How far can I go?

I did not write one word on APoS-HNH, today. Didn't even open the file. I couldn't work myself up to it. I'd sit down at my laptop, tell myself I was going to get started...then find some excuse to do something else, just for a moment, and hours later I'm still not on it.

I've watched more cat and dog videos in the last seven months than through my entire life, which includes during the work I did on NWFO. But it's grown more-so in the last few weeks. I do anything I can to avoid dealing with the last volume of my trilogy.

This is going to be a rough one...as shown my this conversation between Brendan and his mother, the day after he's arrived back in Derry:

----------

The next morning, I managed to convince Maeve to enjoy a nice, long leisurely bath. She’d already handled Ma's cleaning, which I’m sure I would not have been allowed to do, and from the look of hesitant pleasure on her face when I suggested it, I’m sure the morning’s duties had been anything but pleasant.

So once I heard her slip into the tub, I knocked at Ma's door and entered with her breakfast--a boiled egg with butter, no salt or pepper, and more of that hideous lemon water. "Something to eat, Ma," whispered from me. 

She glared at me, snarling, "Did I invite you in?" 

“Do you want your morning meal or not?” I managed to ask it in a very bland voice. 

She huffed and looked away, which I took for a yes. 

"I need to speak with you," I continued, my voice calmer than I felt. It helped that I was cranky from having slept on the divan, after all. Maeve's sheets were in dire need of a wash, and the hutch was even worse, I so I'd wrapped myself in a blanket and let jet lag kick me into a near death-like slumber. Then woke with my neck and back pissed as hell at me and my head pounding. 

I set the bowl on a little tray with legs and placed it across Ma's lap. Then I added a spoon and wet napkin. 

She ignored them and snapped, "You have nothing to say that I want to hear." 

I brought one of the chairs over and sat in it. 

She all but spat, "Brendan Kinsella, did I ask you to sit?" 

I sat, anyway, saying, "I'm not Brendan; not while I'm in Derry." 

"What're you on about?" 

"I'm Jeremy Landau. A friend of your sister's family, who's willing to help your daughter have a wee bit of a breather as he researches a paper he wants to write." 

That actually took her by surprise. "What? What nonsense is this? Why would you be that?" 

I sighed. "Stop it, Ma. You know as well as I, when I was taken across the water it was not by legal channels. The only way I can return is by the same method.” 

“But that was dealt with...and-and-and you were given another name and that’s what everyone expects and...” 

“No, while I'm here, my name is Jeremy. And I am Jewish, not Irish or Catholic. An extra layer of confusion. I tell you this because I think Mrs. Haggerty overhead Maeve and myself, downstairs, and she may think she knows who I really am. It's my hope you'll help cloud that in her mind." 

"Why would I need to? She's a good mate." 

"Who loves a good craic, and things will slip out. I'd like to minimize the possible damage." 

"What damage could come from--" 

"I’ve had indications that the Brits still want to talk to me about that bombing. They may even believe I was involved in staging it.” 

“But that’s ridiculous. And it’s been eight years. How could they even know you’re still about?” 

“I don't disagree, nor do I know what they think they can learn, but it's beside the point. They've been to Aunt Mari's more than once, looking for Brendan, the latest not so very long ago. Now, if I'm arrested, it will be bad for the whole family, including the Houston one, but so long as I'm able to show I'm someone else, we might be fine till I'm gone." 

"How long will you be here?" 

I let an edge come to my voice. "How long do you think?" 

She didn't flinch in the least, just leaned back and looked at the window. Her voice grew hollow. "So this is what's come back to me." 

I could not help but ask, “If you didn’t want me around anymore, then why didn’t you just let them put me in a grave?” 

That jolted her eyes back to me. “I-I don’t know what you mean.” 

“I remember some of it, Ma. Colm going to get you to protect me. The men fighting with you to just end me. You even started to smother me while threatening them. You spent so much time hating on me, why save me?” 

“I never hated you...” 

I almost laughed. “Jesus, Ma!” 

“I hated how you looked down on me. And your father. Always so superior and sneaky. Goin' your own way. Treatin’ me like anything but your mother and disparagin’ him.” 

“All the more reason—” 

“But you were still my child! My son. I should let those bastards blame you for their own incompetence? Poor Danny there, cryin', It wasn’t supposed to go, it wasn’t supposed to go. Colm frantic. And you broken and bleedin' and hysterical. And those idiot fools wantin’ someone to take it out on instead of helpin’ you lads! Bloody men, always doin’ and never acceptin’.

“Eamon De Valera would never have allowed it. Nor would your father. He was strong, once. A man, once. Eamonn...my Eamonn is like him. Like you never could be, for your sneakin’ ways. Superior and condescending.” 

“So instead you killed who I was.” 

She grew still and cold, and a bit distant. “I had a son named Brendan once. I loved him, but he never loved me. Never loved any of us. Endin’ him was needed to save him. Sendin’ him away...” She actually laughed. “Sendin’ him away when he was runnin’ away. Madness. All of it. But promises were made.” Her eyes whipped at me, sharp as knives. “Promises he’d never return.” 

It took me a moment to find my voice so I could say, "As I asked you, last night, would you rather I leave? Being here as no relation to the family and-and-and as a citizen of the United States, I can go anywhere. Do-do-do you send me off, again, or shall I stay? The choice is yours." 

She looked at me as if I truly were a stranger. "Why did you send Eamonn to Long Kesh?" 

I was so taken aback, all I could think to say was, "He's in the H-Blocks, Ma. The name was changed, years ago." 

"And they'll never let him out, thanks to you." 

"I-I-I had nothing to do with his arrest, as you damn well know. I was gone for months before they snatched him." 

"No, it was..." Her voice trailed off and she looked at nothing before softly continuing, "I remember it bein' right after they took my child away. Poor little Brendan. So simple. He’d done nothin’ wrong. Bastards wanted him dead because he’d done nothin’ wrong...” And she was close to tears. 

This was beginning to worry me. Aunt Mari had been right about Ma’s rambling, but had been wrong that it made no sense. Even lost in her mind, she was revealing everything...and it made me feel so cold. 

Finally, she looked at me, confused. “Who are you? Why are you here?” 

Without a thought, I replied in my Texas voice, "I-I-I'm Jeremy. Landau. A-a friend of the family. Come to work on my thesis about the peace movement, while livin' with those caught up in the Troubles. Discuss how hopeful and futile it is. I've also said I'd help your daughter, Maeve, in exchange for a place to sleep. I have some medical background and she's just plain stretched to her limit. Is that all right?" 

She shifted her focus to the window. "I’m an old woman, dyin’. Have I the choice?” Dear God, how pitiful she looked at that moment. “So many dead. So many dyin’. Here we have Bobby Sands, the best of our lads, the greatest in our cause, starvin’ himself in the name of Ireland and...and..." 

And that angered me and before I could stop myself I said, "And he'll die, as will more after him." 

She was silent, for a moment, then nodded and murmured, "Yes, more will follow. There's a list. And our Eamonn will be one...our Eamonn will join it." 

"I'll be damned if he does." 

That brought her cutting eyes back to me, glittering cold with hate. "You already are, Brendan." She all but spit my name out. “Comin’ back here to meddle in things you know nothin’ about, like a fool. A simple stupid fool.” 

Well, Ma was back to herself, and as harsh as ever. I made myself rise from the chair, slowly. "I’m Jeremy while I’m here, Ma. Are we agreed on my staying?" 

After a moment she whispered, "Jeremy. You should address me as Mrs. Kinsella." God, was her voice distant and kind. "Now leave me to my breakfast, before it’s cold." 

Which it already was, but I felt no need to say anything more.

Slow going...

This new direction in Home Not Home is going to take some work, but ideas are appearing from it that seem good. I'll simply have to give them time to develop and make themselves appropriate. Right now, I'm not so sure about some of them. Take this one, for example.

A stuffy man who's overseeing the Peace Movement meeting in Guildhall believes Brendan is an American and needs to be warned about the duplicity of the papists, as he puts it. They act like they want peace but are quick to cause chaos. Keep that in mind as you write your report.

It segues into him insisting Catholics are drunks who will reveal themselves after a couple of pints. Even let themselves be recorded on tape. And he makes a glancing reference to what happened with Brendan's father...which gets Brendan to wondering.

Could his father have actually been targeted due to something he said? Is there a tape of what he said? He was effectively tortured before being killed; that would fit in with his being thought of as something like IRA or worse.

I'm not 100% on this, yet. The IRA wasn't very active in 1965/66, and it seems like an obvious writer's tool to move the story forward. I'll work on it a while to make sure...but truth is, I set this sort of thing up in Derry. In the first chapter, talking about how badly Da was hurt before being shot.

Maybe he doesn't even reference Brendan's Da in his comments. But the details start to haunt him and he learns that Ulster University had a guy recording stories in bars, about that same time. Not sure yet...but I like the setup.

Jesus, you never know how things will turn out.

Fitting it in...

I found a spot to put in Brendan learning a story his father told was recorded on tape not long before he was killed. He joins Maeve at a meeting in the Guildhall and a Protestant attendee, thinking he's an American Jew, secretly tells Brendan some disparaging things about the drunks of the Bogside.

Always weaving tales. Lies to make their history seem greater than it truly was. That kind of thing. He mentions Ulster University at Coleraine was actually recording them to put in a book of mythology, all but saying it was a waste of time and money.

It's going to be quite interesting, to pull this off and it not seem staged or set-up. I suppose I could work it through Magee College in Derry, but Coleraine feels like it makes more sense.

It would have been something like a poke in the eye, for them to do those recordings. Because it was a newly established campus. Derry had tried for years to set up a university using Magee's campus instead of this whole new one in a Protestant town.

Of course, the Protestants didn't want it to be anywhere else, so that's what happened. A lot of people were very angry.

This section is now up over 80,000 words and getting longer, despite me cutting out bits that seem repetitive. Maybe it'll wind up at 100,000 words instead of 140,000+, like the first two.

I've uploaded the ebook of New World For Old but it won't be released till my birthday. And I'm shifting the hardback to August 20th. Gives me time to check out a proof copy once everything's in place.

Advance...

I've uploaded A Place of Safety-New World For Old to Smashwords, to be available beginning on July 31st. My birthday. It's $2.99, like APoS-Derry, and can be pre-ordered. And I'm not putting these two books on sale at Smashwords. People just grab the freebies and, from what I can tell, never read them. Nor do they review them.

The fact of the matter is, I'm undervaluing my books. NWFO's strong and I call it literature, like the first volume, and I'm not going to keep hoping if it's cheap enough people will be more inclined to buy it. They aren't. So they will be honestly priced, from now on.

NWFO has been edited and proofed to a point of ridiculousness, and I'm sure there are still typos lurking to be caught out. but I could work on this piece for the next year and not have it perfect. So you just have to let go.

I think the hardcover edition will become available on August 20th. I'm waiting on a review from BookLife but they're indicating it won't be posted till the first week of August. So be it. I'm hoping it's more accurate than the Kirkus one.

I know I shouldn't really complain; that was a positive review. It just threw me. We'll see if my note on the title page that it's a continuation will help. Maybe I do need to find a way to add volume 1 and 2 to them.

I've reworked Brendan's plan for leaving Houston as Jeremy Landau, in HNH. It sort of grows out of conversation during his last dinner at Mrs. Glendon's. Jeremy's received his new passport, and the old one was sent back with it. Canceled is stamped on the information page, in red kink, so it can't be used. But Everett thinks he might be able to clear the ink off so he can use the old one. Since Jeremy has his official one, he's covered.

Everett's also looking into moving to New York City. Things did not work out between him and Jeremy and he's in need of a change. Both he and Jeremy can sense Brendan has no intention of returning to Houston, but everyone else...including his aunt's family...thinks otherwise.

So this took care of a serious inconsistency in both the story and Brendan's character. And I feel a lot better.

The Olympics begin in Paris...

 

Je n'ai pas les mots

(Apparently, you have to watch it on YouTube)

Breakthrough?

So...last night (actually 3am, this morning) I was about to lie down to sleep when an idea hit me for the opening of Blood Angel-Franz. I have a journal I keep next to the bed and usually write in it before I settle in, so I grabbed it intending to just write the idea down...and 20 minutes later had three pages filled in.

Léonidès wants to turn a young Prussian soldier who also has Blood Angel lineage into his mate, but he needs permission from the Oiym council, and they refuse him. Which is really galling to him, because he's the one who got the council to issue rules and limitations on the vampire world so as to protect themselves from discovery.

Now the council is en-route to see him and he's afraid they mean to kill Franz, for fear he knows to much about them. I input that and added more, and now have 2700 words leading into the story. It's not often that happens, but when it does sleep becomes secondary. I didn't settle till around 4am.

I think this image will be the cover. Dan skinner worked it up for me some time ago...but there's another I'm thinking of, that he also did. I'll decide later.

Cutting into this was needing to work up a couple of plans for packing jobs, both in the UK. That's on top of the one already set up. I wouldn't mind going there and staying a couple of weeks, even though one has already started to turn into a nightmare. But it's in London so it'd be worth it.

I'd thought for a bit about publishing APoS-NWFO early, in ebook. It's set to go in that format; I'm just waiting for a second review to come in to put on the back cover of the hardback, so that would work best coming out the 13th of August...or the 20th.

I added a note to the title page that this is continued from APoS-Derry, so maybe that will clue people in. I don't like how crowded the front cover looks with me adding something like volume 2 or continued to the the title and besides, dust jackets can vanish and thumbnails for online postings have to be as clear and clean as possible.

Topsy-Turvey

Everything is upside down, right now. I'm actually having a salad for an evening snack instead of hot tea and cookies or biscuits. And while I'm not a breakfast person, I do normally have a cup of tea and toast, but the last couple days I've had nothing till noon; half because I'm going to bed at between 3 and 4am and not getting up till 10:30 or 11. I even let myself run out of strips used to check my blood sugar.

I'm angry about how the politics played out for the presidential election, and a couple of times when I tried to do something good for someone, I wound up getting hurt. Not physically, just financially. Nothing I cook tastes all that good, anymore, and now I got a good review for A Place of Safety-New World For Old from Kirkus Reviews...but half of it is incorrect. Here's what they said:

In Sullivan’s historical thriller, a young man from Northern Ireland emerges from a catatonic state in Texas and finds that he’s an international fugitive. (This is a rather melodramatic description.)

In 1973,17-year-old Brendan Kinsella suddenly regains consciousness at his Aunt Mari’s house in Houston, Texas, far from his own home in Derry, Northern Ireland. His mother’s sister cautiously begins to reveal to him the shocking nature of his predicament. 

After he participated in a politically motivated bombing—he’s involved in the underground resistance against British rule—he was smuggled out of the country under an assumed name: Brendan McGabbhinn. Badly wounded, he slid into akinetic catatonia—a state in which his “mind had separated itself from this world, for a little while.” Now he struggles to remember details of his former life; he also resists doing so, however, mainly because his beloved girlfriend, Joanna, perished in the attack. 

At first, he’s elated to be free of “the horrors of Derry, and the hate and the pain and the anger and the suffering and the never-ending brutality, both small and large,” but he considers returning to his homeland after he finds out that his brother, Eamonn, has been arrested and that his mother is ill with cancer. 

Over the course of the novel, Sullivan deftly manages to present the protagonist as an ordinary teenager with prosaic, adolescent longings and shows how he’s been transformed by living in a grimly violent environment. The entire novel is written from Brendan’s first-person perspective, a narrative choice that allows readers to easily feel his emotional conflicts and agitations. The novel can be bewilderingly unclear at times, but such confusion artfully mirrors the protagonist’s own disorientation. Overall, it’s a subtly evocative tale with psychological nuance and historical verisimilitude. 

A moving depiction of the human costs of political chaos.

It's obvious the person doing the review did not read the first book, because Brendan did not help set the bomb, he was caught in it by accident. Nor did he actively participate in PIRA. And it's an historical thriller???? Where the hell did that come from, and how can I link to this thing?

I can use the last two paragraphs on the back of the dust jacket, at least. "See? Kirkus liked it!" (Just don't read their full review.)

It's not the first time I've had a work reviewed by someone who either did not really read it, or skimmed it, or just made shit up. I mean, I'm glad this one was positive...but I can't use it because it's not accurate.

Do I need to specify in the title this is volume 2, and redo the cover for volume 1?

Memories out of nowhere...

I'm feeling an incredible sadness, right now, which is bringing up old thoughts and memories from all over my life. And I'm reminded of how little I've done with myself. How completely useless I feel. We're going through an awful time, at the moment, and I'm remember other periods that I've had to deal with chaos and uncertainty...and sometimes didn't do so well in handling them.

Fortunately, I can still bring up moments that helped me through. That gave me a form of support. Even going back to when I was careening through the understanding that I was gay and had no one I could tell it to. Felt I could be put in jail at any moment, because...as one San Antonio cop put it...it was illegal to be gay in Texas in the 70s.

Hell, it was illegal for married couples to have sex in any way but the missionary position. If a cop looked in a window and saw a wife seated atop her husband, having sex, he could arrest them for sodomy. And pornography was WAY under the radar.

However, there was a porn store down on Houston Street, near the Texas Theatre, that I could slip into even though I was underage. The owner's attitude was, he didn't give a shit what anybody was up to. So when I'd buy some book or magazine and nervously tell him it's for research, he'd smile and nod, and take my money without condemnation. I felt both terrified, in there, and safe enough to start exploring.

Al Parker and Dick Fisk became my first gay porn crushes. God, how I loved seeing them together in photo mags. Sketched out graphic stories about them. I could go into my world and dream about them, when life became too much to handle. And while Dick was lovely, I wanted so much to be like Al...

But it wasn't possible. He's way prettier than I ever was. So much more assured. Exactly right in every part of his body, while I was skinny (5'9" and 140 lbs), had been brutally treated, and probably had ADHD. I was a mess. Still am, to an extent.

It hurt when Dick died in a car wreck in 1983. He was three years younger than me, while Al and I were the same age, just a month apart...5 weeks...when he died from AIDs.

After years of dealing with and losing friends and acquaintances to that vile disease, I was numb. Their deaths would hurt and I'd grieve, but not much more.

For Al I wept.

I'd never met him. He knew nothing of me. I didn't care he'd been a gay porn star. He meant dreams...simple dreams of a simple life that could never happen.

And never has.

It's all about me...

I'm in crash and burn mode. Apparently, I haven't really been paying attention to the beginning of volume three of APoS. Chapter one is okay, but two, three and four are completely wrong. Brendan does things he wouldn't do -- like take Jeremy's passport to use for his trip to Derry with no intention of returning to the US. He plans to mail it back to him.

That's setting a good friend up for huge legal trouble. And Jeremy claiming it must have been stolen may not get him off the hook. Brendan wouldn't do that to a friend...not without talking to him, first, which he doesn't do. And no good-byes to his new family at Mrs. Glendon's? I have him acting like an asshole.

Which means reworking the opening chapters. Completely. Which I'm still dealing with, and berating myself for setting it up in this way. It's inexcusable.

Then I learn Biden is dropping out of the presidential race. I've supported him, given money to help his campaign, fought with fellow democrats on twitter and instagram about their demands he drop out...and they have won. The pundits and rich donors and MSM have driven him out of the race and are now out to nominate someone else to run for president.

Those who think this will all automatically go to Kamala Harris haven't been paying attention to what our overlords want. Many of them have been pushing Newsom or Whitmer as alternatives to Biden, a subtle slap at Harris not being white enough for them. It's obscene.

The DNC is now rallying people to support whoever the nominee is, and Biden has endorsed Harris so it's possible she will be the nominee...but I am livid at the treachery of those who howled for Biden to step down, and I halfway think many will now turn on Harris as someone who cannot win against that convicted felon. They've proven they are not to be trusted.

I have a horrible feeling this will turn out to be like 1968, when Johnson was driven to not run over Vietnam and Humphrey ran a lackluster campaign. Thanks to Nixon's and Kissinger's dirty tricks, we had five more years of war, 30,000+ American dead, millions of Vietnamese, Cambodian and Laotian dead, and untold billions down the drain over nothing.

Dear God, I wish I could get out of this country.

Again with the slow progress...

I finally worked around removing the party chapter from HNH to guide Brendan into seeing Joanna, again. It's not really, completely, totally right, yet, but it's getting there. By changing it to a meeting of the peace group Maeve belongs to and setting it in the Guildhall, it becomes even more charged with emotion.

That building is like a flashpoint, a couple of times in the first volume, so this makes better sense. And having half the chairs empty adds to the feeling that things are not going well. That Joanna shows up means even more, because she drags a few Protestants with her and their nerviness adds to the general atmosphere.

I'm also changing the chapter titles, as I go along, to better reflect their part in the story...but with a bit more finesse. The one where Brendan and his mother have a truly brutal talk about his return and she slips into a confused state, inadvertently revealing more about why he was saved instead of allowed to die, was initially titled Blunt Force. That's a bit much.

I thought of naming it Face to Face, but that's weak. And Revelations is too biblical, really. Right now I'm using More Revealed, but I'm not completely happy with that, either. Kind of wishy-washy.

FWIW, 2 months ago I asked Publishers Weekly if they would do a review of New World For Old and have yet to hear back from them. When they rejected Derry, it was within a couple days. They acknowledged getting the request, so I know that's not the issue. But I've heard nothing since. My hope is this means they will give it a review...but I honestly don't know.

I'm not going to ask, yet. The book is still slated for July 31-August 13...which I may change to the 20th, depending on how things go with setting it up for printing at Ingram Spark.

Damn...I wish I had the money to hire someone to do this right.

Tapped out...

Here's some background on the times Brendan is returning to...

...because I'm brain dead, right now...took me three tries to write these sentences without error. Duhh...

Prep for APoS-NWFO release

Today I worked on an online ad and changed up the dust cover synopsis for APoS-NWFO. Not flashy, but I can't afford to have something super-graphic done.

As of now, I'm releasing it in ebook on July 31st and in hardback on August 13th.

-------

Tag line: 

 1973, Houston. Seriously injured by a horrific bombing in Derry, NI, Brendan Kinsella is snuck into Houston and hidden in his aunt’s home. As he recovers, he comes to believe has found a place of safety in a city of wealth and promise so can start his life anew. But appearances can be deceiving...and promises are not always kept.

Synopsis: 

Houston 1973 

Seriously injured by a horrific bombing in Derry, Northern Ireland, Brendan has collapsed into an Akinetic Catatonia, where he is barely aware of what's going on around him. Some members of the Provisional IRA want him dead because they think he tried to warn the targets of the bombing. At the same time, the British Army seems to believe he helped set it and wants to interrogate him. But thanks to a note he left for his mother, the UK passport he’d just received, a job offer on a ship in Cobb, and the train ticket he’d bought, one-way to Dublin, all evidence suggests he had left town prior to the explosion, so that is the story all parties settle on.

In truth, while his wounds were being tended to, it was discovered he had a heart condition and was snuck into the US on a medical visa -- to be treated by a heart specialist. The name used? Brennan McGabbhinn. So for six months, he’s been kept hidden in an attic room in Houston, Texas, slowly recovering, well out of sight of everyone except his Aunt Mari, Uncle Sean, and cousins -- Scott, Brandi, and Bernadette.

But while Brendan’s body may be healing, his mind is still torn by horrific memories of that day; the understanding that Joanna, the girl he loved more than anything, is dead; and that his family is still caught in the brutality of The Troubles...and he is not allowed to contact them.

In an attempt to regain his center...as well as make a little money...he reverts to type by repairing items for the neighborhood help – irons, toasters, lawn mowers and the like. He also develops tentative friendships with Everett, a graphic artist, and Jeremy, a high school friend of Scott’s. And while he is not fond of the extreme heat and humidity of a Houston summer; he grows to believe he has found a place of safety in a city of wealth and promise.

But he slowly comes to realize that appearances can be deceiving...and promises are not always kept.

A bit more of the beginning...

Immediately following yesterday's post:

-----

Now again...if truth is to be told, while I loved the idea of escaping Houston, I did not want to return to Derry. It's a city of ghosts, to me. Some of whom I had known. Some of whom were still living. But familial duty has its demands, and despite what people have said against the once-was-me, I honor my duties.

Once in Glasgow, I'd shift to a short-hopper to Derry’s Airport on Logan Air. It was faster than American Express had come up with, but was not as cheap. Still, from the moment I'd heard of Ma’s cancer I'd focused on 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. So it was settled. 

When I’d revealed my planned date of departure, Uncle Sean had offered to buy the ticket. Which grated on me. 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, so he knew full well I wanted nothing from him. And I knew full well he was glad to be quit of me. 

But he had stupidly made the offer in front of my Aunt Mari, certain I would refuse. Instead, just to be difficult, I’d politely thanked him, told him I’d bought the ticket, already, shown him my receipt for the cost, and then sweetly added I’d be happy reimbursement. In cash, as I had no bank account. He had grown tense and angry, but he was caught...and the next day I had the money, also done very deliberately in front of Aunt Mari. 

Perhaps I should have fought him, openly, or argued with him or condemned him. Revealed him to be the conniving, vicious bastard he truly was. But a threat he’d made against my younger brother held me back. And now he was not even worthy of my contempt, so the point would be moot. 

It’s funny. As hard as my Da had been with his fists and words, not once could I could think of a time where he'd threatened harm to any but Ma, Eamonn, or myself. And even then, it was only when he was in his cups, caught in a sickness and secrets that made him desperate, at times. As a child, I’d never thought his actions honorable in any way. Just brutal and cruel. 

But in comparison to my uncle's, they were almost forgivable. For that man had no honest excuse for what he’d done. 

Aunt Mari had noticed our childish game, of course, for little escaped her sharp eyes, but she had just returned from her own trip over and feeling the jet-lag from it, so had said not a word. Not once. I did not blame her for that. 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, as if I were carryin' guns or drugs." 

"Or cash," said Uncle Sean, sneering at me. 

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

"It’s good you had an American passport," I said. 

Aunt Mari nodded. "Those with Irish or British passports did have 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 burst through the door--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. 

I went out to have a smoke by the pool, and count the minutes until I could leave. 

Aunt Mari had been there when Bobby Sands began his hunger strike, so had seen the demonstrations and heard about the deaths. And the brutality. And the stupidity of those in power thinking batons and rubber bullets would put the stupid taigs in their place. All of which she told me, in full, during one of her midnight smokes and beers.

I had much to look forward to.

As for the confrontations between her husband and myself, how much she knew was of no matter. It was she wed to him, not I. It was just to my sorrow she had chosen husband over blood.

The Beginning...again...

What I've been banging my head about--the opening of A Place of Safety-Home Not Home:

-------

So I was finally leaving Houston. 

Truly leaving. 

And that I was not jumping for joy about it was more than little unsettling, for I truly despised this city and its hidden ways. Oh, I’d made a couple of good friends here. As well as some enemies. Ruined a couple lives--both deliberately and not--while making others better off-again, both deliberately and not. I’d tried to build a new life without ever actually trying to. It was an odd situation to be in, but everything about my life was odd, just then. 

How did my mate, Jeremy, describe it? In limbo? No...no, a holding pattern; that was it. As if I were awaiting notification that I could now land and get on with more than merely existing. 

Well...that notification had come, and I was undertaking a journey back to a home that was not my home to see my family that was not my family. If you want a fuller understanding of how ridiculous this all was, I was set to travel on April Fools Day. 

Talk about too bloody appropriate a comment on my life--choosing to travel on the Jokester’s day. The fates must be holding their sides, from laughter. 

 My plan had been to go through Dublin. There, I could hop a train at Connolly Station and ride up through Belfast. Well...if the tracks hadn’t been blown up, again, by the IRA. But even a bus would have taken me straight from the airport into Derry. And had I been willing to travel on March 1st, there’d have been little difficulty. 

But I chose not to because Bobby Sands’ hunger strike was to start up that same day, and knowing how people were in the North of Ireland it seemed best to avoid what would be daily protests that would then collapse into riots. 

Aunt Mari’s friend at the Galleria office of American Express also said to wait till it calmed down. Which it was beginning to do, according to the nightly news and two local papers. She’d been most sympathetic over how my mother--who was not my mother--was riddled with cancer and could pass away at any moment, so promised to find a plan for the trip that would be as quick and easy as possible. 

What she finally decided upon was flying into New York to change planes for Shannon, then a bus to Galway and changing to another bus to Derry, from there. 

That was what she called quick and painless? 

But then she explained it was the best she could do because of some stupid little music festival, in Dublin. 

The name of that little music festival? Fucking Eurovision! 

It was being hosted the first week of April, and the city had lost its goddamned mind. Flight costs were double. Decent hotels impossible to come by. Trains packed. Busses, too. The riots in Belfast and Derry were nothing compared to those rowdy crowds. Oh, had I timed my travel just right. 

My mate, Everett, knew the owner of a travel agency, in Montrose, and that man understood Eurovision. He told me the simplest way to get back in my city of birth--that was no longer my city of birth--was through Gatwick then Glasgow, on British Caledonian, straight from Houston. Then I had to trust the fates my bag would follow. There was a certain disdain he offered about Gatwick. As for Glasgow? Enough said about that. 

He simply suggested I put a change of clothes and any 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. How can one even think to make sense from such a situation? 

Of course, it was best to enter the UK with as little fanfare as possible, for though I’d been born Brendan Kinsella, that was no longer me. All who’d known me in that town thought me dead, even though I am not...unless they didn’t or knew I wasn’t. 

The life that wasn't mine...but now was...belonged to some lad named Brennan McGabbhinn. Of Letterkenny. In the Republic. A third or fourth cousin to myself, who'd died as an infant but was resurrected through me, like Lazarus.

So McGabbhinn was my name to the American government. Those I'd met in Houston all called me by that name, as did my cousins. That's what it said on my visa, and passport, and Green Card, and driving license, and health insurance, so why would anyone even begin to believe a lad who might claim otherwise? Because, in fact, the only proof I had that I am not the person who everyone says I am is my memory...which, according to my medical history, is really not to be trusted.

Naturally, the British are not yet convinced I am no longer of this earth, despite there being no evidence to the contrary. Their stubborn bureaucratic nonsense was keep alive their need to speak with this Brendan Kinsella about a bombing he was caught in, despite there being no evidence he was. And that need would not vanish, even if he’s dead. 

I could 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.

Tail chasing...

I worked myself into a nice bit of confusion, dealing with APoS-HNH, today. Restructured chapter one probably five times...and have no idea if it's working. Tried moving one part to chapter three...and only made things worse. I probably wound up cutting about 500-600 words.

I'm trying to maintain information from the first two books in the beginning of the third, but do it in such a way that it doesn't come across as an encapsulation. I'm getting close, I think. Won't know till sometime in the future.

I'd scream about it, but in reality this is how I work. I'm like a dog chasing his tail. Until I catch it...then I have no idea what to do with it.

I've got all my notes from my editor/proofer, so APoS-NWFO is ready to be published. Just waiting for the reviews to come in. I thought about entering it into the BookLife Writing Competition, but NWFO is 142,000 words and they cap their entries at 100,000. That seems a bit short, but it's not up to me.

That convicted felon running for president was shot at and his ear clipped by a bullet, during a rally. Apparently, the shooter is dead, along with one other person. I don't know why, but my gut instinct says this was a setup for that vile man to look good and it went wrong. But now all hell is going to tear loose.

The MAGAt crowd are perfectly fine mocking other people who've been hurt or killed by violence, but God forbid you do the same to their chosen ones. The hypocrisy is going to get deep. They're already blaming Democrats for it and calling for Biden to be charged...even though the Supreme Court's actually given him a path to immunity.

I'm still voting for Biden/Harris, no matter what those motherfuckers do.

Dead of brain, today...

I managed to get together my expenses and invoice, and took them into the office...to find no one there. So left them. Left some See's Peanut Brittle, as well. Then came home. Uploaded a couple of photos I took from the plane...like this one of Green River in Utah...and my brain shut down.

Nothing new about that after a trip. I needed to decompress...so I went online and got into some political arguments with people who are dead set on having that convicted felon as our next president. As well as a couple of backstabbing Democrats calling for Biden to step aside and let someone else run.

There isn't much I can do for a politician aside from donate money, which I have to Biden, so I do what I can online. I can't phone-bank because I get tongue-twisted and uncertain, and that is NOT what you want to happen. Same for house-to-house.

I have sent out cards asking people to Vote Blue, but my handwriting sucks and I make mistakes. I recently sent out cards to 5 Supreme Court justices, asking them what their price is to resign, seeing as how they were open for business...and went through a couple of cards due to screwing up what I was writing.

When I worked on Ann Richards' campaign for governor in Texas, in 1991, I made yard signs and stuffed envelopes...and many times I was the only person in the office doing anything. It's amazing she won.

So now I tweet and post on Instagram and repost in tumblr, and that's the extent of it...and I get reactions and arguments from it. Usually people who call me various forms of stupid and who love to project the GOP's sins onto Democrats. I'm not very nice about it. Another reason for me not to canvass.

As a side note, the people at the office suggested my anti-China/pro-Uyghur posts might cause me trouble in Hong Kong. Not for getting in but for leaving. So they wanted me to pull back. I don't do that. Just like I don't use a pseudonym for my writing. I am who I am, and that's caused me trouble in the past...but I'm still here.

Don't see why I should stop that now.

Brendan's father's mythical tale...

Brendan is going to hear a recording of his father telling this story in a pub. A student from the new university at Coleraine has brought his recorder and it is a clean telling. He has more to tell, but he becomes too drunk to be coherent. I worked on this on the flight home. Late, as usual.

-------

There is a tale about how harpies came to live in the Cliffs of Moher.

Back in a time before the wondrous few went to the earth and the world still held the power of magic, the Tuatha de Danaan came to the land and brought to us the beginning of our times. Appearing from the purest of mists on the shores of the west, they were tall and fair, like angels pure and fine, and so advanced in their abilities, those who lived here thought them gods. 

He who led them was the Dagda, and his figure was perfection among men, with shoulders broad and strength beyond compare, his face well-formed, eyes the color of the sky, and his chin offering a beard that put the sun to shame. They said his parents were the wind and the sea, and none would dispute it. 

His mate was Morriggan, whose beauty was the greatest ever beheld. Hair flaming bright as a sunset, eyes as green as grass, and skin like fresh milk, her mastery of the world’s mystical ways was without compare. It was said all she had to do was think of where she wanted to be and she would materialize there.

Tara was their home, built with beauty and grace, and three daughters did that union bring forth. Each as lovely as their mother, and each happy to follow in her mystical ways. To witness the five of them together was to know none better could exist. 

Of those who first existed on the land, the clan Ui Briuin was the best. For millennia, they had lived in their compounds and toiled in their fields, growing the finest barley. Their hunters were beyond compare, and never in winter were they left with little food or mead to drink. 

They were led by Larne Ui Briuin in ways generous and honorable, and his son, Caoughin was being well trained to follow. He was himself a fine young man...sturdy and strong and well-thought of as a hunter. 

Now there was a day when the Dagda approached the Ui Briuin compound to seek shelter from a storm. Good manners demanded his request be honored, so he was offered a room to himself, with a fire blazing and more than enough food and drink. Had he been satisfied with that, all would have been well. But the Dagda being a man, his eye roamed over the lovely lass who was attending him. 

Her name was Caera. Hair as black as a raven’s wing. Skin soft and pure. Lips like red berries on the vine. And a manner quite joyous. She was betrothed to Caoughin and propriety dictated she remain unsullied. But the Dagda worked his charm on her and brought her to his bed. Some say willingly; some say not. Whichever way it was, Caera wound up with child.

This was a major breech of etiquette and the Dagda was banned from their compound. Then Caoughin, his pride severely embarrassed, spurned poor Caera.

What is more, when Morriggan learned of the liaison, she lost herself in anger. To have the Dagda mingle with a common girl of the earth was insult enough to her, but to learn she would also be birthing his child was unacceptable. Using her mystical ways and with the help of her daughters, she found and killed the lass. Her intent was to also kill the child within her, but the boy had already been born.

Infuriated, the Ui Briuins demanded retribution so as to avoid war. The Dagda, shamed by his part in the travesty, ended his companionship with Morriggan and washed his sins away in the waters beneath the Cliffs of Moher. His promise? To add greatness to the son he’d sired.

But Morriggan was not to be put aside so easily. Through their magic, she and her daughters formed the Dagda’s sins into seven harpies and sent them out to kill the child. The beasts ravaged the land, feasting on any male youth they found, so great battles occurred between the clan and those monsters.

Year after year the fighting raged, with Caoughan at the fore, throughout, and one harpy after another was destroyed until three were left. But it was at the cost of many widows.

Morriggan finally realized the horror she had unleashed and relented from her anger. She could not stop the harpies, but was able to convince them to rein in their terror so they might survive. They agreed to shelter in the caves of the Cliffs of Moher and come out only during storms to feed on fish in the sea. In exchange, once each hundred years a lad of the Dagda’s bloodline would be sacrificed for them to feast upon.

To seal the bond, the first to be sacrificed was Caoughan Ui Briuin. At Darian’s Point on Inish Ciuin. Willingly he went, destroyed by his guilt over how he had treated Caera.

And so it has been for thousands of years, even till this day. Go to the Cliffs in the midst of a storm. Go well into the night, and you will catch glimpses of them dancing in the rain and mist.

They will show you what true horrors are possible in this world, and you will not come away from them unchanged.

And pray that your bloodline not be that of the Ui Briuin, for the time of the next sacrifice is soon approaching.

Returning home, early...

This was not the best of trips. Flying out was a nightmare, between Las Vegas and San Jose. Got in 3 hours late after sitting in a hot plane for an hour while Southwest tried to make its right engine work. And that's with NO AC on the Vegas heat. Fuuuuuuuck...

But at least the job got completed early and I'm heading back to Buffalo tomorrow morning instead of Saturday. Southwest really fucked me over on charging for the change, but it means two fewer hotel days and car rental, and per diem and parking at the airport, so it cancels out.

This break did give me an fresher view of APoS-HNH...and I'm cutting that party where Brendan sees Joanna. That was the problem; it was such a fake shift in the story. Derry's undergoing all kinds of rioting and demonstrations and back and forth with the RUC and British Army due to the hunger strikes, and it would be ludicrous to have this kind of get-together.

This hurts, because it's been in the story from the first draft and I was really locked in on it. But it's just plain wrong and I couldn't see that until now. I'll have to work something else out. Fact of the matter is, the peace people wouldn't be very popular, at that point in time. Emotions are too high. I need to pay more attention to the reality of it all.

Of course, it might be the In-n-Out #2 combo, animal style, that jolted me. Cheeseburger with onions and spices cooked into the meat, fries and a DP. Never disappoints...and it's CHEAP. To follow up, I had a couple Jack in the Box tacos, this evening. My world is complete.

I'm now going to sit in a nice hot bath and relax. I tried compression socks while working, yesterday, and last night I had a nasty cramp in my left leg. Does not make for wonderful feelings. Neither does getting up at 6am for the flight. Even though I kept my body clock on East Coast time, meaning it's really 9am, it's still the psychological aspect of arising before dawn.

I am morally opposed to it.

Gettin' on a jet plane...

Going to San Jose, tomorrow, till Saturday. Not looking forward to it, since the heat dome is pushing temperatures up close to 100. Then after I leave it goes back down into the 80s. Happy about this, I am not. But the money will be nice. Keep me solvent for another month.

I'm in another fight with Facebook. I put up a post for Feeding the Beast in a private group, and they pulled it for being spam. One posting. No tags. No blanket asks for likes. Nothing. But they pulled it, and it makes absolutely no sense. But try and get Facebook to do anything about it.

Yeah, you can request a review, which they won't really do and will keep to their decision. I halfway think they pulled it because I pointed out that I'd been banned by FB over an image that was nothing at all like they claimed. And these assholes want me to open a store with them? Fuck that.

I'm still circling that chapter in Home Not Home, unsure what to do about it. I'd like to think I'm like an eagle seeking a trout to dive in and grab for my meal...but I'm more like this little critter trying to figure out if he's gonna have berries or mosquitoes for dinner.

I've been getting really good feedback on Blood Angel-Léonidès on GayDemon. When I get back from California, I might post The Prussian on there, as well. Or not. I've only made it through about 50% of the full story. I've got the beginning and the third section, but not the second or fourth sections, yet. Maybe even a fifth section. I dunno. I haven't looked at it in a while...so maybe I'll work on it after I'm done with APoS.

Or not. How decisive of me.

Life is a pain

I was talking with some friends in a group I'm part of, on Facebook, and they directed me to Payhip, to post Feeding the Beast. So I set it up. Wasn't as easy to do as they said it would be, but I've already sold several copies so maybe this is a possibility.

They also offer a website. Very plain but workable. And my payments are tied into PayPal, so it seems it works. I'll give it through the end of July to see how it goes, but if I can dump GoDaddy as my website platform, I'll be happy. They are not easy to use, especially since they updated it.

I also had a guy stop by asking if I wanted to take part in the government's free phone policy. I get a new phone and could have had a tablet but didn't want to deal with that part. So the phone is an android Vortex GZ65 and is not easy to use, but I think I have it set up enough for texting and phone calls.

I think I figured out how to make the moment when Brendan sees Joanna is alive more interesting. A girl's latched onto him and they're dancing to his cassette in the gathering, and it's beginning to look like he might get lucky with her. But then he sees that ghost and all else is forgotten.

Maybe I'll work it so he sees her in a window's reflection and turns but she's not there...I dunno. It's better, but not quite right, yet. Maybe I need another chapter ahead of this as well as one after.

Another possibility is I'm overdoing the damage to Joanna. I could pull that back, some. A bit of plastic surgery to minimize the scarring, but part of her face is paralyzed and she's partially blind?

Shit, I don't know. I don't know. I just don't know.

The joys of writing...not...

The chapter where Brendan reconnects with Joanna, again, is...okay. Right now. But it doesn't have the impact I want. It's not as big a shock, I don't think. Almost like the reader should expect it...or something like it...which I hate in a story. Predictability. Life isn't predictable, so the story shouldn't be.

So I've gone over it and made the changes to liven up the party and added in his tape recorder, and it's still pretty bland. Banal. Derry Girls did it better with a retreat where Catholics and Protestants mingled, and Claire wound up in her usual hysterics. Season Two.

But that's led me to a quandary. He feels an extreme sense of betrayal, that no one told him Joanna had lived. He understands his brothers and sister, in Derry, wouldn't have known about him and her, but his mother did. And probably his aunt and sister in Toronto. And his friends, Colm and Danny. And no one let him know.

Well...now I need a section where he reacts to this. Originally, I had him going to a demonstration over Bobby Sands and his hunger strike, but that ain't workin'. He needs to deal with this and I'm blank as to how to handle it--AKA: brick wall meet head.

He can't just let it go. Can't ignore it. May need a full chapter unto itself, to work it out. And at the moment, I'm lost. I don't want it to come across as whiny or self-indulgent in his emotional distress. And he still needs to help Maeve with his mother and make like he's doing research for his thesis...so I need to work out a way to balance this.

Hmph, Brendan's as taken aback as I am over this shift. That's not good.

Back to it...

I jumped back to the beginning of HNH to go through it and bring out Brendan's voice, again. What I had initially written was on the pedestrian side, not how he would say or write it. And there were a couple moments that made no sense or were over-written, so those got changed. In a couple of spots, I just cut out a complete paragraph. It feels a lot getter, now.

I was looking for a spot to add in him buying a portable tape recorder. I was going to do the Sound-about (the first name of the Sony Walkman) but it doesn't have recording abilities and that will prove necessary. When he goes to the university in Coleraine to hear a tape of his father telling a story, that's how he records it. 

The student doing it used a Sony reel-to-reel portable recorder to tape Da's telling of the tale. It's a high-quality device, so its clarity is amazing. But Brendan notices with each story told, his father becomes more drunk and incoherent...and in one part segues into something that has no relevance to the story being told. But it clues Brendan into something about his father's past. Not long after, the tape ends.

I have no idea what that is, yet, but it will come to me.

I also need to work out how Brendan can get an interview with Eamonn in the H Blocks, during the hunger strike. I doubt it would be allowed, especially considering the unrest going on and how Bobby Sands is getting weaker while more have joined the queue to starve themselves, but I really feel the need for it.

Might be impossible.

I'm pissed...

Well, I am apparently a writer of snuff porn. That's according to Smashwords. After selling several copies of Feeding the Beast, a novella I posted last week, they've decided to pull it from their platform. Apparently killing people in a horror story that also has gay sex in it is unacceptable. And I am given no recourse. None.

This has begun to happen more and more, lately. Like HTRASG getting banned and refused on other platforms. Carli's Kills even getting refused, despite it being heterosexual in nature. The puritans are out in force and pushing back the allowed region of self-expression.

Smashwords claims to be supportive of the erotica community, but it's being absorbed by Draft2Digital and it's seeming more and more that the allowances made for sexual content are being reworked. They may go back and re-evaluate all of my work, in which case I may have problems.

Carli's Kills starts off with Carli watching a man and woman have sex then, after they're done, pushing the woman out a 25th floor window to fall to her death. If that gets re-evaluated, it's a gonner. Same for Blood Angel's two parts, Rape in Holding Cell 6, and The Beast in the Nothing Room. Not sure what other platform to look into if those need to be reposted.

That the book was dumped without further explanation is upsetting, but what really pisses me off about it is the cowardice. No way to respond or argue. Right now I'm waiting to hear if they will pay me for the copies sold or if they're going to pull them away from the people who bought them and refund their money. And it's not just like that with Smashwords; Kindle's been known to do that. 

Amazon's banned some of my work. Facebook put me in jail for an image of a man in a Speedo, in a private group, whose hand was resting on his leg. Called it sexual activity when there was none. They also went back to 2017 to remove an image they claim goes against their guidelines, but won't tell me which one it was, what it was, anything. And their review option is worthless.

So right now I hate the world and everything in it.

Technology is the devil...

Met with someone in the Genius bar, who ran a series of tests and found my phone is in great condition and working fine. BUT...thanks to the sensitivity of the screen, even when it's in sleep mode if it's in your pocket and rubbing against material, it might think you're trying to log in. And after a number of false tries, it shuts you out for a while. That's what that message is all about.

I don't know that I accept that 100%, because I've been carrying it in my shirt or pants pocket for years. But to be safe I got a flip folder to hold it, so it won't be rubbing anymore. It's more protective, anyway, if a bit harder to use.

I'm at a point in HNH where Brendan sees his first ghost and I'm having trouble with it. He agrees to go to a meeting/party with Maeve, where Catholics and Protestants mingle to show how alike they all are...and he uses some of his punk music from Houston to liven the dreary atmosphere up. But as he's bouncing with some of the younger people there, he sees Joanna enter the room.

That Joanna.

It turns out she was not killed in the bombing but was badly burned. Half her face is fine, half is severely scarred. No one said a word about her surviving...and he comes close to losing it.

Thing is, this shifts a lot of the trajectory of the rest of the book. Maeve may not have known about Joanna, but surely his mother found out during the aftermath, during her fight with PIRA. And possibly his aunt and older sister were told. The sense of betrayal he feels about not being told is really going to mess with him. Because if he had known she lived, he'd have come back to her, no matter what.

Problem is, now she wants nothing to do with him...and that's tearing him apart, even more. He has to get out of Derry for a while to calm himself.

So this begs the question -- is the symbolism too heavy-handed and obvious?

Freaky...

Went shoe shopping, today. Trying to find a comfortable pair to replace my old Clarks. There's an outlet store in Niagara Falls...but they had nothing that was comfortable. I have a high arch and if the top of my foot rubs against the shoe too much, it messes with that.

On top of it, the ones I saw online aren't available there...at least, not yet. Dammit.

So I hit a couple other stores and finally find something worthwhile at Dick's Sporting Goods, of all places. More than I wanted to pay, but they felt good. My old shoes just don't offer the support for being on my feet all day, as I learned in DC.

So I also did a bit of grocery shopping and was planning to hit home and work in HNH...only my phone shut down. I got this weird message on it that said it would be unavailable till after 5pm. I couldn't turn it off. Couldn't restart. Nothing.

Then...after 5, it started working, again. Like nothing happened. But trying to deal with that and figure out if my phone is compromised took up the day. What's sad is, it's not even my phone; it belongs to Caladex. I just use it because they insist I have it.

I did manage to start posting Blood Angel-Léonidès on GayDemon to drum up interest. The latest Smashwords sale is on, going through the end of July, and this is one of my latest works. It's also more romance than vampire, right now.

Tomorrow I'm going into the Apple store to see if this phone message is a situation I need to worry about. If they can't deal with it, I may hit AT&T. Can't have this happening when I'll be in San Jose, next week.