourselves?" I smiled back at him. 

"Even with Thatcher runnin' things, now?" 

"Just more proof to my point." 

He was about to growl at me, but that was when the B-girls had arrived home, Brandi from Rice University and Bernadette from her last year of high school. Seeing their mother returned, they had instantly begun their interrogation of her, so Uncle Sean had simply cast me a glare then carried her bag upstairs as I went out to sit by the pool and have a smoke. Calm the anger within myself.

The fact I would soon be gone from this place is all that cept me calm, these days. 

I cashed all my savings into pounds, at American Express, finished all my projects and took no more on, despite some very tempting ones. Those I could not sell I donated to Goodwill, who were quite appreciative. Elliott let me use the Chrysler to do my carrying. It still amazes me how large the trunk is. 

Now it was the day before I was to leave. It was the same attic space I'd been in when I first came back from my catatonia. Unchanged. The gable windows still looked down on a pool and back yard that in need of tending. And would still need, long I'd left. The pool house was just as reclusive. Poor old Angus was lounging in the shade of the trees. Aunt Mari’s new Aires wagon was sitting where that old Volvo once was, but that was the only difference. It was as if the back yard had frozen time, and could be disconcerting were my mind wandering. 

I was packing the last of my things into my duffel bag when I heard someone coming up the stairs...pause for a bit...then knock. The heavy tread told me it was Aunt Mari so I said, "It's your house. Come on in." 

She entered my room, her face caught in uncertainty. The month she’d stayed with Ma had been hard on her. In the two weeks since her return, she'd been more quiet than usual and would sometimes let her mind wander while fixing a meal or rinsing a dish for the washer. Then after a moment she'd snap back. If I was around, in any way, she'd cast me a near glance, huff at herself and continue on. 

At night, she had taken to having more than one beer and, if the weather wasn't too chill or raining, she'd now sit at a table by the pool and smoke a cigarette. She'd shifted to Virginia Slims menthol, as they were milder than the Kools. On those nights, I sometimes caught her looking up at my window, as if trying to decide to come talk to me like she had before she went over, but she never did. So far as I knew, she never spoke with anyone about anything that might be troubling her. Just sat and drank and smoked, for an hour, then went inside. So her entering, this time, was something of a surprise. 

"Just checkin' to make sure ya got all ya need for the journey," she said, almost apologetic, her brogue more in evidence. She noticed the passport for the me who was not me. I'd deliberately left out for any and all to see. She also saw my pound notes; the rest was in traveler's checks stuffed in a couple pairs of socks, in my backpack. Not the safest method of transport, but not easily noticed. 

"Ya...um, ya changed yer look," she finally mentioned. 

I'd had my hair cut close and asked Everett to put in some reddish highlights. "The less I look as I once did, the better," I replied. 

"But, Bren..." she said, her voice still uncertain. "Is that really a concern, now?" 

"You mean, don't they think me dead?" 

"No! No. It's only...well...surely they aren't still on about the...the..."

The silence and blinding white swirled around me until that leg was twisting and twirling in the air as it whispered down to land before me and blood splattered me and-- 

I froze, my mind a blank. That memory hadn't cut at me in so long. I had a pair of socks in hand, and my duffel open before me but had no idea what I was doing. I took in a deep breath and deliberately made myself think-- 

You've got socks in your hand and your bag half full, so you’re packing, Brendan. Isn't that right? Packing. Keep at it. 

Which I did.

I think this is it.

 I've reworked this opening to where it's close enough to what I want to let me continue on.

----

So...I was leaving Houston.

Really leaving.

And to my surprise, that I was not jumping for joy at the thought of my departure was more than a little unsettling, for I truly despised this city and its hidden ways. 

Oh, I’d made a couple of good friends here. And a couple of enemies. Of a sort. I’d healed well-enough to try and build a new life...without ever actually being able to build one. How did my mate, Jeremy, call my situation? In limbo? No...a holding pattern; that’s it. As if awaiting notification that I could now land and get on with more than merely existing. 

I’d let the meaning of it pass me by, like so much else, because I really didn’t care enough to understand what he meant. But now I was undertaking a journey back to a home that was not my home, and that it was to happen on April Fools Day seemed too damned appropriate a comment on my life, as it currently stood. 

I am forever stained by abstract meanings being thrust upon me. Such as being labeled simple, meaning stupid, merely because I choose to keep to myself. Called ungrateful because I wanted to live in my own way and accept others on my own terms. I was even stained by my life beginning on Groundhog Day, an American tradition unheard of in the UK but still laid upon me thanks to my Aunt Mari. 

Saw his shadow as he was being born so ran back into his hole, and didn't come out till half-seven; that's why he loves the night. 

Merely proof of my mother’s claim that I was simple. 

Perhaps I am. For what am I doing but proving them right by choosing to travel on the Jokester’s day. The fates must be holding their sides, from laughter. 

 I'd wanted to go through Dublin. It would have been so much simpler. So much more direct. I could hop a train at Connolly Station, ride up through Belfast...if the tracks haven’t been blown up, again, by the IRA. But even a bus would have taken me straight into Derry. And had I been willing to fly a month earlier, there probably would have been no difficulty. 

Well, no difficulty but for the hunger strikes going on in the North of Ireland, with daily protests collapsing into riots a-plenty. Everyone I spoke with said to wait a little. See if it calms down enough to trust a train. Which it was beginning to do, according to the nightly news and two local papers. 

So I headed to the American Express in the Galleria to get the most updated information. My Aunt Mari had a friend who worked there and gave me solid advice. She also helped me make a plan for the trip to be a quick as possible, since my mother who was not my mother was riddled with cancer and could pass away any moment. She was so very sympathetic.

But not very much up on things. Because she mentioned there was a little music festival going on in Dublin and she was having trouble getting the ticket I wanted. The name of that little music festival?

Fucking Eurovision.

Being hosted in Dublin the first week of April. And the city had lost its goddamned mind. Flight costs were double. Hotels impossible to come by. Trains packed. Busses, too. Even hopping a ferry from Holyhead would be ridiculous, if I could even get there from Heathrow. 

That’s when I went to the British Airways office downtown to buy my ticket. They understood Eurovision and told me that if I wanted to be back in my city of birth that was no longer my city of birth before my mother was dead and buried, it was through Gatwick and Glasgow, I had to go. 

And hope my bag would follow. 

There was a certain disdain they shared about Gatwick. As for Glasgow? Enough said about that. They simply suggested I put extra clothes and my valuables in a backpack to carry on the plane. So very inspiring. 

But I suppose it is the perfect way to return to a home I could no longer call home. To see a mother, brothers and sister, who were not my mother, brothers and sister in an area of the world I was from, but wasn't. That I was born Brendan Kinsella meant nothing, now, for that was no longer me. And all who knew me in that town thought me dead, though I am not. How can one even think to make sense from such a situation? 

I've lived in Texas for more than eight years, and yet I haven't. I tried to rebuild a life that wasn't mine but belonged to some lad named Brennan McGabbhinn, of Letterkenny in the Republic. A lad who'd died as an infant but was now brought back into this world through me, like Lazarus. 

I’d compare my situation to that of Jesus and his resurrection but I’m still too Catholic. 

So that is who I was, even though I wasn’t, for all my immigration papers were in that name. Meaning, the American government was satisfied that was my name. Those I'd met in this city all called me by that name, as did my cousins. In fact, the only proof I had that I am not the person who that name says I am is my memory...which, according to my medical history, is really not to be trusted. 

Now, I can understand the willingness to accept me as someone I am not. It's simple. Easy. Uncomplicated. If that's what it says on your visa, and your passport, and your Green Card, why cause trouble when none is at hand? And why would anyone believe a lad who might claim otherwise? Especially since he's simple. 

Of course, I have received indication that the British are not yet certain I am who I am not, despite there being no evidence to the contrary. I think that is due only to their own bureaucratic stubbornness. Somewhere, somehow they decided they need to speak with this Brendan Kinsella, alive or dead, about a bombing he was caught in, and naught can change their vague focus on that. 

So I can think of no way to reconcile all of this madness except to accept it as it is and I should do as I always have--as I pleased. Which has led me to both great difficulty and amazing joy. 

And intense sorrow.

Shorter?

I'm getting the feeling Home Not Home is going to be the shortest of the volumes. I just cannot see it reaching even 120,000 words, let alone 140K. Right now I'm working on the story Brendan's father is recorded telling. I'm using the old legend of harpies that live in the Cliffs of Moher, which was the basis for two of my horror screenplays, Darian's Point and Return to Darian's Point.

Both had done well in competitions, but the closest I ever came to selling a script was with the first one...and I'm glad it didn't go through. I might well have gone crazy if they'd changed it or ruined it, in any way...and the more I see of Hollywood, the more I'm sorry I wasted so much time there. I would never have fit in.

It was my first real screenplay, and is still very close to me. I've begun writing the beginning of the myth about the Dagda, the father of the ancient Celtic Gods, who'd washed away his sins in the waves that crashed into the base of the Cliffs. But there's a lot left to do on it.

DP and RDP are fully fleshed out as scripts, so I could shift them into novel form. It's on my list of stories to write. So many stories to write, and me such a slow writer.

Okay, we're backing away from that thought, right now. I do not need to trigger my self-flagellation, again.

Gary Meikle...

I did something I haven't done since I first moved to LA -- I went to see a comedian, live. In a venue that claimed to be a comedy club but was really not all that great. Helium Comedy Club. I was looking for dinner and a show...and couldn't get in.

Which made no sense to me. On their website, you can make dinner reservations for 5:30, 5:45 and 6 pm. I made mine for 6. Got there at 5:55 because in the stadium next door to the place was a high school graduation so travel was shit.

But I got a spot right across from the main door and hopped on over...and everything was locked and no lights on. I tried calling and only got voicemail. At 6:01, someone opened the door and let me in...and they weren't completely done setting up. They do not open till 6. Irritating.

I sat down and had a decent burger and fries, and a Heineken 0.0 non alcoholic beer, which is damn good. And my waiter was adorable in a slim, quiet way.

Finally, the box office opened and I got my ticket, then at 7:35 I was let into the auditorium and taken to my table right next to stage right and almost behind the comedian. There was an opening act that was not ready for primetime, then on came Gary. 

I started following him when I saw this video online. He's Glaswegian, aggressively heterosexual, a single father at 17, a grandfather at 40, and he can get very raw. But he's fun to watch and my bet is many in the audience didn't get half of what he was saying, much of the time.

There were only about 40 of us in the crowd, but we enjoyed it. He tried out some new material on us for about an hour. Then I came home because I wasn't feeling well. Old man issues and a bit of depression. The job in San Jose just expanded by a day and I'm not looking forward to it.

I just wish I didn't need the money so damn much...he says after spending $80 for the night. Gag.

More typos done...

It never ceases to amaze me how many times I can go over my work, trying to eliminate typos, yet the moment someone else reads it they find several. And rather obvious ones. Words missing a letter. Hell, sentences missing a word. I discount the occasional lack of punctuation because that can be hard to see.

To my credit, so far my editor has only found 16 total mistakes in the first 100 pages of NWFO. A couple of them...I'm kicking myself over. Doubling up on a word in a sentence? That should have been caught by me. Can't figure out why it wasn't.

The beginning two chapters of Home Not Home are coming together, but they're still a bit too...I dunno...cerebral in how they feel. Almost as if by rote. I don't like that. Making the events hit Brendan as he's experiencing them works better. It's what I tried to do in NWFO. Dunno how successful I was. But it is what I want to keep in mind as to how his story is told.

Smashwords is having another one of their sales, July 1-31. I've set up A Place of Safety-Derry up at 50% off, with a couple other titles for free. It's a bit disheartening to see how many people will download a book that's at no cost but won't even read it or review it. I've tried to get reviews in a number of other ways, as well, but there are even some friends who refuse to review my work on Amazon or Smashwords.

And that's including my non-erotica.

I'll be getting one from Kirkus for NWFO, I know that. Depends on if it's good, bad or ugly...but no. A review is a review, even if they tear your work apart. I'd like to know if what I put in the books works, or doesn't. I learn from negative comments. See mistakes I should avoid repeating.

Still...it's not like I'm going to stop writing. Yet. I've got a dozen stories that want to be told.

Returning to earth...

The Beast is done. 14,500 words in eleven chapters, and I left it slightly open-ended in case something comes together at another time. Of course, I'm at the point where I really hate that title for it. If I do post it on Smashwords as an ebook, I'm changing it.

It's a goofy story, really -- part SciFi, part horror, part erotica -- but I can now see it as a light sorbet meant to cleanse my creative palate for APoS-HNH. I'm ready to dive back in.

Today was also taken up with errands. Which I had to all but force myself to do. Needed groceries, stuff to fight bedbugs and massive loads of laundry done. I'm not 100% sure I've got bedbugs, but I have a couple of itchy bumps on my right hand that seem like they could be bites, so I bought bedbug safe covers for my box spring and mattress, and diatomaceous earth to sprinkle over the frame and around the legs.

I also bought lavender oil and put it in a spritzer to hit the walls and such. It's said the little bastards don't like that. We'll see. At least it smells nice.

Tomorrow, I'm getting back onto A Place of Safety-Home Not Home. I think the opening of it has settled in enough so I can start working with it. I know what needs to be added to the story and what I don't want in it. This is Brendan coming to terms with his place in life. His fate, even. And how he finds that everything he's been through up to this point prepared him for what happens, next.

I've gotten zero feedback from anyone yet, on New World For Old, aside from notations on typos found. I don't want to do like I did in Derry and rewrite parts after they've been proofed, considering my propensity for mistakes. But I can't force anyone to do what they aren't willing to do. It's not like I'm paying for it. Maybe I'll cast about and see through Facebook if anyone's willing to read it. I'm copyrighted so worries.

Hmph, famous last words...

Unfinished business...

I'm completing that erotic horror story I was writing, The Beast, and posted chapter 10 on GayDemon.com, tonight. So Warren has been caught and stopped, and now comes the explanation.

I haven't decided if it will all be a nightmare he had after being shot and almost dying or if he'll be treated like he's insane. I'll decide, tomorrow.

It took me a while to kick-start my brain, even to do this little bit of the story. Hell, any story. I did paperwork, Set up my portable ac units...only to find I have one plugged into the wrong wall and will have to rearrange all my plants in order to get it going properly. I tripped the breaker twice before accepting it. But it was hot, today, and that makes me sleepy. Don't want that...so tomorrow is going to be fun.

The last leg of the drive up to Buffalo went nicely enough. No cramps or aches. Only one little bit where I started feeling sleepy. I got that Chrysler Pacifica up to 30 mpg using cruise and not pushing too hard. Dumped all the packing materials into my car and returned the van by 6pm. Then came home and made myself some hot dogs.

Fun detail -- taking an Uber to the airport to pick up the van and a taxi home was $5 cheaper than leaving my car in their longterm parking lot while I was in DC, for a week. I normally rent cars from the Airport Avis because they tend to be in better condition than the little sub-locations, and their hours are better. 

Today, as noted, it took a while to get going, but I think I do have the opening for APoS-HNH now. A quieter entry into the story than I'd had, before. I even input it on the main rewrite file.

Process beginning...

I'm en route home from DC, worn out to the point I was getting cramps in my right foot and thigh as I drove. I had to stop, once, to walk one off. Then I dug out my tube of Icy Hot and slathered it on there, which helped...to an extent. God, I'm feeling more and more like the 2000 year old man.

Seriously, by the end of the work day, I was a bit shaky and brain dead. The packing site was only a mile from the hotel so I'd initially thought I'd walk it, each day. Even though it's 90+ out, in the afternoons, I know how to keep to the shade and take it easy. Instead, I wimped out and did Uber. Cost about $15 each time, but I didn't care.

I'm staying over in a Best Western outside Harrisburg, because no way I would be able to stay awake the entire drive to Buffalo. It's another 300 miles. Besides, I'd already worked it into my budget.

Something funny -- the hotel I stayed at in DC cost me an average of $340 a night, which is cheap for that town. But I couldn't make tea in my room; I had to go down to the lobby for it. No microwave. No iron or ironing board. A tiny fridge. A bed that was comfy enough but had sheets that were too small for the mattress so were just smoothed over it. A shower with minimal water pressure. And nothing available for breakfast except to sit down and dine in...at a cost.

This BW offers a coffee maker (which I used to heat water for tea), a small apartment fridge, microwave, iron and ironing board, a tub, a bed that looks like it was made instead of simply arranged, and breakfast. For 1/3 the cost.

Granted, one's in a VIP city while the other's in a state capitol, but I am so much more comfortable in this cheap hotel than that snazzy one. I wonder what that says about me.

What's funny is, the opening of APoS-HNH is beginning to work itself into the story. Turns out Brendan's actually a bit sorry to leave Houston. He's made good friends there, but he's also learned the city hides what she truly is, unlike Derry, and family cannot always be relied upon.

I have a feeling this thought process of his, as he prepares to return to Derry, is going to expand and, hopefully, deepen a great deal. But you don't know till it happens.

Old man attack...

I'm in Washington DC, checked into my hotel, and this trip was both nice and extremely difficult. I decided to go a route that avoided all toll charges and knew it would add some time...but I left at 10:35am and didn't hit the hotel till 8:15pm. And I am beat from the whole process.

Going the back roads was a nice change. I drove through towns I'd never have bothered with, before, and...to be honest...it was good for my thought process regarding APoS-HNH. I was heading along a 2-lane blacktop between cultivated fields on rolling hills...and thought of how similar it was to the fields and hills outside Derry.

Which led me to wonder if Brendan would be partially sad to leave Houston. He'd started another life there, and acknowledges he was really trying to escape from Derry due to how chaotic the place had become. And prison-like. Seeking a place that was better. But Houston proved to be too similar, in too many ways.

Well, it evolved into me making some notes while driving along at 70mph. I didn't look at the paper; I wrote it by touch, really...attempting to use my brain-hand coordination to get the notes down. You can see how well that worked.

But it's helped. If I'm up to it, tomorrow, after work, I'll begin fitting it in.

Of course, in one of my less-brilliant moves, I left my work shirt and trousers hanging in the closet at home. Told myself to remember them. Thought I should put them beside by backpack and briefcase but didn't want to wrinkle them. As I loaded everything into the van I thought, Am I missing something. Then didn't think about it, again, till I hit Corning...160 miles from Buffalo.

No fucking way was I going back for them, so I hit an Old Navy in Selinsgrove, PA and bought two pair of sale trousers, a black shirt and a belt for under $65. And I do have my Caladex bowling shirt to wear over a t-shirt, so I'm covered.

But do feel very old-man-memory-ish.

Unmotivated...except...

Going through an unmotivated stage, right now. Except for that series of erotic stories I've been posting on GayDemon. Well...I say stories but they're really just chapters of the same story, as mentioned before -- The Beast.

Which is close to being done. And may have alleviated the demon inside me that was distracting me from everything else. I'm through chapter 9, have part of 10 written, and a good idea of how 11 and 12 will be, and that'll be it. Meaning it will be a short novella...around 12-14,000 words.

Then I'm going to post parts of Blood Angel on there, as well. But each of those was twice the length of The Beast. God...I'd retitle it back to We-come, but that's the name of the motel atop the cave and it no longer plays a real role in the story.

I'm driving to Washington DC, tomorrow. 7-8 hour drive with a minivan and lots of packing materials. I'm not really looking forward to this job. It's in tight quarters that are difficult to get to, in a city that is a major challenge to drive in. I was smart enough to get a hotel that's only a mile from the site...if I walk; it's 1.2 miles to get to by car, thanks to how the streets are laid out. That may help.

I also officially passed on traveling to Hong Kong. I just plain do not want to spend 15-16 hours on a plane, each way, and I've been to that city so many times. I could handle flying to Dublin or London since that's only 7 hours, but I don't see that happening, again.

I'm halfway afraid I'm burned out on APoS-HNH and hope that giving myself this space from it will help me refocus. Because so far nothing I did with it satisfies me. And I mean in my gut. Intellectually, that new opening works well...but I can't get past the notion that it's only well enough...and that's not what I want.

Maybe I can come up with something on the drive down or back or something.

First notes back on APoS-NWFO

 It is amazing. All the times I went over APoS-NWFO looking to make corrections...and in the first 50 pages there are 4 glaring typos. There are also 4 occasions where a comma I'd left off was suggested...and I could see where it might be warranted...or I'd gotten lost in Brendan's speech pattern and what he said was not as clear as I'd intended. So overall this is good. 

I feel that I'm more and more prone to typos as I get older and the story becomes more involved. Even as I initially write a sentence, I'll find an error in it that needs to be corrected. I also have to really proofread my texts and online postings because I'll leave out words or letters if I don't take extra care.

Like just now. I found I'd left a period off the end of a sentence...but when I told my hand to add the period, it added a comma. Maybe my synapses aren't synapping like they should.

I don't know if this is a natural part of aging or I'm just more hyper-vigilant about them. Probably a combination of the two. My only saving grace is, it's not unusual for typos to be missed, even by the proofing departments in major publishers. As was used in two classic scenes in The Big Sleep...

FWIW, Ben Hur wasn't published until 1880, which I already knew before I saw the film, the first time.

I'm so easily distracted...

Today I had to leave my apartment because I was getting a special bedbug barrier put in. Seems someone who recently moved onto my floor had a nice little nest of them. The building called in professionals, hence the barrier. If I'd seen any in my place, it would have been full scale extermination, and I'd be spending the night in a hotel and tomorrow washing everything I own that's cloth.

Of course, now I'm paranoid, thanks to my previous apartment getting them from a downstairs infestation. I've never had bedbugs before. Not once in my life, until I came here...and even then, not till recently. Ugh, irritating.

So I popped over to Wegman's to have lunch (I like their pizza) and worked on The Beast, my gay sci-fi horror story. The dining area of a busy supermarket is not the ideal place to dig into APoS-HNH. Especially since the man at the table next to mine was fucking gorgeous. So much so I actually used him in part of the story as a potential victim...who may wind up a hero. And almost talked myself into striking up a conversation.

FWIW, sneaking a photo does not do anyone justice.

Of course, I said nothing. Did nothing. I cannot just talk to someone I don't know in a way that will mean anything. It's windy today. Supposed to be in the 80's, next week. Bullshit like that, where I shrug and stutter like a teenage boy trying to pick up the school's hot jock. And I've always been this way. It's pathetic.

So I get home with a few groceries...and find out a job outside San Jose is on for the week after July 4th and need to set that up. I'd done an initial pricing of this job a month ago; Southwest has jumped up $100 for the roundtrip. But it's set. Plane, car, hotel...

And next week I'm in DC.

Time management is not my strong suite....

Another try...

The color part of this image is a recent photo; the black and white part is old and long since gone.

I'm almost liking this opening...

----

Shit.

April Fools, 1981.

Perfect.

It fits with my life beginning on Groundhog Day...that is, going by the American tradition of it. That it happened twenty-five years ago means nothing; I am forever stained by that idiocy, thanks to my Aunt Mari. Saw his shadow as he was being born so ran back into his hole, and didn't come out till half-seven; that's why he loves the night. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that was the main reason people agreed with my mother that I was simple of brain. 

Perhaps I am. For what am I doing, now? Proving them right by choosing to fly home on the First of April. The fates must be holding their sides, from laughter. 

I'd planned to go through Dublin. It would have been so much simpler. So much more direct. I could hop a train at Connolly Station up through Belfast to arrive in Derry on the Waterside. And had I chosen to fly a month earlier, there probably would have been no difficulty. 

But the hunger strikes were on in the North of Ireland, and there were daily protests collapsing into riots a-plenty. So wait a little. See if it calms down enough to hop a train.

Which it was beginning to do.

That's when I headed to the American Express in the Galleria to get my ticket, and what did I find out? Fucking Eurovision is being hosted in Dublin, the first week of April, and apparently the city has lost its goddamned mind. Flight costs were insane. Hotels impossible to come by. Trains packed. Busses, too. Even hopping a ferry from Holyhead would be ridiculous. So if I wanted to be there before my mother was dead and buried, it was through Gatwick and Glasgow to Derry, I had to go.

And hope my bag would follow. There were many stories being shared about Gatwick, according to the ladies at the travel office, while nothing was known about Glasgow. I was warned to bring extra clothes and put my valuables in a backpack to carry on the plane.

So very inspiring.

But I suppose it's the perfect way to return to a home I could no longer call home. To see a mother, brothers and sister, who were no longer my mother, brothers and sister in an area of the world I was from, but wasn't. That I'd been born Brendan Kinsella meant nothing, for that was no longer me. That my place of birth had been Derry was no longer true. To all who knew me in that town, I was thought dead, though I am not.

How can one even think to make sense from such a situation?

I've lived in Houston, Texas for more than eight years, though I haven't, and tried to rebuild a life that wasn't mine. It really belonged to some lad named Brennan McGabbhinn, of Letterkenny in the Republic, who'd died as an infant. 

Except he'd been resurrected, because my immigration papers were in that name. And the American government was satisfied that was my name. Those I'd met in this city all called me by that name, as did my cousins. In fact, the only proof I now have that I am not the person who that name says I am is my memory, which is really not to be trusted. 

I can understand the willingness to accept me as someone I am not. It's simple. Easy. Uncomplicated. That's what it said on your visa. That's what it says on your passport. That's what it says on your Green Card. If those papers all agree, why cause trouble when none is at hand? And why believe a lad who might claim otherwise? Especially since he's simple and damaged. 

Now I have received indication that the British are not yet certain I am who I am not, despite there being no evidence to the contrary. I think that is due only to their own bureaucratic stubbornness. Somewhere, somehow they decided they need to speak with this Brendan Kinsella, alive or dead, about a bombing he was caught in, and naught can change their vague focus on that. 

So I can think of no way to reconcile all of this madness except to accept it as it is and do as I always have--as I pleased. Which has led me to both great difficulty and amazing joy. And sorrow. 

If the truth be told, I do not want to return to Derry. It's a city of ghosts, to me. Some of whom I had known. But familial duty has its demands, and despite what people have said against the once-was-me, I honor my duties. So here I am, in my room, packing for the journey to leave a city I had never existed in, though I had.

Brendan's being a dick...

Okay...I'm doing my usual thing of working on something else in order to give the muses time to work around the issue of chapter one of Home Not Home. Chapters two-on I got no problem with. It's getting Brendan out of Houston in a proper fashion that's being the issue.

So what's he doing to help? Bitching about me working on another story. Why aren't I sitting here and tearing what little hair I have left out while trying to zero in on what is needed...and that's without his help, mind you. Like the little fuck is testing me, in some way.

I'm close to thinking the opening on HNH might work as...

Shit. April Fools, 1981. Perfect.

Born on Groundhog Day and forever locked in with that detail in my life. Now trying to fly home on the First of April, and that was just as ridiculous. Too fucking perfect.

I wanted to go through Dublin. It would have been so much simpler. So much more direct. But fucking Eurovision was being hosted there, and apparently the city had lost its goddamned mind. Flight costs were insane. Hotels impossible to come by. Trains packed. Busses, too. So it was through Gatwick and Glasgow to Derry, I had to go.

And hope my bag would follow. There were many stories being shared about Gatwick, according to the ladies at American Express, while nothing was known about Glasgow. I was warned to bring extra clothes and put my valuables in a backpack to carry on the plane. So very inspiring.

Just a growling It's okay, I guess kind of response. And no other suggestion.

I'm not going to get fucked over, like this. He wants me to tell his story but he doesn't want me to know it till he's damn good and ready? It's irritating.

And if I sound psychotic, you're right; I am.

(BTW, the photo is of RDS Simmonscourt, where the 1981 contest was held; the UK won; Ireland came in 5th)

Usual method...

Okay...my inner muse is working out a new opening for Home Not Home because neither of us is really thrilled with what I've got, right now. It's not bad...it's just not there, yet. It needs to be less writerly and more Brendan. If that makes sense.

It's maybe...maybe just on the weak side? Or something? The opening to NWFO was vague and slow, but that made sense because Brendan was coming out of a psychotic break and finding his footing, again. This? The whole I am who I am but I'm not is just a bit too much on the cute side. And that is inappropriate.

But I still don't know what to use to replace it. I just know I can't get to work on the rest until I know what this is. It's how I work. Front to back. Beginning to end. Over and over and over, but not until I know what the starting words are.

No matter how many rewrites I did for Derry, the opening line was always basically the same. 

Those who knew Eamonn Kinsella--and were truly being honest with themselves--had to admit that were be born but ten miles to the west or north his murder would have been seen as a fitting end to a hard and brutal man.

A word or two may have changed, been added or removed, but that sentence was always the basic opening line. From the beginning. Same for NWFO, spacing words and sentences out to reflect a boy returning from a deep emotional state. I never had any other plan in mind, except that.

But this one? Just continuing from the second volume, like I should number it chapter 32? It feels wrong, and has, consistently. And I don't know what to do about it, yet.

But I'm not going to say I hate me, when I'm like this. I'm not. It's my process...and I accept it. Dammit.

I fucking accept it.

Something good...

I received my Library of Congress Control Number for A Place of Safety-New World For Old, today. I added it to the copyright page of both the hardcover version and ebook. That lightened my mood a little.

BUT...I was informed an apartment on my floor has bedbugs, and that sent me into a frenzy. I haven't seen any and can't find any nests of them in my place. And the bedbug pros are coming on Tuesday to check, for sure. I scrambled out to buy some diatomaceous earth but the building doesn't want me to use it. Turns out it's not really all that effective against them.

So on top of this pissy mood I'm in, I'm dealing with that shit. Just like at my old place, when the apartment below me brought some of the damned things in and it took forever to get rid of them. I was so paranoid about them, I didn't bring any of my furniture over to the new place. And I'd left my papers in outside storage over the winter, so if any were in my boxes they froze to death.

I got into such a state, I worked on We-come...and retitled it The Beast. Got into a truly brutal part of the story, for me, with Ren (as Warren is known by) raping the deputy who killed him before the man is killed by the alien. I also reworked a photo into this image and...if I decide to publish it...may use this as the cover.

I don't know that I will, officially. It's pretty harsh and really does veer close to porn, if not run straight into it. To be honest, I still have a 1970s vision of what porn is and that my be way out of date. But doing this has helped me pull back from my black mood more than anything else.

Rabid doggie just needed a scratch behind its ears before it collapsed into madness.

Dark place...

I'm in a mood of shadows and self-loathing, right now, and cannot seem to break it. All I see around me is my failures after so many decades on this planet. This attitude is not based on intelligent thinking or honest emotion, I know that, but I'm still a mess.

The only smart thing I've been able to do is keep myself from writing on HNH. Staying the hell away, because I know I'll trash what I've done, so far, and beat myself up over it.

I almost broke through when I began writing a story, freehand. About a man who's joined forces with a stranded alien to help it get back home. The MC is named Warren Randall, and he was shot and killed by a sheriff's deputy. It brought him back to life and gave him extra powers and strength, but in exchange he has to bring it people to feed its damaged ship so it can use their life energy to send out distress signals to others of its species.

It's a reworking of We-come, a little Sci-Fi/horror script I wrote years ago, that was told from the viewpoint of some potential victims. Dunno why I started it going this way. And of course it's already falling apart on me, thanks to my mood. Just another reason I should do no writing, right ow.

I can think of some semi-causes I'm like this. Stupid reasons.

1. I'm not going to Hong Kong for the book fair, there. It used to be a free-port, but not any more. Coming from the US, my social media would probably be checked and I might be refused entry for my comments about Xi and his assistance to Russia in its invasion of Ukraine. Not to mention how he's been about Taiwan, which I consider a separate sovereign nation while China doesn't.

2. I'm not doing Seattle's Book Fair at the end of October. It's not cost effective for me to go.

3. I'm doing a job in DC, but it's getting complicated and I'm looking less and less forward to it.

4. There's another possible job outside San Francisco that's making me nervous...yet both of these packing jobs seem straightforward. Easy compared to others I've done. So WTF?

5. And a job in Boston became ridiculously expensive so that's not happening, now. And I'm not sorry.

What's funny is, I wasn't really up for the book fair trips, either. It's 15 hours to Hong Kong from Toronto, and I just don't want to be in a plane for that long. And Seattle usually meant returning on a redeye back to Buffalo, which I've grown to hate. So I don't know what the big deal is, with me. I'm just...I'm in one of my leave me the fuck alone moods, and those can come out of nowhere. Maybe I am psychotic.

Or into dementia. Wouldn't that be perfect?

Whine over and out.

A little more...

Here's more of what I've reworked for the opening chapter, leading into the section I posted a couple days back. That part is only a little changed, not enough to matter, right now. Wordage is 77,144.

-----

Perhaps I should have fought him or argued with him or condemned him. Treated him as the cold vicious bastard he truly was. But his threat against my younger brother still held sway. He was nothing, in my eyes, now; not even worthy of my contempt. 

At least my Da had been specific with his fists and words, for not once could I could think of a time he'd ever threatened harm to any but Ma, Eamonn, or myself. Well, save for those who had caused him irritation as he drank in the pub. That my brother and I were but children was not the point. I could see now that Da was locked in secrets and a sickness that made him desperate, at times, and while I would never have thought his actions honorable in any way, in comparison to my uncle's...they were. For this man had no such excuse.

When I turned down his offer, Uncle Sean snickered that I was independent to a fault. The first time he'd said that, so many years back, I'd thought he meant it gentle. Because even at the ripe old age of seventeen I'd wanted to be my own person. Beholden as little as possible to anyone else, and never mind what I had just been through and how completely I'd relied upon my family for support. It was my childish way of reasserting myself.

What had helped was how I'd shown myself able to do it...once my wits had rejoined me. Him repeating it now meant only that he had learned nothing about my capabilities.

Aunt Mari had said nothing, having just returned from her own trip over and feeling harsh jet-lag from it. She had gone through Shannon and taken a bus the back way up, and it had been quite the chore.

"No trouble through Letterkenny," she'd said. "Oh, but the moment we reached the border. My little suitcase was rifled through as if I were carryin' drugs."

"Or cash," said Uncle Sean, smiling. "That they found in my purse, and didn't they make an issue of it?" she'd huffed, nearly shaking with anger. "Naught but two-thousand pounds, and that only to help me one sister have a decent wake and burial."

"You're lucky you had an American passport," I said. 

Aunt Mari'd nodded. "Yes, those with Irish or British passports had it worse. Some men were physically searched. And the words used on the women! It would shame Judas. What do the British think they're achievin' with this sort of nonsense?"

"Just reminding the little people of who once ruled the world," I'd chuckled. "They haven't the strength to admit they're nothing more than a tiny island of little significance."

"They're more important than you let on," Uncle Sean had said. 

"Aren't we all unto ourselves?" I smiled back at him. 

"Even with Thatcher runnin' things, now?" 

"Just more proof to my point." 

That is when the B-girls had arrived home, Brandi from Rice University and Bernadette from her last year of high school. Seeing their mother was returned, they had instantly begun their interrogation of her, so Uncle Sean had just cast a glare at me then carried her bag upstairs as I went out to sit by the pool. 

I'd cashed all my savings into pounds, at American Express, finished all my projects and took no more on, despite some very tempting ones. Those I could not sell I'd donated to Goodwill, who were quite appreciative. Elliott let me use the Chrysler to do my carrying. It still amazes me how large the trunk is.

Now it was the day before I was to leave. I was packing the last of my things into my duffel bag when I heard someone coming up the stairs...pause for a bit...then knock. The heavy tread told me it was Aunt Mari so I said, "It's your house. Come on in."

Testing...one...two...three...

I'm almost thinking this might work as the opening. It references volume two...and I have accepted that volume three of APoS will never be a stand-alone story--hell, none of them will--so...

-----

March 1981.

It's morning in America, according to some Irishman who's been elected president. An actor, I'm told, though I've seen nothing he was in. But his fans are rabid in their devotion, and I suppose I could see why. He knew how to deliver a speech, as any actor would. Not that it mattered. He had nothing to do with me, for I was headed home. 

To a place I could no longer call home. 

To see my mother, brothers and sister, who were no longer my mother, brothers and sister in an area of the world I was from, but wasn't. 

My name is Brendan Kinsella, but it is not. I was born in Derry, twenty-five years ago, last month, but I was not. To all who knew me in Derry, I'm thought dead, though I am not. And that's Londonderry, Northern Ireland, for those who cannot be bothered to know the city's true name. Alleviate at least one aspect of the confusion. If possible. How can one even think to make sense from such a situation?

I've lived in Houston, Texas for more than eight years, even though I haven't, and tried to rebuild a life that wasn't mine. It really belonged to some lad named Brennan McGabbhinn, of Letterkenny in the Republic, who'd died as an infant. Except he hadn't, because all of my immigration papers were in that name. The American government is satisfied with that being my name. Those I've met call me by that name, as do my cousins. The only proof I now have that I am not who that name says I am is my memory, which is patchy, at best. 

I can understand the willingness to accept me as someone I am not. It's simple. Easy. Uncomplicated. That's what it said on your visa. That's what it says on your passport. That's what it says on your Green Card. If those papers all agree, why cause trouble when none is at hand? 

And why believe a once-mad-lad who might claim otherwise?

Now I have received indications that the British are not yet certain I am who I am not, despite no evidence to the contrary, but I think that is due only to their own bureaucratic stubbornness. Somewhere, somehow they decided they need to speak with this Brendan Kinsella about a bombing he was caught in, and naught can change their vague focus on that. 

It's insane, but I can think of no way to reconcile all of this madness except to accept it as it is and do as I always have--as I pleased. Which has led me to both great difficulty and amazing joy. 

And sorrow. 

In truth, I do not want to return to Derry. It's a city of ghosts, to me. Some of whom I knew. But familial duty has its demands, and despite what people have said against the once-was-me, I honor my duties. So here I am, in my room, packing for the journey. 

What can you say about returning to a home that never was? And yet, was. I suppose to a child, anywhere you live is your home. A simplistic view of it, yes, but also true. Perhaps that's why I never honestly felt completely right, in Houston. It was as if I were visiting. Residing. Here but not here. One of her people, but not. As I had been shown, more than once. 

More than eight years in this city and I still felt that way. 

Near eight years since I'd finally allowed myself to return to myself...to find I wasn't myself. Leave behind that mental and emotional limbo that had surrounded me for a world that welcomed and repelled me. 

I was in the same attic space as I'd been in when I first came back from my catatonia, with gable windows looking down on a pool and back yard that were in need of tending. And would still need, long I'd left. My aunt and uncle had drifted into a sort of casual malaise that neither seemed willing to let go of. Perhaps my departure would change that. 

A friend of my Aunt Mari’s worked at American Express in The Galleria, so she had set me up to fly out of Intercontinental on B-Cal via Gatwick. Then on to Glasgow, where I'd catch a short-hopper to Derry’s Airport on Logan Air. It was neither fast nor easy nor cheap, but from the moment I'd heard Ma had cancer I'd been saving harder than usual so had more than enough to cover it all. And I was even assured it would be comfortable enough to catch some sleep on the long haul across the water. 

My Uncle Sean offered to pay the ticket, he was so glad to be quit of me. Hell, he could barely hold back a smile as he oh-so-deliberately made his offer in front of my aunt. Which grated on me; he knew full well I wanted nothing from him. In the more than four years since my sister, Mairead's visit and the catastrophe that followed, I'd found any polite excuse I could to leave when he entered the room. 

Aunt Mari had noticed, for little escaped her sharp eyes, but had said nothing. I'd like to think it's because she thought this anger between us would pass, but to be honest with myself, I half-believed she knew his blackmail was the reason I'm their trained dog, and she had chosen to ignore it for fear I might make an issue of it. How much else she knew didn't matter, to me, for there was naught I could do to change what had happened, had I even wanted to. It was she wed to him, not me...and she had chosen husband over blood.

Here we go...

I don't like the opening I have for Home Not Home. It's weak and writer-ly. Almost like poor stage directions in a 1930s play. There's a lovely cliche for that--Enter laughing; exit crying or something like that. Simple and meaningless, like Shakespeare's infamous stage directions. Wasn't he the one who wrote Exit, chased by a bear in one of his plays?

Well...the problem is, I have a nice little steak before me. Raw and ready to be worked into an elegant meal, with the usual accoutrements. Just needs to be cooked right. But how the fuck do I do it?

I've never been good at grilling a steak. Hamburgers? No problem. Meatloaf? I've got five different ways to make it and every one of them tastes fantastic. Especially as a meatloaf sandwich. I've baked a patty with a peeled potato, carrots and sliced onion wrapped in foil and consider that a feast. Pot Roast? Just let it cook in a crock pot for 24 hours on low, slathered in onion soup, and it comes out so tender, it flakes apart. But that's the pot's doing, not mine. And meat sauce for spaghetti? Thick and tasty and kicks ass.

That's kind of like how my gay and straight books get made. Simplistic ingredients, like ground beef, onion, peppers, to be served with potatoes, carrots, corn, peas, even olives.

But to broil round steak? Usually winds up tough and as the makings for hash or chili. And that's the trepidation I'm having now, not only for HNH but also NWFO. The ingredients I used are for fine dining in an elegant restaurant, when as a chef I'm just a cut above McDonald's.

I see Derry's turning out well as a fluke, right now. Maybe NWFO will wind up as my cottage pie, which is as good as any you can find in the UK. But I was trying to make a filet mignon. And now it's time to dig into making HNH and I can't decide how the hell to start it.

Why ain't there no cookbook for this?

And so it goes...

Okay, this is part of the first chapter of Home Not Home. Brendan's prepping to return to Derry as Brennan McGabbhinn, a third cousin, to help Maeve with Ma. She's being difficult about her cancer treatments and will probably be dead soon. Aunt Mari's recently returned from a visit, not long after Mairead was there...and the feel of death has begun to permeate.

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The day before I was to leave, as I was packing my duffel bag, I heard someone coming up the stairs...pause for a bit...then knock. The heavy tread told me it was Aunt Mari so I said, "It's your house. Come on in." 

She entered my room, her face caught in worry and uncertainty. Her visit with Ma had been for more than a month, and I could see it had been hard on her. In the week or so since her return, she'd been even more quiet than usual and would sometimes let her mind wander while fixing a meal or rinsing a dish for the washer. Then after a moment she'd snap back. If I was around, in any way, she'd cast me a near glance, huff at herself and continue on. 

At night, she had taken to having more than one beer and, if the weather wasn't too chill or raining, she'd sit at a table by the pool and smoke a cigarette. She'd shifted to Virginia Slims menthol, for they were milder than the Kools. On those nights, I caught her looking up at my window, as if trying to decide to come talk to me, like she had before she went over, but she never did. So far as I knew, she never spoke with anyone about anything that might be troubling her...just sat and drank and smoked, for an hour, then went inside. So her entering, this time, was something of a surprise. 

"Just checkin' to make sure ya have everything ya need for the journey," she said, almost apologetic. As if I were going to an undeveloped part of the world. 

Which, in truth, was not far wrong. 

She noticed the passport for the new me. I'd deliberately left out for any and all to see. She also saw a stack of pound notes; the rest of my money was in traveler's checks stuffed in a couple pairs of socks, in my duffel. Not the safest method of transport, but not easily noticed. 

"You...um, you changed yer look," she finally mentioned. 

I'd had my hair cut close and asked Everett to put in some reddish highlights. 

"The less I look as I once did, the better," I replied. 

"But, Bren..." she said, her voice still uncertain. "Is that really a concern?" 

"You mean, don't they think me dead?" 

"No! No. It's only...well...surely they aren't still on about the...the..." 

The silence and blinding white until that leg was twisting and twirling in the air as it whispered down to land before me and blood splattered me and-- 

I froze, my mind a blank. That memory hadn't cut at me in so long, I felt as if I'd been punched in the gut. I had a pair of socks in hand, and my duffel open before me and had no idea what I was doing. I had to take in a deep breath and deliberately will my mind back to functioning. 

You're packing, Brendan. That's all. Keep at it. 

And so I did. 

Aunt Mari sighed and sat on the edge of the bed to say, "Bren, I should let ya know...when ya see Bernadette...yer mother is...well, it may come as a shock. Try not to show it."

Well, at least that jolted me into breathing, again. "She...Ma does know how I'm coming, right? Not as her son but..." 

"Mairead let Maeve know all about it." 

Wait...what? "She...she told Maeve everything about me?! Then what bloody good does it do for me to--" 

"No, no, no...not you, yerself. While she was there, she told Maeve about Brennan. A cousin. And that ya'd be willin' to come and help. And I supported that. When I was over." 

I took in a long breath. It was a weak cover story she offered up, that I was slipping back into the country not as Brendan Kinsella, probable fugitive of Her Majesty's justice, but as some vague blood relation named Brennan McGabbhin. As if this would fool anyone in Derry for more than a minute or two.

I let myself sigh. So...that all but confirmed that Aunt Mari was full aware of what Uncle Sean had done to me. In my childish way, I'd been clinging to the idea she was in the dark, but that was no longer an option. Which meant she probably knew a great many other things I'd rather not think she knew. What all they were, I would not let her tell me. How much she might have shared with Mairead, I did not want to know. It was hard enough to accept the cold betrayal I felt at this. The anger.

Husband over blood. Best to keep quiet, Bren. Tuck it away in the back of your mind. You can feast on it the rest of your life, once Ma is gone. 

I continued with the last of my packing. Said, "Well, that passport backs you up." 

"Yes," she murmured. "Sean showed me before he give to ya. Makes ya full legal, now." 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, will you just shut the fuck up?! Why do you have to say this to me, now? Why'd you tell me that? Why're you letting me know this? Fuck.

I barely kept my voice even. "As he promised." 

"Yes," she murmured, again. "How long do ya think ya'll be there?" 

Oh, Christ. Christ, Christ, Christ...if she was leading up to something, I wish she'd just get it the fuck out of the way and leave me be. 

"No idea. Depends on Ma." I was impressed with how even I kept my voice. I looked back at her. "Will you be coming for the wake?" 

She shook her head, almost sad. "I've said my good-byes. No need to show off for others." 

I made myself chuckle. "I've never heard a funeral referred to, like that." 

"That's Ireland. People come from far and wide to say lovely things about the dead, and nothing bad, whether they knew them or not." 

I nodded. "I remember, from Da's wake." 

"He was always rough with ya, wasn't he?" 

"You know full well he was. But not with the girls and the youngest boy. Kieran timed his birth appropriately. Missed all his hate and anger."

"Bren, it's unkind to speak ill of the dead." 

I just rolled my eyes and zipped my duffel closed.