Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 102

Pushing...

I'm doing the long march through Carli's Kills...pushing through to the end. Now less because i want the story to come together than just plain stubbornness. I have too much invested in it to let go. I love Zeke andCarli, both, and want their story to be completed. Can't do that if I dump it or put it off till later. That doesn't work. I'd find some other excuse to let it go, and that's not the way I want to be. I started this thing; I have to make it real, dammit.

I honestly have no idea if it makes one single solitary bit of sense. I'm just blindly writing along and going where the characters lead me, again. Even though doing that's already led me to a dead end, once. For which I blame Carli, since she's the anomaly in my body of work. I've always had issues with trusting women, and I've been fighting the impulse to make her male and Lara be a sister instead of a daughter.

Right now my head hurts and my eyes ache and I'm weary of sitting...and I wonder how the hell Stephen King does it. He's got several dozen books out, under two names, some of them twice as long as mine, all well-written...and he's still doing it, even after nearly being killed by a minivan. Me, I'm fighting like crazy to make a simple revenge-thriller with erotic overtones make sense.

I didn't have this trouble when I wrote How to Rape a Straight Guy. Granted, it's a short novel, but it fell together. Most of my books have, and the ones that haven't, I still never had this much trouble with getting them to work out. Is it age? King's 5 years older than me. Does he have the same issues, now? Or am I so locked into one genre, I can't break out without a huge amount of effort?

Whatever the issue, this does not bode well for A Place of Safety.

Priorities...

I am so disgusted with humanity, right now. We've got Russia terrorizing Ukraine, bombing that country into shambles and slaughtering civilians like they are nothing. Republicans fighting to destroy democracy in the US because they can't win on their complete lack of principles. Famine in Afghanistan. Syria still in turmoil. States threatening to execute teenaged girls if they dare to get an abortion. And all anyone wants to talk about is how one multi-millionaire slapped another multi-millionaire on live TV at the Oscars.

Yes, it was shocking and surprising and unexpected for Will Smith to slap Chris Rock, but it pales in comparison to a brutal dictatorship obliterating the port city of Mariupol. A city of hundreds of thousands of people is now little more than rubble, and those who try to escape are bombed and shot at and have to evade mines in the roads. Yet video of that one moment has been seen tens of millions of times while the video appeal President Zelenskyy made, begging for help and arms, had 600,000 views.

I'm sick of people. I got so worked up, I couldn't focus on anything else. I came close to abandoning CK and crawling into bed and just sleeping the rest of the week. I actually spent an hour just watching cat and dog videos, to slow my descent into despair. That's how pathetic I am...

But dear God, how I hate Russia and Russians. A people who have no care for anyone's life but their own. Communism was horrific and evil and vile, but it was was no worse than under the Czars. And the new Russia is no different. That country is now a terrorist state and is beyond redemption.

Slava Ukraini...

Learning a lesson...

I should keep my damn mouth shut when I think my work is going good. So here's Zeke dealing with news of Grady's death:

Inside the Cantina, Zeke tied up his second bag of trash. Now the place was clean and ready for business, tomorrow. It helped that the crowd had thinned out to just a couple bikers and those college guys with Laila. 

 Oh, shit...Laila. 

He shook his head. Eventually her actions were going to come back to haunt the joint, but he had learned long ago not to come between boys who thought they were about to be taken good care of and the nice, randy, ready biker babe who was going to do the caring. At least she was smart enough not to take things too far. Just a big-eyed plea to help her make this month's rent. Repairs on her non-existent Lincoln, that she really-really needed to get to work. Hospital bills for her sick grandmother...who lived in Cleveland and ran five miles a day. Simple things to make simple boys think they were simply doing good. So, let them have their fun. 

He turned off the last of the interior lights, except for one over the rear exit. Without the colorful twinklers and tubes of neon bubble and fat round bulbs glowing, the Cantina seemed lifeless. Just plain bleak. He grabbed a couple of icy Dos Equis and the trash bag, and headed outside. 

The moment Loki saw him, he barked for joy. 

"Hey, Loki-puppy. Almost done," he called. 

He dumped the trash in a bin, locked the door, and limped up the incline to the mobile home. Loki gave him more happy woofs as he unchained him, gave him some good rubbing pets then let him go running around, snapping at a few bugs and rolling in the dirt. 

Zeke smiled. "Y'know, if you get too dirty, you’re sleepin’ on the floor." 

He hated chaining the mutt up, like this, but not two weeks after Lara's rape, Dax had roared up to the trailer on his Hog, JJ with him, and pounded on the front door, screaming, "Goddammit, you motherfucker, why the fuck'd you tell the cops about that fuckin' video?" 

It was about eleven and Zeke had only just fallen asleep, so he was groggy and using a crutch as he hopped to the door to open it, saying, "Dax, what the fuck?" 

The second Dax had seen him, he yanked Zeke outside and punched him. Knocked him down. Was about to kick him when Loki had latched onto his boot and hauled him back. Only JJ catching him kept Dax from falling off the porch...which was fortunate, because Loki would happily have shifted his teeth into the man's throat. 

Zeke had scrambled to separate them as Dax pulled his gun from a rear holster. Loki kept howling and snapping at the man as Zeke had hovered over him, all but screaming, "Get away, Dax! He's just protectin' me! He's just protectin' me." 

JJ had yanked Dax aside, saying, "C'mon, Dax, back off. Back off. Zeke wouldn't do that to us. Stop and think." 

"Think about what?" Dax snarled, waving the gun around. "He was the only one there pissed off about it." 

"Chase was there." 

Dax glared at JJ, shaking his head. "That little fuck wouldn't dare fuck with me. Tell the cops about that fuckin' video? Go against me?!" 

By this point, Zeke had pulled himself up to lean against the door, one hand gripping Loki's collar, ignoring the blood trailing from his mouth. "Dax...what?" he'd said. "What video?" 

Dax had glared at him. Loki still expressing exactly how much he would dearly love to tear the man's throat open. 

"That little cunt, Stasi," he'd yelled. "Shot video of the guys havin' fun with that girl. Uploaded it to YouTube an' put the link on the college's website." 

Zeke had gone weak and whispered, "Oh, Jesus Christ. Oh, no." 

Dax had eyed him, uncertain. "Then somebody told the cops an' Eldora's pissed as hell about it. It's all over the news." 

"I...I never pay attention to that shit." 

"You...you really didn't know?" Dax had finally grown calm enough to see Zeke's horrified reaction. He'd stepped back, finally considering. "Chase. Fuckin' Chase..." He had put his gun away. "Shit, Zeke, I'm sorry. You're the only one I thought would have the balls to do it." 

Zeke had looked at him, confused. Cut to the core. "You think I...you think I'm a narc?" 

That had jolted Dax. "No! No. I...that's what got me so fuckin' pissed off. I trust you an' I...I was sure nobody else would've done it an'...an' I just went nuts. I'm sorry." 

Loki had cut down to merely growling, with an occasional bark thrown in for good measure. 

Dax had glared at him. "That mutt's gonna go at me, again. I've seen dogs like that. He wants a piece..." 

Zeke had made himself say, "Don't worry. Don't worry. It'll be okay." 

He had promised from then on he would keep Loki on a chain, when Dax might come around, and knew that was the only thing that had kept his pup, alive... 

Well, that and the fact that Dax had actually seemed to feel bad about tearing into him. Especially once he'd verified it was the college who'd told Eldora about the video. 

Zeke hopped up the steps to his porch, dropped on a padded folding chair right by the door, and pulled off his boots. Next, he pulled his shorts up then unset his bionic leg. He leaned it next to the chair and sighed, long and easy. He finished his beer while massaging Stumpy, as he jokingly referred to the amputation. 

All he had left was his thigh, from just above where his knee used to be. The scarring was hidden by a swirling Viking design that would put Game of Thrones to shame. He had two other fake legs, of various designs, and it seemed alternating them helped keep from rubbing him too raw. Right now, while his stub was throbbing, it was not unlivable...and massaging it helped. But sure as hell ain't goin' two-steppin', tonight. 

"Whoop, whoop, Cotton-eyed Joe," he actually said, making Loki look at him as if he were nuts. "Wish I was crazy," he added.

Instead of feeling trapped. 

That idea had been growing stronger and stronger in his head, since the rape and suicide. A sense of guilt accompanying it. And the simple inability to decide what to do next. He did not want to stay here. He had his benefits and money from his tips put aside, but where else would he find a place that was as quiet and easy as here? And after all Dax had done for him? How could he dump on the guy? Sure, he was an asshole, sometimes, and the only thing standing between them and a raid by the Feds was Eldora, but Dax was usually okay. 

And hell, even when he wasn't...well, Grady'd had his moments of freak out, too. 

Like the one Tuesday night he'd burst in on Zeke, in full paranoid mode, sure someone was messing with him. Not six months ago. Certain it was the Feds looking to drive him nuts. 

"I'm gettin' all kinds of shit calls on my phone," he'd muttered. "Calls from all over the States but when I try to call 'em back, it's a banned number." 

"Just robo-calls, Grady," Zeke had said in his calmest voice. He'd guided the guy onto the couch and Loki had jumped up to beside him and just lain there, watching them both. 

"But the phone numbers are shit," Grady had snapped. "It's the DEA...I know it. I'm gonna go to jail. I never been! Shit, the Army was bad enough." 

It had taken Zeke an hour to calm him down enough to where he could watch an old episode of Lassie on Zeke's laptop, feeding himself strips of beef jerky and Loki treats as both were locked on that damn collie rushing back to the farm to bark that Timmy was in trouble. 

When Grady had said, "Stupid fuckin' kid, always gettin' himself into shit," he'd known everything was cool, again. 

Now Grady was dead. 

Dead. 

Shit. 

And Zeke had to make it through the night. 

Dusk to dawn had never been easy for Zeke, even before he almost died. His mind just would not shut down. Far too often, the thoughts hitting him were vicious, cold and out of nowhere. Like remembering the second the blast happened. Or the pain of physical therapy. Or thinking of when he'd had both legs and would go climbing in the hills or swimming in the lakes of Minnesota. Now mixed in were imaginary visions of being jumped by a wild beast intent on tearing him to shreds, visions that sometimes were so real it was hard to convince himself they weren't. That was why one of the greatest blessings he knew was drifting into slumber, because he never remembered his dreams. 

Well...that not going to happen, tonight. 

Not with Grady dying. 

It had been a two-way street, with Grady. Sometimes in the first few years, he had just shown up to sit with Zeke, on the edge of the porch, saying nothing as he sipped his beer. Knowing...just knowing when he'd been needed, without a word spoken. Let Zeke run the moments of silence as long as he wanted...as long it took to regain his center. He'd shown up that day, after Dax's attack, and silently tended his cuts and quietly sneered, "Gonna have another scar, bitch. As if you ain't got enough." 

Zeke had smiled and shrugged and said, "Road trip to Juarez, eh?" 

Not anymore. 

His brain kept drifting back to the horror of Grady's death. Left outside, alive, bound, to be feasted on by the creatures of the desert. It was beyond comprehension that anyone could do that to anybody, no matter how much they hated them. The pain. The suffering. He could see it. Almost feel it. Made his skin cringe in sympathy. And now the only person he'd ever thought of as family was gone. 

He needed something to shift away from the horrific images that began to pound into him, so opened the screen door and pulled out an acoustic guitar. Still sitting on the chair, he fiddled with the strings, then played a gentle version of Romance de Amor. 

The melody had been playing in the bar, in Juarez, the night Zeke got the first part of his arm inked. Grady had pushed him across the bridge in his wheelchair and complained the whole way. "I ain't that strong. My feet hurt. Should've grabbed an Uber. My arms are achin'. Ain't doin' this, again." On and on, and never mind this wasn't the first time he'd done it. 

But after the tattoo shop had come beer and burritos, on Zeke, so he hadn't said a word while pushing him back. Probably helped they were both seriously on the drunk side. And...that Grady had tried to work his charms on the immigration clerk. Which had nearly gotten them arrested for harassment. It was only Zeke laughing out of control that had gotten them off the hook. That and Stumpy being very visible. 

The next time they'd gone, Zeke had made himself walk on his new bionic leg. It had hurt like shit. But Grady had been solicitous the whole way. That was when Zeke had finally begun to accept he could make it back to life. So he'd bought this plain guitar in a shop near the bridge. For a hundred pesos. 

Self-taught, he wasn't as smooth as he would have liked. It took him more focus than most people, he was sure, but that's why he liked playing it. The melodies seemed to come out like they were his, and they did a lot to lift his mood. He'd never make America's Got Talent, but he wasn't interested in that crap, anyway, and... 

Loki skidded to a halt. 

Zeke stopped playing. 

The dog turned. 

And sniffed. 

And listened. 

Then growled towards the Cantina...and carefully positioned himself beside Zeke, in a warning stance and attitude. 

Okay...this was serious. It wasn't Dax returning, because Loki would be barking and tearing off after him. Still... 

He carefully set the guitar by his chair and reached back around into the trailer, his eyes scanning the area. He had an old M-16 that was in top condition propped just inside the door. He brought it out and held it, ready to fire. 

Into darkness. 

Into silence. 

Into nothing? 

"Careful," he finally said. "Loki don’t like surprises."

Seems the length is set

Going through my edits, today, and inputting them up to page 140, and it looks like Carli's Kills has decided it's going to be around 84,000 words. I'll cut some and add other parts in, and it stays on just either side of that number as I go along. That's actually a good sign. Once the book knows its length, nothing I do will change that and it means I'm closing in on the final version.

I know part of the problem I was having with the book was that I'd stuck too closely to the structure of the original script, and what works in a screen play don't work in a narrative piece. Rob Reiner once discussed that in reverse when William Goldman adapted Misery into a script. In the book, Annie chops off Paul's foot after he tries to escape. Reiner changed that to her smashing his ankle, instead, so he's crippled.

Here's IMDb's notes about it: 

In the novel, Annie cuts off Paul's foot to prevent him from escaping. Screenwriter  had stated that the reason he decided to adapt the book to film was because of this gruesome scene, and the effect it would have on the audience. However,  and 's script revision changed the method of torture to Paul getting his ankles broken with a sledgehammer. Goldman was opposed to the change until viewing the film.

I need to keep reminding myself of this...take the basic story and characters and rebuild everything, completely, because books ain't movies and vice-versa...

Home, again...

Job's done. Invoice and expenses in to the people who pay. A rough ride thanks to books so covered in dust I had to wear an N95 mask to be able to breathe and take a Benadryl to handle my nose's anger. Not easy, especially driving home. Had to stop twice to nap, thanks to the drugs. Now my right arm is bugging me so it's hard to type. I hate getting old.

This is where I was working...by a lake in the northeast corner of New Jersey, miles from the nearest highway. This was the day the shipment was picked up for delivery; the next day was cloudy and it rained. Good timing, for once.

I did get plenty of ideas to add into Carli's Kills...and came up with an ending that will be surprising, if it works. Won't know till I get there...but that's the way my writing goes.

Still, I'm getting this beast into a decent draft and out to be edited, next week, no matter what. I'm moving, the end of next week, so I won't have time for this nonsense to keep going on.

Seriously, I could rewrite this book till the end of time. I have lots of changes I'd love to make to my other works, but I won't do it because they are what they are. Porno Manifesto is case in point. When I adapted it into a screenplay, I found ways to improve the story...but when I redid the formatting, I refused to sneak them in. The book stands on its own merits, and I'm proud of what I did with it.

So CK is going to get done and out and I'll deal with my later ideas as they come...if they come. I have A Place of Safety to work on, next, and then Dair's Window...and after those, a dozen other projects. So fiddling with this one story is hurting their chances of being made. Ain't gonna happen.

The joy of road-trippin'...

I drove down to my latest packing job, in NJ, and along the way just let myself think about CK and ways to make it better. It's a 6 hour drive, but it wasn't till hour 4 that I finally heard some suggestions from the characters and muse and all the assistants who bring stories to dumb saps like me, expecting us to make sense of them.

As if.

BUT...I may have an idea how to make the ending less of an ABC kind of shootout at the OK Corral thing and more fitting with the snarkiness of the story. And it was staring me in the face. No guns blazing as Carli comes in to save Zeke. This way makes Carli even more bad-ass. But before I discuss it, I want to do a run-through on it and see. I'm still a bit skittish.

I've added in how Carli gets a sexual thrill from killing a man. Kinky and close to John Wayne Gacy style, mixed with Ted Bundy. Female serial killers, like Aileen Woronous, killed either due to anger, hate or money. Carli's madness is just an animalistic urge that runs 100% counter to her mother's religious fanaticism. Maybe her form of rebellion, to put it nicely. But Zeke causes a seismic shift in her psyche...enough to get her to back away from the death and destruction, even though it's really too late.

But even with that shift, she's never going to tell him what she's done. Honesty is not always the best policy. Some secrets are best kept to yourself and taken to the grave.

To help keep my mind occupied till the drive back, I'm finally watching Game of Thrones. I'm only on Season 1, ep. 2, but I can see why people got involved. It's like a more honest version of Dallas, with all the maneuvering around, and Cersi was the new JR.

Alone time can work...

I dropped all writing for a few days and focused on getting ready for a packing job, next week, as well as preliminary paperwork for the New York Book Fair next month. Not to mention I'm also moving in April, so...lots to do.
I finally came back to the printout of Carli's Kills with a clarity that helped me do another red pen edit. I expanded on a midnight motorcycle ride taken by Carli, Zeke and Loki, trying to make it as romantic and poetic as possible without actually waxing poetical. I also cut things that were superfluous -- like an underground cave where the Cantina stored beer -- and trimmed back some of the repetitiveness of Carli's inner musings. It's still long, but when I input these changes...well, I hope it will make sense.

The ending is still a bit too easy. Maybe too quick. Sort of ABC. But it works, so I'm not sure if the issue is that it's wrong or if I'm just being picky. I don't want to drag things out just to pad the action; I hate that. But I have been told in a couple of books I rushed the ending or didn't go deep enough, so I don't want that, either. Right now, I'm waiting till I get done inputting before I decide what to do.

Next week is a packing job, through Thursday or Friday, so not much will be done, writing wise. It'll be a physical job so I'm thinking I'll take some DVDs to watch, afterwards. The area's on the rural side; not a lot of places to have dinner, and I just can't handle theater-going, right now. Not because of Covid (tho' that is still a concern) but so damn many movies are over 2 hours long, not counting previews and ads, my bladder don't hold out. And I absolutely HATE leaving in the middle of a movie to take a piss...so I wait till I can stream it or get it at RedBox.

It's the old man in me.

WTF is wrong with me?

I just slammed into another brick wall with Carli's Kills, dealing with the timeline. What's happening during this time and why aren't they doing anything about it, kind of thing. This is just supposed to be a fun little story of female empowerment and non-moralistic murdering joy...and I'm locked in my usual BUT IT HAS TO MAKE PERFECT SENSE attitude and cannot get around it. Like an obsessive-compulsive quirk in my psyche or something.

I seriously wonder if I'm OCD. Because I cannot let go of this story until it's right, and I cannot just scoot past the parts that don't work for me but that no one else will probably give a damn about. That sort of attitude drives me crazy in films or TV shows I see...like it did with YOU, to the point I cannot watch the rest of that thing.

It may be something that's been developing slowly, since I remember even though I'd get irritated about films that ignore simple physics I could still enjoy them. But now? North by Northwest? How can a crop duster crash into an oil truck but not knock it off the road? Or in Foreign Correspondent, when a plane is crashing towards the ocean why does everyone rush to get the to back of the fuselage before it hits so they won't get crushed by the water? Both ignore the laws of centrifugal force and simple gravity.

It must be something that's been growing in me, because the first time I saw Vertigo I was swept away by its beauty and romantic suspense. Now the only way I can accept its ridiculous storyline is if I see it as a dead man's dream, because it does not make one damn bit of logical sense. So I guess I'm just falling into fanaticism and ridiculousness.

Life sucks, sometimes...

My schedule was killed, yesterday, by my toilet deciding to back up, last night. It would not flush and was clogged so the water was up to the rim...and that's after me going out to get a jug of Draino...and again to get Liquid Plumber, since the Draino didn't do the job...and not being able to get emergency maintenance to answer the phone. I wound up taking a dump at the grocery store, as I bought the LP, something I absolutely hate doing. But...it's good I did. It wasn't fixed till this morning.

I guess it's better that I'm moving to another apartment. This place is starting to feel like it's about ready to fall down.

So today was spent making up for lost time. I'm through 162 of 403 pages, and it's working better. After going through this latest draft with spell-check, I'm sending it out for editing and feedback. I want this done by the end of March because April is shaping up to be busy and in May I'm getting surgery on my eyelids. Guess I'm just a tired old man staggering his way through life.

The story seems to be staying at around 84,000 words, right now. That may change because I'm adding a section between the sheriff and a coroner's assistant in the hospital morgue. This being out in the middle of nowhere in Arizona, they usually have an undertaker pick up bodies and take them to the morgue, where the coroner does the autopsy. And Grady's will be a trip. He may wind up being transported to Tucson for further detailing.

So it's coming together, step by step. Who knows...I may actually get this dome, some day.

Return to sender...

Taxes done. Oh, what fun. But it turned out good so I can't complain, except I'm beat up from worrying about it. Want to hit the sack, so much. Actually dozed off in my chair.

Tomorrow, I'll start inputting changes to CK. Should have it done by Sunday, at which time I've got a few people open to being Beta-readers. If anyone else is interested, message me.

I'm still arguing with myself about the ending. One tactic my inner moralist used has been to suggest I'm lazy for not wanting to do all the rewriting...but truth is, there wouldn't be all that much. A lot of trimming to do, sure, and one last revenge murder at the end before Carli rides off with Zeke's dog, Loki. But a tragic ending just does not feel right as the finale to the paperback version of this story.

Which then brings on the, It would work if you were a better writer, BS. To which I say, Maybe, but we'll never know. I just know I'm the writer I am now and that's all I can be.

I've also decided was to publish under my name. No hiding. If me being me writing the books I've written is a problem for people, it's their problem, not mine.

I had a long chat with an old friend, doing facetime. It was weird seeing him after so many years, but we had a lot to catch up on and I found out he's listed as an editor on a James Bond bibliography by Jon Gilbert. I sort of know Jon through Adrian Harrington, an antiquarian bookseller he worked for. It was a fun chat.