And home, again...

I got the job done quick and easy so changed my flight home to tonight instead of tomorrow. Actually saved me money since I'd bought the Business Select seat. 

It's just, I did not like the hotel I was in, which was sad. I've stayed there, before, but this time it was not comfortable. No water pressure in the shower. A toilet that needed encouragement to flush. Parking that was non-existent. I was booked for two nights but just the one was enough.

In reality, I'm just not all that crazy about San Francisco. I've been here often enough to see all the sights I wanted. Even did a Vertigo tour on my own. But it never has been my favorite city. Too tight and self-satisfied, for my taste.

I feel somewhat the same way about Seattle. And all of this was brought home because my flight here transited through Los Angeles...and as we landed, there, I grew so damned homesick. 

LA is my home. Yeah, I was born in San Diego so I am a California native...but I love LA and all the issues she has. If I could afford it, I'd move there in a heartbeat.

TBH, though, I feel the same way about London. Not as intensely as about LA, but close. I think some of it has to do with me understanding how those two cities work. I can get around in London, albeit not quickly unless using the Underground. City streets are insanely packed.

It's the same for LA, though. Even now, I could get around there. Don't have to have a car. I did without one for nearly two years...20 years ago. But still...

I just love LA.

Headed West...

A last-minute job in San Francisco came through so I'm headed out tomorrow. And this one is making me bounce off walls. It's the archives of an author I really, really love. Can't say more than that, but it's on the level of when I flew to Ireland and packed John Boorman's library and items to ship to the Lily Library.

On that one, I got to hold Excalibur and was total fanboy all over the place. Armor plating. Helmet. Shields. We lucked onto a guy outside Dublin who could build a crate for it all and handle export formalities. 

He had three or four Rottweilers that were really sweet...once he'd introduced me to them. The momma Rottie was the one who made sure I was doing the business properly, once I was boxing up the last items. If I stopped and admired something for too long, I'd get a low ruff and be brought back to reality.

No writing done, today, but I will work on the flights, tomorrow. One's for 6 hours, but I got an even more space seat on the aisle and should be fine. I'm flying Southwest so hopefully everything will go well. You never know until you're there.

It has been a while since I've been actually excited about a job. I'm usually tense about handling everything correctly, with as little fuss as possible. On a job I did in Brighton, UK I way over-ordered packing materials by mistake. 

I misread the description on bags of foam peanuts, thinking they were the same size as bags of them, here...and they were twice as big and ordered in lots of 2. So 4 times as much as I needed was delivered...and freaked out the donor.

Fortunately, I was able to return the unopened ones for credit, but it was awkward. And ever since I've been intensely careful.

I'm hoping this one goes well. 

Still adjustment-ing...

When i first started writing MQM I'd been following the old rules of screenwriting -- conflict, conflict, conflict. But then I pulled back from that and aimed to make the story more honest and believable instead of melodramatic. Meaning I cut two characters that felt too set up to be used against Simon.

Now? They're back in. Paley is the cop who arrested Simon for exposing himself to the man within 600 feet of a school. Simon provides solid evidence the school is actually more than 600 feet away, so all the prosecution has is Paley's word against Simon's...and the cop's is called in question.

So Paley mentions a couple of cops were passing and saw the whole thing -- Garisov and Corelli -- and they will back him up. which means getting a continuance in order to get them scheduled to testify...and give Simon time to interview them.

Simon lives nearly 400 miles from the city so argues against it, but Judge Falwell gives the ADA, Walstead, the time. Because this is still a Class 3 misdemeanor which carries jail time of up to 60 days and a thousand dollar fine.

During the continuance, Simon convinces the owner of the store it happened outside of to give him a copy of the security tape and uses that to call the two cops' testimony into question. But Falwell sides with them and convicts Simon then sentences him to the full 60 days...and won't give him time to appeal.

Which leads to ReShawn, an attorney Simon had asked to help him, taking the case over. ReShawn had been convinced that, with Simon's evidence, Falwell would find him not guilty. He is horrified that he was wrong. 

It works a lot better, now, and still feels honest and real enough. I think. Won't know till it's done.

Adjustment-ing...

I was into avoidance mode, today. Didn't want to write or create or do much of anything. So I got myself into updating the characters list for MQM...and here they are...

-----

Location: Barrington, (Unnamed state in the Midwest) Population 132,500 One-time manufacturing town, now building electronic panels for cars and medical equipment, not as wealthy, older buildings unused, even when made over into condos. 

Characters:

Simon Halloran, 73, Gay, doing friend a favor when arrested. Lives in Afton Springs, suburb of unnamed town, worked at downtown newsstand during college then Borders till they closed, then at Variman’s Antiquarian Books until retiring three years earlier 

Frank Paley, 32, Cop for Barrington Township, Power builder, Straight, he says, tattoos, gym body. possible use of muscle enhancers, friends with Brian Walstead. Attitude and ego.

Olivier Deskin, 56, antiquarian book dealer in London, knowledgeable but prickly, snarky about Simon’s sexual orientation then claims he’s just joshing. Talks Simon into helping him with archiving Northridge’s library for transport to the UK.

Tanner Northridge, 72, worth millions due to manufacturing, hard to deal with, wife dead, kids gone all over the world, alone in great house, not a book person. Refers Simon to Villiers. 

William Villiers, 80, defense attorney, won’t consider trial, just deal. Anything else is a waste of time and effort, and just stupid. “It’s only a misdemeanor...and making a deal would avoid jail time.” 

Charles Dillon Walstead, 31, Assistant District Attorney, Very good-looking bear cub, Divorced, two kids (both boys), friends with Falwell, trying to prove self to father. 

Elissa Manville, 29, Walstead’s second chair, Rubenesque but pretty, Boyfriend is not very attentive, has little boy and mother at home to watch him. Sole income. Catholic and condescending

Vin Tran, 50, owns store where it all starts, doesn’t want to give Simon security tape, thinks will piss off cops. 

Judge Gerald Dean Falwell, 66, Criminal Court, Distinguished but right wing, Married, 5 daughters, three grandchildren. 

Alain Bergeron, deceased in 1987 at age of 37, AIDs-related, involved with Simon in mid-70s, gorgeous but cruel to him, emotionally abusive. Real name? Jonathan James. Sociopathic. 

Yolanda Sans, 29, home-care nurse, not pretty but vibrant, took care of Doyle when Simon could not be there. 

Dr. Carter Aristian, 36, PhD in Jurisprudence, Attractive and well-dressed, Married, 2 sons and a daughter. Does pro bono 1 day a week. 

Raymond Bush, 58, District Attorney, Self-satisfied, Married twice, son and daughter from first marriage don’t speak to him, no kids from second. Friends with Arlon Walstead. 

Arlon Walstead, 59, rigid, hard-nosed, powerful lawyer in town, wealthy, intelligent. Three kids, Dillon, Danvers, Dessa Jean. Let Falwell and wife be godparents to Dillon. Hints may have had sex with Falwell, used friendship to help Dillon because he thinks his son is no good on his own 

Georg Garisov, 34, Cop for Barrington, About to become sergeant, Married, three kids. From Rostov, Russia. Lived in US since 5 years old. Claims he witnessed Simon's arrest.

Angelo Corelli, 26, Cop for Barrington, Good-looking and upright-seeming, Single. Youngest of seven brothers, follower, not leader. Claims he witnessed Simon's arrest. 

ReShawn Greene, 42, Attorney with Kaplan, Halliwell and Greene, Stocky and neatly dressed, Married, three girls (Tanna, Eliza, Browen), one boy (Orran), two grandkids by Tanna and husband, Michael Otis. Parents and grandparents in town. Decent. 

Viona Wilson-Greene, 40, lovely, does IT person at local hospital, troubleshoots for other businesses, too. Has a large posse of friends who back her up and bring her gossip—who to trust, who not to, leads on work, all the dirt. 

Pino, 24, inmate at county jail, shoplifting. 

Tomač, 36, guard at country jail 

Robby, 42, guard at county jail 

Judge Collier Allendale, 74, Superior Court. Tall and stately, Married, two children, two grandchildren, one great-grandchild, level-headed. 

Benny Reacher, 23, techie, AKA: Snack Attack. He can fix any phone, computer, electronic stuff, tattoos all over, quirky smiles, saw some of Simon’s work on phone and online. “Wild shit.” 

Lara Messinal, 48, bank manager, very precise, sweet even when saying “No way in hell,” but contacts Simon’s credit union and agrees to charge WD to his ATM, even though it doesn’t work. Spins this to cops to make it sound like she was nothing but helpful, once it’s shown he’s been murdered. “Not robbery? Maybe he tried to buy the wrong man at the bus station.” 

Franklin Carbol, AKA: Frahnkly Frank News, 28, web-reporter for local crime news. Almost racist, but not quite. Just starting to get money in from podcasts. Did podcast a few years back praising MAGA crap, Calling Common Sense. Does anything to cause pushback so he can exploit it and play victim. 

Olivia Travers Carbol, 26, overweight but pretty enough, anti-gay, backs her husband. Baptist, Works in Car Parts Store as cashier.

MQM marches forward...

 

A little something to fill in Simon's life...a basis. Something to build a more-compelling moment from... 

-----

The first time he’d seen Alain, Simon had taken in a sharp breath. And held it for who knew how long. Tall. Broad shoulders under a fine gray suit jacket. Yves St. Laurent, he learned later. From Frost Brothers. Very high-end. Made his casual walk along an aisle of dust-ridden paperbacks even more elegant, and seemed to emphasize the perfection of his legs. Seen from behind. 

Then he'd turned to come back another aisle, showing off a soft pink shirt and flashy tie which only enhanced the exquisite features of his face. Ice blue eyes. Lips pursed in just the right way. Clean chin sculpted by the heavens. He had to be an apparition, he was so gorgeous. 

He'd stopped in the action/adventure section of titles and picked up a new copy of Arthur Hailey’s The Moneychangers. 

Without thinking, Simon had called over, “That’s a good one. He wrote Airport, too.” 

Alain had glanced at him, picked up a slightly yellowed copy of that book and held it up for Simon to see. One eyebrow perfectly raised in question. 

Simon had nodded, feeling completely idiotic. 

Alain had brought both over and said, “Haven’t seen the movie.” 

“It was on TV, last year. Maybe they’ll show it, again. Will that be all?” 

Then came a gentle nod...and Simon had noticed Alain's eyes were looking straight at him. 

“Uh, that’ll four-twenty-eight,” Simon murmured as he slipped the books into a bag. 

Alain had paid with a five, saying, “You new?” 

“What?” 

“Haven’t seen you here, before.” 

“Oh. Yeah. Just started. Part-time.” Why did he tell him that? 

Alain had nodded, accepting his change. “Still in high-school?” 

“No. No, Graduated in May. SAC. San Antonio College.” More stupid words. 

But then Alain had looked him over like a cat eyeing a mouse it’s about to have for its dinner, and smiled. “I’m familiar with it. So you work nights?” 

Simon just nodded. 

“Maybe I’ll see you around.” 

Then he licked his lips, winked, and walked out the door. 

And for the next three weeks Simon kept hoping he’d walk back in. 

Which he finally did, just before closing, dressed in a fine pullover shirt and tan slacks. It was still too warm for a jacket. He went to the adult magazines and picked through them, finally choosing a Playgirl and ignoring the glances cast his way by a couple of older men in rougher clothing who were pawing Playboy and Penthouse. 

Then ten o’clock came and Simon told him, “I’m closing, now.” 

He’d looked around, smiling. “Just you here?” 

imon nodded. “Only a few hours...a night...” 

“Seems dangerous. Uncomfortable.” 

“Nobody’s gonna rob this place. Get maybe fifty bucks.” 

“But you’re good-lookin’. They might take advantage of you.” 

Simon had no answer to that...until Alain reached over, put a finger through a belt loop in his jeans, and pulled him close. 

“Is there anyplace they could?” 

Simon still had no words, but did manage to motion to a door in the back. 

“So maybe lock the door?” said Alain. 

Simon did, and Alain took him into the back where there was a table at hip level. They used it to sort magazines. Behind it were stairs up to a cluttered office...but Alain didn’t let him go up them. 

He leaned Simon back against the table and kissed him.

Not sure what to make of this...

The more I work on The Murder of a Quiet Man, the softer the story becomes in its telling. Simon doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't curse. Doesn't threaten. No matter how he feels inside, no matter the turmoil of his inner emotions, he is always simple and steady when dealing with people. Even those who want to hurt him.

I don't think it's fear or arrogance or even fatalism that drives that in him. I say now. I may change my tune once the story is more complete. But as I go through the parts I've already written, I find myself pulling back from any histrionics that radiate from Simon; instead I internalize them, with him.

He notes his inner feelings. And people around him can still get pissed off or hysterical or accusatory at his seemingly so-what attitude, but he keeps floating along, seemingly unfazed.

Which is not like me, at all. So maybe I'm letting him show me how it's done. Maybe that's why it's taken me so long to return to the story...because I wasn't ready to be still and quiet, like him, when I'm writing.

It's hard to do. I've always been very nervous, inside. But lately...after seeing all the shit that's been going on in the world in just the last few years...I finally see there's not a goddamned thing I can do about it; all I can do is shake my head and just keep going.

Maybe that's why I'm not as freaked out as I used to be over the state of existence. Man may not survive, but the Earth will.

Anf the final part of this chapter...

 Walstead continues with his spitting rage at Simon's accusations:

-----

“Your honor, this is unacceptable and..."

Simon turned to the judge. “Unacceptable that I want to know how his committee might feel about him being presented to the defense in a way that makes him seem like a physician? And him offering an opinion meant only to benefit them?” 

Walstead was almost frothing at the mouth, he was so upset. “That’s nonsense! We only asked for him to describe what he saw!” 

“He did far more than that.” 

Manville chimed in with, “But, you honor, the defense is threatening Dr. Aristian!” 

“I’ve made no threats, your honor.” 

Falwell leaned closer to Simon, glaring as he said, “Saying you’ll take this to his committee and...” 

“I said nothing of the sort,” Simon replied. Then he turned to Aristian to add, “I merely asked how they would feel if they found out.” 

“Which is the same thing!” Manville snapped. 

“Hardly.” 

“Then why would you ask it?” 

Simon had grown even calmer, not only on the outside but also within. He smiled at Aristian and said, “I just wanted to know what you thought about what you were doing...and you told me.” 

Walstead snapped, “He didn’t say anything along those lines.” 

“He didn’t need to. Dr. Aristian knows what he did is quasi-legal, and he’s afraid if his committee finds out they will revoke his doctorate.” 

“Are you going to tell them?” Aristian asked, glaring at me. 

“No,” Simon said. 

“Why should I believe you?” 

“I’ll swear it right here and now. I promise before the court I will not approach your doctoral committee, nor will I seek them out or contact them.” 

“You expect us to just take you at your word?” Manville snarled. 

“Do or don’t. Doesn’t matter to me.” Then with more than a little disdain he sneered, “I’m done with this witness.” 

He returned to his table... 

And realized ReShawn was seated at the back of the gallery, a look of disbelief on his face. When had he slipped in? He locked eyes with Simon as if to ask, What the fuck is going on? 

Simon merely smiled to him. Then he noticed Paley glaring at him and couldn’t help but blow a kiss, in return. Childish, true, but rather satisfactory. 

He sat down just as Dr. Aristian was passing. The man stopped, still angry. “I told you, I’m not your enemy.” 

Simon calmly looked up at him and pointed to Walstead and Manville, saying, “You’re helping those two put me in prison.” 

“This is just a misdemeanor. No jail time required.” 

“Stick around for the verdict. See just how much of an enemy you’ve become, to me.” 

“So you’re going to punish me.” 

“I told I would not approach your committee...” 

“And all I can do is trust you.” 

“What a stupid man, you are.” That made Aristian blink. Before he could answer, Simon continued with, “An intelligent one would know this will eventually get back to that committee, so would tell them himself. That way he could control the narrative. Coach it in as positive a light as possible. Find out if they actually would care, one way or the other, about the tricks he pulled in service to the DA’s office. They might not. But you haven’t got the balls to find out.” 

Aristian huffed and puffed, and finally said, “You really are an asshole.” 

For the first time during the trial, Simon felt chipper enough to say, “Pot calls kettle black. News at eleven.” One of Alain’s favorite phrases. 

Walstead and Manville looked like they were about to come over, but Aristian walked away. 

That is when Judge Falwell asked, “Mr. Walstead, do you have anything further?” 

Simon looked up at his honor. Saw concern in his eyes, all of it directed at Walstead. The judge knew this had caused serious damage to the prosecution’s case and was hoping for something more to use for what was probably his pre-planned verdict. 

But Walstead said, “No, your honor. The people rest.” 

That made Falwell sit back, not at all pleased. He turned to Simon. “Are you ready with your defense, Mr. Halloran?” 

Since he had already entered his evidence into the record, hoping Walstead would be smart enough to back down, all Simon could say was, “The defense rests, your honor.” 

That made Falwell blink. “You have nothing further?” 

“No. Thank you.” 

“Are...are you ready with your summation?” 

Simon took in a deep breath, banished his concerns and said, “Yes.” 

He noticed Walstead grimacing and giving a sharp shake of his head. Apparently, he’d thought he’d have a bit more time to work up his closing argument. 

So Falwell sighed, nodded, and then said, “The court will take a fifteen minute recess, after which we will hear both summations.” He clapped his gavel, rose and whisked out. 

Simon sank into his chair, for the first time thinking maybe, just maybe, he had a chance to make this go his way. 

Maybe.

Taco Tuesday on Cinco de Mayo

Despite a break for work and tacos, I still fiddled more with Simon's trial...

-----

Falwell frowned at them and asked, “Is Dr. Aristian ready to testify?” 

“Yes, your honor,” Walsted said, half-absently, and motioned to the witness chair. 

Aristian hesitated then took the stand and swore his oath, and described what he had seen. A normal-looking, circumcised penis with a neatly detailed dragon done in red and black ink, looking like it was crawling halfway along the top of Simon’s shaft. 

“Was it easy to notice?” Walstead asked. 

“When flaccid. My feeling is, it would be less noticeable when erect.” 

Simon made a note of that comment. 

“How do you mean?” Walstead asked. 

“Well, it’s my understanding they were under a streetlamp. With a strong light shining down from above. When erect, the design would be elongated so could easily have been washed out and seemed like part of his skin.” 

Simon wrote, Just describe what he saw? Asshole. He compared notes with Paley’s testimony. The bastard. His hand gripped the pen in barely controlled anger. 

“Dr. Aristian, could this tattoo have been a false tattoo? Something temporarily applied?” 

The witness seemed a bit taken aback at that question but answered, “Possibly. I don’t know that I’d have been able to tell during such a brief, non-physical inspection.” 

“Thank you, doctor,” said Walstead. “No further questions.” 

Aristian had started to get up when Simon asked, “Your honor, am I not allowed to cross-examine the witness?” 

Falwell eyed him, almost condescendingly. “Can you do so with politeness and respect?” 

Simon deliberately frowned and asked, “Sir, when have I not behaved in a gentleman-like manner?” 

That made Falwell blink. “Well, you...um...” 

Simon calmly continued with, “I have never raised my voice, nor have I used any foul language during my interactions with the prosecution or this proceeding. My questions have been pointed, most assuredly, but no more-so than Mr. Walstead’s.” 

He rose to his feet, continuing with, “Dr. Aristian is a third party to this case. Here to, as he put it, only describe what he saw. I have questions regarding that.” 

The Judge all but rolled his eyes then snapped, “What questions do you have for the witness?” 

Simon smiled, looked the man and asked, “Dr. Aristian, do you have any training in dermatology?”

The doctor smiled to himself and said, “Well, no.” 

“Did you run any experiment to see what would happen when a bright light was shone on my genitals?” 

“We, uh, well, we went to a window for a stronger light...” 

“Was the sun shining in?” 

“No, it was just a brighter form of...of ambient light. Um, which did seem to cause the dragon’s color to grow softer.” 

“Could you still see it?” 

“Yes, but a street lamp would be much brighter and...and would have more of an affect.” 

“Is that your opinion?” 

The man hesitated then said, “Yes.”

“Not something you actually observed but something you think is possible?” 

Now Aristian was growing uncertain. “...Yes.” 

Simon nodded. “How tall was the street lamp?” 

“Um...I...I don’t know. Fifteen feet?” 

“Haven’t you been to the site to observe?” 

“...No.” 

“I see. You're testifying to an area you've not been to regarding actions you never saw. Interesting. One last question, doctor. Does the committee that bestowed your doctorate upon you know you use it in this fashion?” 

That made the man perk up. “What do you mean?” 

Walstead burst to his feet. “Your honor, Dr. Aristian’s degree has nothing to do with his testimony.” 

Even Falwell was irritated at the question. “Mr. Halloran, why are you asking that quesion?” 

Simon kept his focus on Aristian. “Because despite his professed intention to merely describe what he saw, Dr. Aristian has offered opinions that only a well-practiced dermatologist might offer, and then only after a thorough examination, not a quick look.”

Falwell eyed Simon. "If you didn't want that testimony on the record, Mr. Halloran, you should have objected."

"I don't mind that it's in the record, your Honor. I merely want it clarified that Dr. Aristian is not offering facts but opinion, in collusion with the..."

"Collusion!?" Walstead snarled. He was all but spitting from fury.

Simon calmly shifted his focus to the man and said, "Yes."

Third bit...

 Continuing from yesterday, with Simon on his own against the legal system:

-----

He went to the defendants’ table and pulled out his laptop, notes, and folders then checked his phone. Still no response from ReShawn. If one ever would come. Well...there was no more waiting time so...

Walstead and Manville settled in at their table, with Aristian in the gallery, right behind them. A few other attorneys had entered the chamber, probably with afternoon trials scheduled.

One of them, Simon had spoken to when he was looking for a lawyer to help him. Back before he realized they were either afraid of the DA's office or just didn't give a damn about helping an old faggot fight back.

The man seemed truly surprised to see Simon and was about to speak when the bailiff called, “All rise...” 

And all the rest of that blithering nonsense the man spewed to massage the judge's ego. 

Falwell came floating in, as full of himself as before, and took his chair. He glanced between the prosecution and defense and said, “Are we now ready to continue?” 

Walstead rose and said, “Well, your honor, we have Dr. Aristian here ready to view the defendant’s claim and testify to it, for the record. We’re awaiting agreement from Mr. Halloran.” 

Mister Halloran. In here he could manage his manners. 

Simon had to shake his head to keep from snarling as he said, “Let’s go. In your chambers?” 

Falwell frowned and said, “No. Bailiff will show you to a jury room and wait outside the door. Then he will bring you back in.” 

Simon nodded. Did not even think of looking at any of them, just kept his focus straight ahead and followed the bailiff through a side door down a short hallway and into a room that looked like it was straight out of Twelve Angry Men.

He felt an odd moment of déjà vu as he walked the length of the room, but ticked it off as having seen the movie so many times. Long table. Lots of chairs. Two windows with blinds looking out on a parking lot. It even had a wall-mounted revolving fan in a corner. 

He kept his focus on the fan until he heard the door close then turned to see Aristian standing at the other end of the table, eyeing him. 

“Did you really expect me to be a physician?” he asked, almost chuckling. “Are you one of those people who think that’s the only thing a doctor can be?” 

Simon took in a deep breath and asked, “How do you want to do this?” 

The man blinked. “Well...Dillon tells me you claim to have a tattoo on the top of your penis. Which I need to see. So...if you could lower your pants and show me...” 

Simon undid his trousers and let them drift down to his knees. Then he pulled his briefs down in front to let the elastic of the briefs catch behind his penis and testicles. Finally, he held the tail of his shirt up so there was a clear view of everything, and the little red dragon gleefully revealed itself as it whispered up half his shaft into his hair.

Aristian blinked and said, “May I take a look, by the window?” 

Simon pulled his trousers up and made his way to the closest one, then he let them drop, again. Aristian drew close and almost touched him, as if he wanted to hold it for closer examination.

“This must have been very painful. How did you manage? Does it look so detailed when you’re erect?” 

Simon just looked at him. Did not even try to reply. 

Aristian  straightened up. “I’m not your enemy, Mr. Halloran,” he sighed. “I’m only here to describe what I’ve seen.” 

“Have you seen enough?” Simon asked, his voice calm.

The man nodded. “What I needed to. Unless you can become erect...” 

Simon huffed a hollow breath, anger shimmering inside him. He did not even attempt to hold back his disdain when he asked, “Do you want to suck on it? See if it tastes like soy sauce?” 

Arisitan stiffened and glared at him. “No. We’re done.” 

Simon tucked himself back in order and opened the door. The bailiff was right there. He was led back into the courtroom, where he went to his table and sat in the chair. Anger still bounced through him.

At the same time, the doctor stopped by the prosecution’s table, where they spoke in soft voices.

Probably getting their story in order, Simon thought. Meaning Walstead would not be withdrawing the charges, even in the face of this.

It was going to be a fight to the death.

Continued from yesterday...

I've been jumping all over the place in this story, updating it to fit the new parameters, but this will be pretty much the same, now.

------

Walstead saw Simon and beckoned him over, saying, “Simon, I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Aristian.” The tone of his voice was far too deliberately cheerful in its casual dismissal of manners.

Simon focused on him and softly said, “Since you insist on referring to me by my first name, shall I refer to you by yours? Do you prefer Charles or Dillon?” 

Walstead’s fake expression of camaraderie froze. 

Manville huffed and said, “I think your manners are...” 

Simon cut her off by simply turning to the man and saying, “I am Mr. Halloran, Dr. Aristian. I understand you’ll be doing a physical examination on me.” 

Walstead jumped in to say, “Just a visual. A look to verify your claim. That’s all.” 

Simon hated games like this, obvious and childish. But since they insisted...he said, “I’m exposing myself to a physician I’ve just met, so that is a serious consideration...” 

“Mr. Halloran,” Aristian said, quickly. “I’m a PhD, not a physician.” 

Simon eyed him and asked, still in a very soft voice, “Do you have any medical training?” 

He shook his head and shrugged. “Rudimentary things. CPR. Immediate aid.” 

Simon’s heart beat faster as his breath grew shallow. He cast a cool glare at Walstead abut his voice remained calm when he asked, “Is this a joke? Are you mocking me?” 

“I never said he was a physician.” Spoken in that same vile overly-sincere tone that was close to condescending. “Did you really think I could get hold of a medical professional this fast?” 

Manville broke in, fighting a smirk as she said, “Simon, it doesn’t matter who does the...” 

This time, Simon raised his hand to cut her off. “You will address me as Mister Halloran or you and I will have no further communication.” 

She drew in a hissing breath, ready for battle, but Walstead stepped between them to say, “Your choice is simple, Mister Halloran. Dr. Aristian takes a look at this tattoo and describes it into the record, and we continue on. Or we get a continuance and have a physician contracted to do the exam, which you would be liable to pay for. Choice is yours.” 

Simon almost sighed. “I’m not the one demanding this.” 

“Those are your choices. Which one is it?” 

“You know what my choice is.” 

Walstead’s voice and manner were growing tight and ready for a fight. “Not acceptable. The judge has said so.” 

Deep within, Simon was so angry at this casual abuse he had to close his eyes and step back. It was like that day Alain had found him in the book shop, and had tried to act like they were old friends while suggesting Simon was a bad person for vanishing on him. 

Vanishing. All he'd done is cut off contact. What did they call that, now? Ghosting? 

He was also upset that ReShawn wasn’t here to do battle against this blatant attack on common decency. He’d have known the legal precedents to push Walstead back. 

“So which is it, Simon? Courtroom’s open, now, so...” 

Simon. 

From Manville’s voice. 

She had deliberately called him Simon. In direct violation of simple manners. The little bitch. 

Simon opened his eyes and saw a smug expression on her face, so said nothing. No words came to mind, so no need to fight back any explosion. He simply walked around them all to enter the courtroom. 

In silence.

Here we go...

I worked on this part of MQM, today. It's during Simon Halloran's trial over claims of indecent exposure within six-hundred feet of a school. He was able to get the arresting officer to admit that even though he said Simon exposed himself under a street lamp, erect, the man could not describe the penis.

Simon points out he has a very obvious tattoo of a dragon on it, showing the cop is lying. That's when Walstead, the ADA, demands a Dr. Aristian examine Simon's dick and describe it. Simon reluctantly agrees. They break for lunch to give the doctor time to arrive.

------

Simon managed to force a dry cheeseburger and overcooked fries down his throat, with packets of ketchup and mustard, followed by a Dr Pepper Zero from the vending machine. The café in that building was overpriced and his mother’s non-cooking had been far superior, but he did not want to have to deal with Security to get back into the building. He promised himself a better dinner...so long as this wasn’t to be his last meal. 

He ate at a table in a corner as other people clattered around him and children ran about, screaming. He used his hotspot to search online for this Dr. Aristian. He knew he wouldn’t have time to interview the man, but he could still do as much as possible to prepare, only he found nothing. The closest match was an attorney named Carter Aristian, who had a PhD...and was in an office a few blocks away, going by Google maps.

He felt that usual breathless nervousness build behind his heart as he read through the man’s credentials. Ohio State for pre-law then Harvard Law. Clerked for one of the most conservative justices on the Supreme Court, which indicated not only his level of ability but also his political leanings. His doctorate was in the misapplication of the law by Henry VIII during his breakaway from the Catholic Church and how it had become a witch hunt comparable to the HUAC hearings. It seemed a bit simplistic and too easy of a comparison, but it was sufficient to make him a Doctor of Jurisprudence.

Achieved by a man who, if the photo he used on his site were current, was very attractive and not yet forty.

Which tugged at Simon’s quiet self-loathing. He had always felt he'd effectively done nothing with his life except find a silent space in which to live. He felt no jealousy or envy or disparagement against the man. It was more his simple understanding that he had never even really tried to better himself. In any way. And here was someone who'd fulfilled his promise, completely.

It hurt his heart.

He texted ReShawn, again, but received no reply. In a follow-up text, he filled him in on Walstead’s new ploy. It was delivered, but not seen. ReShawn had said his meeting was at ten and it was now approaching two, so he was feeling more and more like he had been blown off. That ReShawn was simply not interested in providing legal assistance.

Simon packed his laptop and folder with his notes into his backpack then headed downstairs. As he turned into the corridor that led to the courtroom, he saw Walstead and Manville by the doors, talking to a dark, trim, attractive man in his thirties. His hair and beard were cropped close, a thick wedding band was on his left hand, and his suit...well, while it was nice it was nowhere near as sharp or tailored as Walstead’s. 

And Simon almost forgot to breathe. 

Even from down the hall he could tell it was the man in the photograph. His profile sharp and well-formed. And that he was not a physician but a Phd. They'd led him to think Aristian was a medical professional when in reality they were pulling a trick on him. A chill passed from his fingers up his arms and through his body.

This was unacceptable.

Thoughts?

I'm not sure where this came from or what the intent is, but I sat down at my laptop and this is what came out...possibly the opening to The Murder of a Quiet Man. A story I sort of started a while back and got shifted off of.

------

Silence is, perhaps, the most complex word in the English language. Or any language. It can mean peace. Acceptance. Anger. Understanding. Acquiescence. Disapproval. Separation. Refusal. Hate. Love. And even cruelty. 

To be silent in a judicial sense is seen to mean consent. Which is too simplistic a definition, even when restricting it to the law. Silence in a relationship is often seen as evidence the bond between two individuals is over...or has become comfortable enough to quiet the need for speech. 

For Simon, silence was a gentle blanket enveloping him in peace and safety. He had always sought it, but he had found the easiest way to achieve silence was to let it come to him. Usually, while reading late in the evening. 

Another would be at the end of a thunderstorm that had declared its presence for all the world to see but now was whispering like a lazy feline in need of a light caress. He would sit on his back balcony, under an awning that still dripped from the rain, the moisture remaining in the air as he sipped a cup of hot tea and soaked in the joy the world seemed to feel.

Sometimes he even achieved that level of Zen, for lack of a better word, while listening to music. Easy tones drifting melodiously. No words. Nothing brash or demanding. Just New Age in a classical style. During those moments, he cared nothing for the world and its billions of issues. He would not think beyond the immediate. His eyes would close and in the darkness everything would be reborn...would renew...would regain its meaning. And life would realign itself within him.

A funny thing to learn in your seventy-third year. 

Could be it's probably me...

I cannot rouse myself up to work on Blood Angel 4, no matter what I do. My interest level is way low. And that's even with a beautiful naked man chained to Léonidès' bed, awaiting abuse...

I seriously wonder if I'm undiagnosed ADHD. I'll start doing something like putting away the dishes I washed, last night, then get sidetracked into prepping my meds for the day, then decide I need to go through my folders for a job that needs more info and go online and think, I should check my bank accounts...all within ten minutes.

When I manage to finally pull up the Word doc for BA4, I'll read through a page then think of how I need new sleeping shirts because the one I wore last night had a frayed collar and maybe I should brush my teeth and get dressed but the bed needs to be made up and I should turn off the vaporizer and...it goes on and on.

It's a common neurodevelopmental disorder typically diagnosed in childhood, and if we'd had that as a potential diagnosis back then I'd have been the poster child. It's characterized by persistent inattention and impulsivity...as well as other attributes, but those two pretty much sum me up. As a boy, when I was reading a book I liked my mother would actually have to tap me on the shoulder to get my attention; just calling to me wouldn't get through to me.

There's the difficulty of sustaining focus on tasks, frequent careless mistakes, appearing not to listen, poor organization, losing items, and being easily distracted. Which I am. I have a hell of a time focusing on any project for very long, or even getting started on one, sometimes. And i am constantly forgetting something somewhere.

I have difficulty sitting still (I'll fall asleep), I fidget (I'm compulsive about biting my nails, nonstop), and I'll act without thinking (which references my actions far-far-far too often).

If I am, I'm probably of the Predominantly Inattentive realm: inattention, with minimal hyperactivity-impulsivity. The exact cause is unknown, but researchers believe it results from a combination of factors: Genetics: it's running in families. Brain Structure/Function: Studies show reduced activity in certain brain regions, such as the prefrontal cortex.

Seems a bit silly to get myself checked for it at this late stage, but it might explain some of my inconsistencies and difficulty in completing project. Maybe.

Self-indulgent lunatic at large...

This evening, after making myself have a salad for dinner and getting a blood sugar reading of 134 (under 180 is wanted, for evening)...I proceeded to cook and eat a full bag of onion rings...which were very good...then pig out on a pint of Ben and Jerry's Brownie Batter ice cream.

Now I feel fat in both tummy and cheeks. And also somewhat satiated. Almost at peace or happy, something stupid like that.

I mean, WTF is wrong with me? This is obscenely self-indulgent and frankly unhealthy. Which I knew. But I didn't stop. 'Cause it was all so fucking good...

I wonder if it has something to do with the direction Léon is going. Complete self-indulgence. If he wants something, now, he's going to have it. Gabrielle has roused that attitude in him. He wants Franz (even though he doesn't really want him) so he's going to take him (just not keep him)...if he can get to Alexandria before Gabrielle. That's the issue, now.

His ship is captained by a vampire named Eogard, whose First Mate and crew are doùlos. They were corsairs at the beginning of the 19th Century, off the Barbary Coast, and know how to sail a ship. Eogard can pilot at night as his First Mate, Christian, works the day.

If they cut out half the ports of call they need to make for provisions, they can do the journey in 4 weeks. But that means not only holding stocks for the doùlos crew but also captives for Eogard and Léon to feed upon. To which Léon says, "Fine."

Men for him...women for Eogard.

And it doesn't matter if they deserve punishment or not. Léon's overwhelming focus is getting one over on his sister and the Oiym. He's pushing his own agenda, now, and things are changing.

And it's taken a tub of ice cream to settle me into going along with it.

Strength revealed...

I happened onto an interesting fable by Aesop, supposedly...though it might be Anisthenes. 

The hares harangued the assembly, and argued that all should be equal. The Lions made this reply: “Your words, O Hares! are good; but they lack both claws and teeth...such as we have.” 

It suggests that a brave speech, unless it is also supported by strength, is mocked by those more powerful. I would add that it's also mocked by those who think they're powerful when in fact they are not. They're just full of bluster, bullshit and stupidity.

Felon47 and Putin fit that. Men who talk tough but scoot away when others push back.

I think that notion may be building up in BA4. Gabrielle is strong and knows it. Acts the part. Has the wealth and willingness to do what it takes to get her way. Or exact her revenge on those who've tried to wrong her.

Léon references an occasion in Hamburg, Germany in the mid-19th Century where a Lutheran minister rallied a pack of men to attack her coven as they slept. Two vampires were killed before the rest could escape.

Once she knew her people were safe, she returned to the place and took the men to her coven to be fed upon, saving the minister for herself. Then she burned the house with everything in it, including the men's bodies.

The next place she bought was an estate near Hampton Court, and she borrowed Reynard to help set up security...then tried to keep him. Léon went to bring him home, and found he wasn't all that much interested in returning. She was letting him sleep with her, and he was enjoying himself.

But Léon tricked her into revealing her disdain for Reynard, which hurt his sense of pride and he left. Despite her demand he not. Gabrielle was too arrogant to think Léon could get around her, but he showed that in his own quiet way, he was just as clever and strong as she. 

Now he's offering to convince the Oiym to let her turn Franz, but she never asks anyone's permission. She plans to take him on her own terms, and she's trying her usual controlling bullshit on Léon. Which makes him angry, but he's also fighting back in a way she would net expect of him.

He's going to take Franz, himself, then allow her to have him. Which would keep the man from being her mate. All he has to do is get to Alexandria, in Egypt, before she does...and ignore the threats of the Oiym.

Proving he's got the claws and teeth, even though no one has seen them on him, before.

Back to moving forward...

Here's what I've started after Léon has taken the surviving marine, Clerik, to his schooner, the Angelique. Eogard is the captain, a vampire. Leon's English is not good but he needs it to communicate with Clerik and Eogard...

-----

Before he could think, I had Clerik in my cabin on the Angelique. He was close to freaking out from the sudden change in location so I sat beside him and said, "I have drug. Make you sleep. Other trick." 

Then I showed him a pair of Chinese fingernail rings. Put one each on my thumb and index finger. Clicked them. He seemed to accept that explanation about my nails and relax a little.

I did not do this out of kindness. I needed him to settle into silence until I could get things arranged with Eogard on the journey back to the west. 

That calmed him a lot, though even through the gag I could hear him grumble, "Wha' yeh do'n' wit' meh?" 

I can say, with all truth, I did not really know what my plans were, for him. Not then. 

I pulled some chains from the cupboard and bound him to the bed, spread eagle, face up. Then I stood at the foot of it and gazed upon him. He reminded me of Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man...if a bit softer around the belly. 

"Sleep,” I said. “We talk. Morning." 

He replied with something like, "Don' kill meh, please." 

I wondered if the girl he had killed also begged for her life. Probably. So we'll see how much good his begging does.

Just to emphasize my control of him, I trailed my fingers through the hair on his belly up to his chest. aAnd it struck me that he might be good to bring home as a gift to my pack. Let them decide what to do with him. 

But all I said was, "Play nice, you be fine." 

He glared at me, still afraid but muttering as best he could. "Ye wan' mor'...this?" 

"Yes. I take you...my home. You stay quiet. Tell nothing." 

"Won' tell enneh-one. Shameful." 

I was tired of the grumbling in his gag so removed it and pulled on his dick. He cried out. I moved close to his face.

"This, you like," I snarled. "Girl you kill? Not so much. We have deal?" 

He leaned back on a pillow to gaze at the ceiling as he said, "Take meh soul?" 

I chuckled. "Gone much past." 

I could see him thinking, hard, as he swallowed and little whimpers of fear still leapt from within him. I continued to hold tight on his dick. Made him squirm as my free hand toyed with his elegant nipples. 

Finally, he nodded. "O-keh." 

Now I wasn’t so dumb that I thought he meant it. He wanted time enough to figure out how to escape me. And I actually felt it might be fun to let him get away a couple of times during ports of call. That way, I could go hunting. In fact, the more I considered that idea, the more it aroused something primal in me. 

He noticed it in my eyes so turned his head away from me, as much as he could. He was close to tears. 

I chuckled and pinched his nipples, making his yelp in pain. He shook his head. “Please,” he grunted. “Jess don’ hurt me.” 

Stupid man...begging for mercy after what he’d done? That would make my abuse of him even sweeter. 

Here we fucking go again...

What the hell do you do when your MC decides something he's done has brought about a major change in him...but he won't tell you what it is? I've been through this, before, with other characters and it drives me nuts, because I can't figure out the story till I know.

Right now, Léonidès is saying he's gone through a big, seismic change. Something deep within him is different, and I'm at a loss as to what. He's a fucking vampire. They are what they are. Am I working up a new mythology in vampire lore where Blood Angels can grow or change or be affected by events?

No idea. Is he going nicer? Meaner? Is he ending his demand he and his pack feed only on people who deserve punishment? He's toying with the idea of making Clerik, one of the marines he took, into a doùlos. A sort of slave beholden to him who can work during the day. Like a familiar.

Léon doesn't need a doùlos. He's not that affected by the sun so can handle daytime needs, himself. And he just forced the man to watch him viciously rape and kill a buddy. Doesn't exactly make for a loyal servant. Is he going to toy with the man? Torture him? Fall in love with him? All of the above? None?

He's also heading for Alexandria, Egypt, where the Oiym have their fortress and Franz is contained. Is he planning to take Franz, anyway? Or just mess up Gabrielle's plan to take him? Or just watch and get his jollies?

Once again, I guess I'll have to start writing and hope I'm following the path Léon wants. I've already dumped half of what I've written for this chapter, and I hate throwing out my work.

Which I don't really do. That's how I wind up with a dozen drafts of each section and get lost, sometimes.

This may wind up with twice that many...

Seen...

I've often said I write so I don't become the beast, and this helps clarifiy and support my reason why...

I was impacted by it way too much. I need to sit with it, for a while.

But at the moment, I'm glad I'm alone and to myself, considering where my brain has been going this year...

Memories...

I've been thinking back on when Blood Angel came to being in my head. I was in St. Louis visiting an old friend. A guy I'd known since college, whose life was made up of stumbling blocks and then cut short by pancreatic cancer.

It was for his wedding, most of which I missed because I was being chauffeur for various older people going back and forth to their hotels. God...nearly thirty years ago.

Once he and his (third) wife were gone and everything was done, it was mid-afternoon. So I drove around the city.  Not the prettiest of places, but I did see an old church that fascinated me. 

The Cathedral Basilica of St. Louis. In white stone and a lovely rose window. With two bell towers and steps up to the entrance, from the street. It was near Forest Park. And for some reason I thought of doing a version of Tristan and Isolde as a tragic vampire tale. 

Where she finds a man she wants to join with her as undead but he's too locked into being human. The climax was to take place in the church tower, where he dies protecting her, or something, and she is so destroyed, she walks down the stairs up to the double doors and flings them open to be burned up by the setting sun.

Pretty overwrought. And would have been difficult, logistically, because the doors faced south, not east or west, in direct line with the sun. Didn't matter. I couldn't figure the story out.

Not until Katrina hit New Orleans. I shifted the location to there, and it fell into place as a screenplay. Tristan is a young jazz musician with a horrific past and Gabrielle is in the city making sure her company gets some of the rebuilding money. She connects with Tristan and slowly convinces him to join with her as a Blood Angel. Which he does under one condition: they leave New Orleans forever.

And from that, the whole of this series of novellas has grown.

When I have thoughts...

Run for cover. Because as I was adding intensity to Léonidès' rape of and feeding on that young American Marine, a comment whispered into my head. Not sure who from...be it Léon or one of his pack. Maybe Dmitriy. But it was simple...and maybe a bit obvious.

We are now what we always will be, until we end. While there is nothing but change around us.

Rather Existentialistic, I think. But a true observation of the state of vampires, be they Blood Angels or not. Eight-hundred years after Léon was turned, he looks the same. As do Gregory, Stephane, Loronce, Reyndahl, Tellis and Doric, in his pack...all of whom are hundreds of years older.

Same for the Oiym, who are the oldest ones. They remained as they are while around them buildings crumbled, civilizations collapsed, and generations of human beings passed them by.

This is different from Anne Rice's Interview With the Vampire, which was more about Louis' search for himself and how to deal with the suffering he caused. 

In the section I just rewrote, it hits Léon that he actually has changed in his outlook. He's more open to causing pain and terror. He still has his moral code of going after only those who deserve to die, but now he's considering committing torture to the mix, to bring out the horror of his victims' end.

I may play with him being able to do that because he's a Blood Angel and not merely a vampire. Not sure yet....but it could add some tension to his pack. He can change but they cannot?

I dunno...just me having thoughts...

Differences...

I have two separate websites for my books, as has been noted, before. KMSCB Books for my mainstream novels and KMSMM Books for my gay erotica...which has an over 18 notice. That's deliberate because I don't want anyone who isn't into fairly hardcore MM books and novellas to get into something that will freak them out. I've had that happen and, to be honest, I think it's just good manners to be considerate of other people.

They're both under my name, and if you Google me (full name; there's an actor named just Kyle Sullivan who's half my age) what comes up quickest is lists of the titles of my books. Beginning with How to Rape a Straight Guy and Rape in Holding Cell 6 and such. So I'm not hiding them.

I just write what I write. Most of it's gay-oriented but not all. The Alice '65 and A Place of Safety have little MM stuff in them as opposed to The Vanishing of Owen Taylor, which has a gay man investigating the disappearance of his gay uncle in Palm Springs.

Once my books are done and published, I usually like what I've done with them. I can see mistakes I made and try to improve on the next book, but overall I'm not disappointed in how they turned out. And my vague attempt to keep them timely usually works quite well.

The Vanishing of Owen Taylor was written 10 years ago but still reads right for current day, with the anti-gay push of the MAGAt Cult and duplicity of politics and religion. I'm going to start pushing it more on FB and Instagram. Pull back on the politics...because when it comes to that I feel like I'm screaming into the void.

And after a while you have to accept that all you're doing is giving yourself a sore throat and headache...while VoT lays out the points you're making very clearly and neatly in a simple murder mystery.

Sounds like me...

I read a story on Instagram about a philosopher in Ancient China who was so impressed with his intelligence and awareness, he wrote a long, pretentious poem about how enlightened he was. How he was rooted in honesty and reality, and that not even the eight winds can move me.

He sent a copy to a friend, across a lake. And the friend responded with a single word. Fart (in Chinese, of course). Elegant Cantonese, I'm sure, with finely etched images to accompany the words.

Well, that infuriated the philosopher, so he got himself a boat and traveled across that lake to chew his friend out. But when he arrived, his friend just laughed and said, "The eight winds cannot move you, but one fart sent you across a lake."

I'm both of those guys. Pompous and bit full of myself over my writing, characters and stories. But also willing to stick a pin in my hot air balloon before I float off into the stratosphere. With mood swings as extreme as someone deep into schizophrenia.

I know I wonder if I'm cowardly about my writing, at times, but I continue to do it and publish it under my name. No hiding.

That should count for something in my view of myself.

Hmmmmmmm...

 I should write a song about myself. Something like:

This mean-assed former redhead

Will treat you rough, and when you're dead,

He'll never let it once be said

He wrote you as if you're ill-bred.

Or some such shit. I dunno. I'm a total nutcase, right now. This kind of crap probably means something only to me. But I'm finding ways to keep going forward, at least. Haven't retreated into my library of DVDs, yet.

I think I'm going to have Léonidès...no, not going to have; I'll follow his lead and watch as he travels to Alexandria to climb up the wall to a window of the room where Gabrielle is taking Franz to her bed. At which point he does a very Peeping Tom kind of thing.

Maybe Dmitriy and one or two of the Oiym join him. Have a little kaffeeklatsch around the window. All cloaking themselves from Gabrielle's awareness.

Or...maybe they think they are hidden but she's stronger than that and knows and is enjoying showing off her seductive abilities. And Franz's prowess.

Hits the kink register, it does. And since Léon is the one telling the story, we get his irritation and jealousy and sadness at seeing what Franz has to offer that is not available to him...except through force. Something he's perfectly willing and able to do.

Maybe he decides to join them and makes Franz the meat in their sandwich, giving witness to Gabrielle turning him into another Blood Angel.

Anne Rice, eat your heart out...

I did it...

I returned to Blood Angel-4 A Long Journey and rewrote Léon's rape and murder of a young American marine in 1871. Made it as horrifying as I could. Painful. Deserving, because that marine had participated in the rape and murder of a peasant Korean girl and her father. And I let it be as satisfying as possible to Léon.

I also think I made the guy's death difficult for anyone who has any form of empathy. And added a level of horror to it in that Léon made sure another marine who was involved in the girl's death is watching him do it...knowing he will be next. 

Just not right away.

I won't say it was easy to do, but now that I have it worked out I can make it read better and add more depth to it to make it as conflicting as possible. That's me loving what Hitchcock would do by making the audience sympathize with the villain. Identify with the villain.

That's not to say Léon is a villain in this book. He's the lead character and he has his moral code, but that makes him judge and jury to whoever it is he chooses to feed upon. And there are plenty of people out there who would fit well into his requirements for his sustenance.

All of this has been true since the dawn of civilization. Men and women crushing others for their own gain. Wars used to wipe out towns and genocide committed over and over and over. The vampire community is not the evil in the world; they merely feed upon it. Use it to survive. 

Maybe that's what BA is all about -- monsters are the way of the world, not angels.

Am I a wimp or a writer?

That was the subject of a little back and forth I had in my head, this evening, as I did the dishes. Two days worth of dishes. Left to pile up. I've got way too much dinnerware for a single man and...anyway...

I read a post on facebook by a fellow writer and she discussed how her own traumas led her to write books that were dark as night. And how hard that was to reconcile in herself. 

Which apparently pissed off part of me and some hard questions were asked of myself by myself. Which I know sounds crazy and may well be, but that's what happened.

Blood Angel is about a gay vampire making his way through existence. He's a nice guy. His unlife is good. He's a royal prince and his pack is a group of courtiers who, while not of the same level as he, are fun to be around. Still he never feels completely part of them. He thought he found someone to share his world...but realized he was fooling himself.

So now he's pissed and hurt and angry at his own stupidity and...and he's a fucking vampire! Why am I trying to make him act like a teenaged boy?! He drinks human blood! Kills people while doing it! And I'm all touchy-feely about how awful that is, even though I make sure to note he only goes after bad people? And then I whimper and whine and wonder do I really want to continue writing such a mean story?

Well...first questions to hit me from within were, Why did you choose to write it in the first place? Why start something you don't want to finish?

And that's what the argument was about. You chose a vampire as the main character of your story, Kyle. And you minimized what he was as much as you could. Why? If you're going to be such a coward about being honest to the story and character, why start it? Are you a writer who faces the truth of your characters? Or are you a wimp? And if the latter, why should any character trust you to deal honestly with them if things become too difficult for you?

And my response? I'm afraid to touch the darkness in me. Which is answered by, Vampires are vampires. Deal with it or hide in your shadows and take up macrame, for crying out loud.

No. I can't. I won't. I'm not that weak...and macrame's boring.

Seeking peace...

It's hard to find. Just wanting space to let your mind wander into areas of your soul you rarely visit is close to impossible. Not completely...but almost. And that's what I want, right now. What I need.

If I had the money, I'd go to England...to parts I've never visited. Even Scotland and Wales.. I'd wander. I like to wander, sometimes. It gives me an odd sense of stability. I've already been all over Ireland and now feel satiated with her.

It seems that I'm at a crossroads and don't really know where the paths before me lead. Which one I want to follow. I'm heavily invested in MM horror, like with Blood Angel...but there is a gentleness I've found, occasionally, in my writing that I want to explore more.

I know those who claim to understand writing say that conflict is drama and drama is storytelling, but that bores me. I hate made-up conflict. That's one reason I let A Place of Safety follow brendan's path. He leads the reader through his story with as much quiet emotion as there can be. And I know some people just don't get it, that they think more has to be happening, but it's his story not theirs.

I don't have the feeling Léonidès cares if I tell his tale or not. And truth is, I'm weary of the violence and death it involves. 

I'm beginning to think maybe Dair's Window is restructuring itself to remove the fake parts of the narrative I'd started to build and take us on a different journey to reveal the story of Dair and Adam.

Maybe...

Hopefully...

Well, let's have another moment of disruption...

For some reason, even though I've set it up to be as justified as possible, I'm stuck at the point where Léonidès feeds on a young marine who participated in the rape and murder of a Korean girl. And I think Dave Rich had something to do with my change of heart.

He posted this clip on his Facebook and Instagram pages that cut into me. It's not just how lovely he is, but how joyously alive he is in it. And how callous and cold I feel I'm being in writing that scene, even though it's to be expected in a vampire story.

It just strikes me as wrong. As a waste of what I can do. Doesn't hurt that my emotions, right now, are exacerbated by the death and destruction being wrought by Russia, the US and ZAS (formerly Israel).

So I basically recoiled from writing a fictional death. I have, before. When Bobby decided to kill himself in Bobby Carapisi, I fought against that for months before giving in. And it hurt as I wrote it. I felt like I'd lost someone I actually knew.

In other books, I've skirted the issue in cute or careful ways. Even in A Place of Safety's volumes, I avoided having to deal with it. Initially, Brendan was going to execute Father Jack as a traitor at the end of Home Not Home...and he didn't want to. And I went along with it because to me the ending the book now has is much, much better in its quiet tenderness.

So I guess I'll have to step back from Blood Angel, for a while, and see how it settles. I don't know what else to do.

I just can't face it, right now.

I cannot drink...

I don't know what the fuck it is about alcohol, if my tolerance has vanished or what, but I had a Sapporo beer with dinner, this evening...and I crashed into near despondency. I'm still getting over it.

I went to P F Chang's to try their Teriyaki Beef, (which is viciously good) and had the beer instead of Dr Pepper (which they offer). Tasted good. But as I was driving home, my mood grew darker and sadder. I'd planned to hit the grocery store for a few things I needed and almost talked myself out of it. But managed to make myself do it.

And just sat in the car in the store's parking lot for ten minutes, before needing to pee made me get out and go inside to use the toilet. By that point it was raining, but I didn't care. I got my stuff and drove home, still deep into the blues, put everything away and collapsed before my laptop to do nothing.

Fortunately, a clip came up on Facebook of a guy who sings to animals and records their fascinated reactions. It was half an hour long but it helped settle me. 

I baked some Pillsbury Crescent rolls and ate 4 of them with a DPZ...and now feel a lot better. But it was spooky.

I haven't been much of a drinker since I left college. And there have been stretches over months where I haven't even thought about a beer. I've got a bottle of Shiner Bock in my fridge that's been there since my last birthday.

I guess I'll never be one of those alcoholic writer types...

Back to the joy of it all...

Writing, I mean. Building my separate worlds away from the filth that's going on in reality, right now. I'm happier working out how my favorite vampire, Léonidès, finds some American Marines who raped and killed a Korean girl (in 1871) and gets to take his anger with his sister out on them.

One he kills outright. The other two he takes back to a house (a Hanok) that he'd tracked Gabrielle to, earlier...to find her almost in mourning. She had gone to Korea to catch up to a young Naval Officer, who was another Blood Angel.

She had set up the Hanok to seduce him into agreeing to join with her as a mate, even though the Oiym Council told her not to. But she was delayed and arrived the day after he was killed in a skirmish with the Korean military. She's not used to losing.

That's part of the reason she's open to taking Franz off Léon's hands on a trial basis...but refuses to release Dmitriy to him till she's tested him out. Léon is fairly certain she's going to betray him and keep both Blood Angel males, which would make her a very powerful vampire. At least he continues to hew to his moral code of only feeding on men who deserve death, but it still gets pretty brutal and cruel.

It's funny, but I just remembered the first guy I ever had a crush on was Leon Smith. We were both at Connell Jr. High in San Antonio, a block from my grandmother's home. We lived with her, off and on, throughout most of my life.

I knew Leon in 7th and 9th grades, there (I did 8th grade in a hell-hole of a school in El Paso). He was a jokester kind of guy and I was very quiet, and he'd tease me. But I did a sketch of him, once. In History? And he liked it. Took it home to his mom, if I remember right.

We were also in gym, together, and I saw him naked in the showers. Trim body. Some hair but not a lot. Circumcised. I hated being naked in the showers, but I liked looking at him.

He died in a car wreck while I was in Honolulu. Didn't learn about it till I'd graduated from high school, in SA. I felt a bit hollow after hearing of it. What's funny is, I can still picture him in the showers after gym. Not at all the kind of guy I go for, now...but still...

Memories sometimes matter more than thoughts you have, today.

Too damned ridiculous...

I've been sick as a dog, all afternoon. Began to feel better about 7:30 and now I'm almost back to normal. And what do I think caused it? Banana bread. One of the people I work with made a loaf and I had a slice...and just over an hour later my stomach was not acting right.

I still made myself go out to my CPA to pick up my taxes. I'd gotten an email saying they were ready...but it turns out they weren't. I got an email meant for someone else. 

So I drove home in rush hour traffic which wasn't all that bad, really, except I was really feeling like hell. Once I was done in the bathroom, I had some apple cider vinegar in sparkling water and that began to settle things, at least.

When I feel like this, I can't concentrate. So I've been watching Midsomer Murders mysteries all evening.. Which are pretty innocuous...usually. But thanks to my mood I was cranky about the stories and picking them apart. Even Jason Hughes, who is kind of cute as DS Jones, was getting on my nerves.

Meaning no writing done, today. Just a foul mood from being messed with by something I ate.

Tomorrow my car gets inspected. This adult shit needs to stop.

Ah, the joys of...something or other...

I realized long ago that I never had the push it takes to make it in film. You need to be something of an egotistical asshole in order to get past the gatekeepers, or have the kind of mind that knows how to work without them. And that just never was me.

I aligned myself with people who didn't have it, either, but seemed better purposed to the industry. And caught on too late how wrong-headed I'd been. From the beginning.

If I'd really wanted to make it in film as a director, I should have just moved out to LA and worked in the industry, once I'd graduated high school. I could have joined with Roger Corman and learned more about making movies than any school could teach me. But I was too unfocused to see that.

Instead, I toodled along, hoping everything would come together...with minimal effort on my part. Which of course it wouldn't have. But I still fucked myself over...and fucked some friends over, too...and achieved very little. Some mention on IMDb. Woo-hoo!

Now I'm off to myself, writing stories that fit a niche market and sell okay. Not as well as I'd like, but well enough. And despite my ranting and raving and exclamations of turmoil and pain, I'd found a lot more peace doing this. A lot more understanding of myself.

Building my gay erotica helped me build the complexity of APoS. Writing BA is helping me prepare to dive into DW, again. They've brought me my voice, and shown me I can do damned good work, no matter what. I now see every project is like an onion needing to be peeled back, layer by layer, and that is my way of making the story as good as it can be.

So I bitch and moan and weep and wail...and keep digging and digging and getting better at it, with every book. As an extra bonus, it helps me face my own demons...and maybe that's reason enough to keep going.