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.

Positive-ity...

Today started off grumpy and blank, but I was able to get my lack of focus adjusted into a way of working on Blood Angel-A Long Journey. I simply read through what I've redone, so far, and honed parts of it to make better sense. I also rearranged two bits and worked up a reason for Gabrielle to be in New York City.

She's a capitalist to the core, of the vulturous nature. Ulysses S Grant is president and, until the current administration, was considered the most corrupt one. So she and Dmitriy were there to scope out potential business opportunities. 

America was in the process of joining the industrial revolution, having just ended a vicious civil war, and Gabrielle's got wealth enough to buy into it. But then she senses a young Naval officer is another Blood Angel and she changes focus, completely.

She goes after the guy even though the Oiym specifically demands she not. She refuses to be ordered about by them, which causes problems. The only reason she doesn't get him was due to unspecified circumstances before his ship departed for Korea.

She follows...but he gets killed there before she arrives. So she's all but forced to shift interest to Franz.

It's funny how I'm working so hard at writing this series of books. Polishing and pruning and adjusting my sentences and structure to make them as solid as possible. I keep at it, rewriting over and over and over until I get the the point where I'm doing such unimportant things as changing the to a.

That's when I know I'm done...usually...but I'm not at that point with BA-4 yet. Soon...but not yet.

Adulting is not fun...

This evening I had a lovely, long conversation with a person who wanted me to do a Zoom interview with the host of a YouTube channel to discuss my book. They didn't know the name of the book, at first, but the host loved it. Gave copious praise about it.

Turned out they were talking about A Place of Safety, Derry. And seemed to think it was my only book. I had to point out it was part of a three volume work. And I made sure to let them know I'd also written other stories, including gay erotica, which was a bit of a surprise to them but not a dealbreaker.

But through the whole process it sounded like they're reading a sales prompt. Saying my name every five words to keep me focused or something. And I'm thinking, You want me to pay for this.

Sure enough...it would only cost me $1,500.00. To get what looks like a decent video posted on their YouTube channel. For just under 3,000 subscribers.

Unfortunately for them...or fortunately, if you prefer...paying for my brother's burial and staying in San Antonio for weeks while he was dying hit me hard, financially. So I said no thanks. Can't. Left it at that.

But I wonder...what if I could have managed it? Is there the possibility APoS-Derry could be seen and read by more people? Not enough to make a profit, sure, but if I'd been in the business of writing to make a living I'd have starved long ago.

Thing is, I've done this before. Paid people to publicize APoS...and gotten nothing from it. Guess it's like playing the lottery. Lots of hopes and dreams for very little return on your investment.

And having something like this happen just reinforces my belief that I never will get any return.

How?

I know I'm not alone in wondering how the hell I get to where I am, today. What was it that set my course to wind up in solitude...and happily so...working on books no one really wants to read. I haven't sold a single book, so far this month, and damn few last month...and for some reason I don't care.

I think once I publish BA-4 in ebook that will perk up some sales, but it doesn't matter to me all that much. Which makes no sense. But even if I sell only one copy of a book, my reaction is At least it's being read.

When I don't know it is, for a fact. Some readers download free copies of books like crazy during Smashwords' sales and never look at them, again. At the same time, the few books I offer at half-price get pretty much ignored. And I don't get any reviews from any of them. 

Hell, I once held a competition on GoodReads for people to tell me why they would be happy to review my book in exchange for a free copy. Gave away three. Not one person posted a review. Not one. 

I wouldn't have cared if it was negative. Not everyone will like my writing, I know that. And I can take it, now. Learn from it...so long as it's honestly meant. If it's just a deliberate attack, I shrug those off. 

Of course, they used to bug me till I realized there are people out there who will do everything they can to tear down others, just to make themselves feel better. I've had a couple of those.

I do get messages of support off GayDemon, but not real discussions on what is and isn't working in the story. 

I dunno. Maybe I just like the process of building my own little worlds and while I'd like others to share in them, I'm not going to beg.

Returned to my abode...

Job went well. Drove straight home from there, with a nap along the way. The nice thing about the 90 NY Thruway is the service areas with lots of parking so you can pull away from everyone, put your seat back and doze. Though I think I actually fell asleep, because I was there for half an hour, at least.

One of the bad things is, they got rid of all the McDonald's and put in fucking Chik-fil-A. I both hate them and cannot eat them, while McDonald's is always good as a last resort. I made do with Shake Shake, which was tasty...but $20 for a cheeseburger and fries? Not counting the $4 I paid for a bottle of DPZ? I'll starve, next time.

I'm beat, just from driving. And I was unable to really do any thinking on the trip home. Nothing but moment to moment stuff like...lovely hills. The Mohawk is up to its shoreline. I'm going 72 mph (in a 65 zone) and this idiot wants to pass me going 73??? Love how the Berkshires look with a light covering of snow and naked trees. Oh, I'm getting 44.7 mpg according to the car's display.

Swear to god, I did not have one coherent thought beyond that in the whole 7.5 hours. What's odd is it made the drive seem longer. Even though I was in a nice Toyota Camry Hybrid. Time crawled.

I wish I could have taken the train or a bus. That would have been so much more relaxing.

Another idea on a project popped back up, as I was doing the packing. The beginning of Darian's Point, which tells the story of the forming of the harpies and the curse that followed. Write that as a ballad, like Beowulf.

That might actually turn out nice...

Odd drive...

Lots of snow flurries as I drove, today. Did the 90 all the way to Albany then back roads to the site. Including miles behind a semi along curving mountain roads that were not meant for passing. Cold and a bit tedious. I wound up taking a catnap before I hit Albany, it was so bland.

But then...after asking my characters what they wanted me to do and getting no response...Dair piped up to advise me he wanted to tell his story himself. In first person. Not third, as I was planning.

I'm not sure how that will work, because Adam is also telling the story. Much of it his own history. But Dair doesn't care. "It's my story and I want to tell it." He even wants it to start with the following:

"I knew who Adam was the first moment I saw him. He likes to think he's so well-hidden behind his walls, and he is so positive I'm nothing but the human equivalent of a golden retriever puppy. Playful. Joyous. Loving. Nothing but acceptance in its demeanor. A bit on the dumb side. He couldn't believe I didn't care about his past...not until our last couple of years together...once he'd finally grown to trust me."

I suppose I could find ways to specify which one is taking over the telling of the tale, as it goes. Adam with English as his second language; Dair with a casual form of grammar. Two different POVs telling the same moments? Each different and yet not...

Could I make that work?

Getting there...

Just rewrote a very quiet moment between Léon and Gabrielle...with a truly blunt attitude from her. She thinks she's maintaining some control of the situation by taking Franz and also keeping Dmitriy, but that's not how things will work out.

I'm getting closer to the ending of this book. Know what's going to happen and then give a strong indication that Gabrielle is in over her head with Franz. He's going to be fun...as is her exasperation with him.

A couple of old projects have come knocking at my brain. An old reworking of Beauty and the Beast, which I set in Ann Arbor, MI at a private high school. Called it 5 Dates.

There's also Mine To Kill, a horror/suspense story that outgrew the confines of screenplay format. About a woman who tries to bring her husband back from the dead so she can kill him.

The Murder of a Quiet Man is nudging at me, as well. Where a simple misdemeanor arrest goes out of control and winds up in death and destruction.

And what am I doing? Just puttering along not rushing anything as I grow older and older and lose more and more of my ability to focus. It's really irritating of me. But the world being in chaos, I really wonder if my work will even be read...

And then I remind myself, when has the world not been in chaos?

A bit more of BA-4...

Leonides is looking for Gabrielle to discuss exchanging Dmitriy for Franz...but she isn't there.

-----

Dmitriy sighed and said, "You know, Gabrielle already was visited by two of the Oiym." 

“After Hamburg, yes...” 

“No, six months past.” 

That, I had not known. "Which two?" 

"Nethys and...what the male's name? Anileh! So attractive. And so completely uninterested." 

I shrugged in agreement. 

"They met with...with Gabrielle...to warn her of perhaps turning another Blood Angel without their authorization.” 

I frowned. The Oiym having to restate the police? "Due to the slaughter of the Sosenthen clan..." 

He chuckled and said, "This, we are told. There are many who think you the reason for this edict." 

Oh. Well. That was not unexpected, but all I could think to say was, "I pay no attention to gossip." 

"You should. It is much better than that found in today's newspapers..." 

“No doubt,” I murmured, caressing his belly. 

“I tell you this because...oh, Léon, you may be too late.” 

“How so?” 

“The Oiym met her in New York. Before she sent me here.” 

Then it hit me. "She sensed another Blood Angel." 

He sighed and nodded. 

I sat up and asked, "Is she still there?" 

"No. She is now gone to Korea." 

"Korea?! But...but that's a closed society. They even told the French to get lost." 

"This time the Americans it will be." 

"Is the man military?" 

He nodded. "Passing through New York, we were, when we felt his presence. A fine young naval officer in a deep blue coat. Very attractive. The moment she saw him, she dismissed me." 

Which angered me. She turned Dmitriy without thought and now treats him as though he was an irritant, only? Before I could even think to stop myself, I said, "I wish it had been me who found you, first." 

"As do I." He kissed me. "Then I would not be the one to police idiots. And keep the Oiym satisfied. Demand, over and over, to feed on those none will miss and not the monied class." 

The expression I gave him must have been priceless, for he chuckled and continued, "One idiot fed on a girl at a debutante ball because she was hearty and hale. Causing much concern with those of her class. The Oiym know and agree to let Gabrielle deal with him when she returns. Which is soon, I hope. Scotland Yard gets on the case. They do not stop until they find her body. Which will be never...but still, we may have to relocate. Gossip in the local pub is very strong." 

I caressed his face. His eyes so sad, again. "When does she arrive in Korea?" 

"No idea. In New York, events would interfere with her taking him before he departed on his ship. The Colorado." 

“The Oiym warned her and she tried for him, anyway?” 

He nodded and shrugged. 

I sighed. "When did his ship depart?" 

"Two months since. For him, I believe the journey is three months. Perhaps four. Depends on which cape they travel past. It is a three-master but with the turnscrew, so I know not how fast those things go." 

"I hear they can make the Atlantic crossing in fewer than two weeks." 

"No matter, Gabrielle will be in position to take him when he arrives. Do you know America has built a transcontinental railroad from east to west? She has travelled it. Her ship left San Francisco perhaps a month, six-weeks past. Also a steamer." 

I chuckled. "She didn’t just stow away?" 

He patted my belly. "On a naval vessel? With so many ripe and ruddy sailors and marines and their lovely, lovely blood?" 

I laughed. "The Colorado...drifting into harbor without a crew." 

"Or all like me. Hundreds of men. Alone in the middle of the ocean for months. None but themselves and their asses and their dicks and their mouths..." 

We rolled about with laughter for a full minute before I was able to say, "She left from San Francisco?" 

"Yes." 

"Then I'd best head along. I want to get to her before she finds the man." 

"You cannot stay a day or two? To go east through the Suez? A bit faster, perhaps. We could make a visit to Ireland. The silly British have much trouble, over there. And I know of a nice Army garrison near Cork. The idiot Sergeant-Major in charge has provided me with sustenance, thanks to his hate and arrogance. And I assure you, the soldiers treat the locals abominably." 

"Well...it will take me some time to arrange my passage..." 

His eyes grew bright, again. "I will help."

Universe 25 (1968-73)

For some reason, what's going on in Israel, Gaza, the West Bank, and Lebanon reminded me of this experiment conducted by ethologist John B. Calhoun in Poolesville, Maryland. It was when a mouse utopia was designed to test the effects of overpopulation in a resource-rich environment. 

It was set in a 9-square-foot metal pen designed for 3,840 mice . They were provided unlimited food, water, and nesting material. 

Four pairs of mice were introduced, leading to rapid reproduction, with the population peaking at just 2,200 mice. 

As population density increased, social structure collapsed. Violent cliques were formed. Females stopped caring for young, abandoning or attacking them, leading to a 90% infant mortality. Many males became passive, focusing only on eating and grooming, abandoning mating and social interaction.  Reproduction ceased entirely. 

Despite having abundant food and no predators, the population collapsed due to severe behavioral dysfunction—the behavioral sink.

The population, while physically safe and still effectively with room to grow, experienced total social death, resulting in complete extinction.

Calhoun concluded that when almost all available space is filled and social roles are broken, the spirit (or social capacity) dies before the body. The experiment is often cited as a cautionary tale on the dangers of overpopulation and the loss of social purpose in a world without struggle.

The one difference is, the mice were in a confined space. Israel was basically a confined space for Jews to live in, freely withing borders set by other countries, but they have almost outgrown it and are now pushing to increase the space they have by stealing the arable land around them...and killing anyone who gets in their way. They are doing what they claimed should never again happen.

This sort of combines with the parable Brendan tells at the end of A Place of Safety-Home Not Home, about the seven tribes and how the Hebrews drove them out of their land and took it over. That was about three-thousand years ago...and today's actions prove not only that nothing changes, but even though we now have a good idea as to why it needs to change, we still do nothing about it.

I don't know if this makes any sense, but that's where my mind was, today...

Whiplashing...

Well, next week's job was off until five minutes after I canceled everything...and then it was back on. Just bumped a day. This is one I really do want to handle because of whose archives it is. Can't reveal, but I'm totally fan-boy over this one.

Being stuck on the first chapter of Blood Angel-4 A Long Journey is proving to be irritating. I'm not sure what it is I'm missing, but I can't get past this part till I find it. So I'll keep at it. Thus far, I've expanded it to 12 pages then but it back to 10 and now it may be down to 9...unless I add a couple more pages of memory between Léon and Gabrielle.

I don't know if anybody else writes this way. I mean, Hemingway would sit at this typewriter and stare at a blank page trying to find the right word to follow in what he'd already written...and would not let himself up till he'd put down over 500 of them. But he also did a lot of rewriting.

Of course, he also had a really fine editor...Maxwell Perkins...

His four rules of writing well?

1. USE SHORT SENTENCES Short sentences are easier to digest. They make it easier to follow each point of an argument or story. Your job as a writer — or editor — is to make life easy for your audience. Forcing the reader to navigate through a bunch of long, complex sentences is like forcing him/her to hack through the jungle with a machete. Create a nice, tidy path with plenty of short sentences. 

2. USE SHORT FIRST PARAGRAPHS See opening of this post.

3. USE VIGOROUS ENGLISH Copywriter David Garfinkel describes it like this: “It’s muscular, forceful (writing). Vigorous English comes from passion, focus and intention.” This rule is really a reminder to do your homework and fully understand what you are writing about. It is impossible to write with “passion, focus and intention” without having a real grasp of the subject. In most cases, if you’ve done your homework, you will write with authority and vigor. 

4. BE POSITIVE, NOT NEGATIVE Basically, “be positive” means you should say what something is rather than what it isn’t – Instead of saying something is “inexpensive,” say it is “affordable.” – Instead of describing something as “unclear,” say it is “confusing.” This might seem like a small point, but it’s actually quite important. Being “positive” makes your writing more direct. Whether they realize it or not, readers are turned off by “roundabout writing.”

Of course, I violate every one of these rules...and yet Hemingway is one of my favorite writers. Go figure...

My usual rewriting...

The is the opening of Book 4...so far...

------

I had last bothered to have contact with Gabrielle, when she tried to steal Reyndahl from me. It was twelve years earlier, after nearly dying in Hamburg. One of those ministers who froth at the mouth over witches and demons and immorality and evil in the world had led a number of his flock to break into her flat near the docks, one morning. Killed two of her retinue before the rest could escape, and burned the building down...nearly with her in it. 

She had seen to it neither that minister nor any of his followers had escaped the flames. It was quite the talk of the town. 

Of course, she had a townhouse in Stockholm and had been planning to purchase a manor house near Hampton Court, outside London. So she and her retinue had a place to go. She’d had to sell some of her jewels to finance the journey since their money had also been destroyed. 

Of course, word got back to the Oiym and they met with her to discuss upgrading her security measures. Which was why she asked...and asked very nicely, I might add...if Reyndahl could come look both residences over. Make certain they were as secure as could be. 

I left it up to him, and he chose to assist her. I expected him to be gone for a month, maybe six weeks. He remained with her almost half a year. 

I finally travelled to Stockholm to bring him back but discovered Gabrielle and her retinue had transferred to the manor house, so went there, next. 

To find Reyndahl happily ensnared in Gabrielle’s bed. I had long known he was not solely invested in relations with men, but I also knew my sister did not share anything. Toys. Food. Lovers. 

One of her group was very unhappy with this new arrangement. Bergeron. A blond beauty of a man she had turned in the late Twelfth Century. He had long guarded his place in her bed, jealously. It was he who had taken me to her chambers. Where she was lounging in her bed. 

Naked. 

While I have no interest in females, sexually, I had to admit she presented a very beautiful image. Physically. 

 Reyndahl was lying on his side, next to her, just as naked...and erect. And casting me the same mocking smile as she. 

That would not do... 

“I can see your security concerns are well-handled,” I’d said, not even trying to keep the sneer from my voice. 

“Very much so,” she’d responded. 

"Then it is time he returned home."

He’d shifted to where he was lying face down but propped up on his elbows so that his very pleasant face could watch me and his very fine ass was very visible. She smacked it and continued with, “I’d like to keep him.” 

Bergeron was right behind me, and I could sense he was not pleased with that suggestion. What had been truly interesting, however, was a flash of irritation crossing Reyndahl’s eyes. I had a feeling him remaining as her boy-toy had not been discussed. 

So just to be cruel, I’d said, “If you give me Dmitriy...” 

“Trade a simple vampire for a Blood Angel?” she’d sneered. 

That had made Reyndahl look back at her, insulted. “Simple vampire?” he’d snapped. “After all the times I’ve pleased you?” 

Now one thing I will always give to my sister is she is no hypocrite. She’d looked him straight in the eye and said, “The exchange of Blood Angels must always be equal. And being good in bed does not make you so.” 

So...he had had huffed and puffed...and returned to France with me. Bergeron was happy to see us go. But Reyndahl's rejection had angered Gabrielle, and she had let me know I was no longer welcome for any form of visit. 

All Reyndahl would say about their time together was, “I enjoyed her bed. She enjoyed me in her bed. What more is important?” Except being there I realized one serious issue was, she'd had no doùlos in the retinue, who would serve as early warning for attacks. When I’d mentioned it to him, his sole response had been, “She will, now.” 

And that is where the discussion ended.

Freak out...

I need to be more careful in what I eat. I've got Type 2 Diabetes and handle it with Metformin. I've also done better on what I eat. That's probably why I dropped from 245 lbs to 220 over the course of six months. More salads. Half portions.

But every now and then I let loose, and last night...I hate to admit it, but I ate 2 6-packs of Oreos. Loved 'em. Had them with tea. Felt very happy.

Then I woke up at 4:30am, nauseated. I came very close to vomiting...and I do not vomit. The last time I did was 20+ years ago. But diabetes can bring that on.

I found that by just standing up and remaining still, I was fine...and eventually the sensations went away. So I went back to bed. Got up at 10:15, still feeling a bit ragged, and tested my blood sugar. It was 227. Should be a hundred points less.

I drank a can of Perrier...tested it again, half an hour later, and it was up to 266. I waited an hour and tested it, again, and it was 285. I was close to hitting Urgent Care but I was also in the middle of working up an estimate for a library pack and ship, so waited till 2pm to check it, again. And it was down to 223.

I ran some errands, got the paperwork I needed for next week's job, bought salad makings and fixed up a decent one. Then checked it at 8pm...and it was 125. So panic over.

I've never been good at self-denial unless I absolutely had to...like when I was between jobs in LA and had to live on eggs, cheese, and just enough milk for hot tea for a few weeks because I had no money. But now I need to lay off the sweets completely...and it's not easy. I already drink DPZ and my hot tea is half as sweet as it used to be. But it's zero out or I'm doing a crash and burn, and I'm not ready for that, yet.

Getting spooked was good, I guess.