Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 111

No telling when...

I have no idea when I'll be done with CK. It just expanded itself, a bit, so it doesn't feel so rushed. Initially, I had it take place over 6 days, but now Zeke and Carli want more time together, and the Sheriff wants more time to investigate the murders Carli's committed, and Dax needs more time to plan his counter-attack...and now it's happening over 8 days. So far.

I have to let it play out, which it's doing at its own pace. I'm up well over 54,500 words, and still expect to top out at 60K...and that's fine. When I'm done, it will be my 3rd unfinished novel, not counting the ones I started but have yet to achieve 1st draft.

I've always had a hard time completing things, and this is no different. I have to kick myself into writing, sometimes, because I let myself be easily distracted. And get bored with the process...or lose interest in what I'm working on. I'm way better than I used to be. I now see that hump of You don't really give a shit about this so why keep pushing it? coming and can speed myself up and just roll over it. Slowly sometimes. Barely. But still, getting to the other side happens quite often, now.

It finally did with APoS. I'm reading This Man's Wee Boy to give me a greater awareness of Brendan's life in Derry up to 1972. I have to be careful not to copy anything, but there it is. I have half a dozen other books written by people who lived during that time to read and reread, as well. And notes sent me years ago. The whole 9 yards.

My one issue now is, I really need to be in Derry for a couple weeks so I can read through the Derry Journal and get down things like the weather on particular days, and what movies are playing, and what the prices are...stuff like that. But being broke, that's not exactly in the cards, right now.

I may also be getting surgery to lift my eyelids, which just got approved by my insurance, so I need to find out what my co-pay will be. If it's too much, it ain't happening.

Still working on CK

I think I'm about 80% done with Carli's Kills, and I'm keeping at it till the end. Right now I'm up to 52,290 words, and I know when I do the next draft I'll be adding more, so this will be a decent enough short novel.

Don't know how it will work out, once I get down to honing it, because right now it's all over the place in style. Starts in black humor, slips into a seduction that becomes horror, digs deeper into Carli's and Zeke's characters like a dramatic study, then becomes suspense, then action, then drama, then suspense, again...and I've now finished my first full-scale bit of M/F erotica. After this is straight suspense/thriller stuff.

Carli questions Chase, one of the gang's dealers, and she's beginning to see what she thought had happened with Lara isn't necessarily so. Dax knew what he was doing, setting the girl up, but the men she killed probably did not. This is where I finally describe the rape, in full. It was pretty tough and vicious, so I broke it into two parts...some presented as background, some where Chase tells Carli about it. So this is where she decides to bring Dax down, legally, instead of just kill him...then goes to find Zeke.

He's got a target set up behind his trailer and lets Carli shoot his M16. Then she comes on to him, gets him going, drags him into his trailer, all but throws him on the bed and has at him...almost like she's raping him. Difference is, he's neither drugged nor unwilling. It gets pretty raw, and I think I'm going to polish it up to where it's sexy, not lewd. Then she and Zeke share secrets...and it looks like they're connecting.

Thing is, while he's open and honest with her, she's lying to him about why she's in town. And her plan to get Dax busted for drugs does not work out, so all hell is going to break loose.

With Zeke is the one most in danger.

National Novel Writing Month Challenge achieved

Carli's Kills is now over 50K in words. It's not done, not by a long shot. I probably have another 8-10,000 words to go to finish the story, but it's met the threshold and I got my badge.

This is #13, and of those, I've published 7. Which I guess is good. I have some I want to return to and finish polishing up for publication. And in truth, this is the second time I've tried to do CK as the challenge; last time I didn't make it past 14K before things grew overwhelming. This time I didn't have any excuses.

I'm at the point in the story where Carli and Zeke finally go to bed. And she is not a passive partner. It's going to be raw and rough and fun for them both, because she's finally learned he was not part of what happened to her daughter and, in fact, is the only one who feels guilty about it because he didn't do anything to help Lara before she killed herself and thinks he should have.

The scene I'd made such a joke out of, in the script -- where Carli interrogates Chase, one of the drug dealers -- shifted and, instead, became a tough moment where Chase thinks Carli's going to kill him. I did a little play on the shower scene in Psycho as the lead-in...but it gets tight, after that.

I'm going to finish this draft then get back to work on APoS.

New edition of Blown Away

The reason I signed up with Netflix was to see the first season of Blown Away. It takes place at the Croning Glass Works, where several glass blowers compete for a prize and to be called the best in show. There were 2 seasons with 10 episodes each, and they just released one with a Christmas theme that brought back five of the glass blowers who'd almost made it on the previous series. They were all fun to watch and required a skill I do not possess...and not once has my favorite won. Dammit.

I went to actually visit the Corning Glass Museum twice, thanks to these shows. It's about 150 miles from me and you had to wear a mask thanks to Covid, but it was worth it to see not only the amazing history and beauty of glass, but also actually watch them make some items. I've posted about it, before, on Facebook, so no need to, again.

But that visit did help me figure out the sort of artwork my main character in Dair's Window is doing. Dair Llewellyn does portraits of people in layers of fused glass (AKA: Gemmail) on various plates of clear glass, with light behind them, to give them a 3-D feel...almost holographic, because their expressions change as you move around them. This piece is what showed me it can be done. It's Pont de Grenelle by Louis Gilis, which is cut glass layered and fused in a light box.

Dair's Window is the story I was working on for much of the first part of this year and it exploded on me. Dair is a stained glass artist, which is different from blown glass, but watching Blown Away got me into understanding how one can use glass to make more than just cups, saucers and Christmas decorations. I now know what it is going for and will eventually return to it.

FWIW, I'm almost done with CK's challenge. Just under 3600 words to go to hit 50K. It won't be finished at that point, and I will finish it...then it's back to APoS and then...onward and upward.

Here I go again...

I'll probably make the 50,000 word threshold for NaNoWriMo's challenge, this year, but Carli's Kills is going to be longer. Not sure what to do about that, because my plan was to start back in on APoS, December 1st. But I hate to leave something unfinished, like this...and I will be close to the end of a real first draft.
That's mainly because the story has taken on a life of its own, now. I've had two occasions where I'm following along with the original script and padding it out in narrative form...and suddenly I have to dump hours worth of work because it's taken off in a whole new direction. Changes make themselves into plot points and the whole Carli-Zeke dynamic is growing scarier, to me. She's fluctuating between wanting to love him and wanting to kill him.
But Loki is still standing guard. And he doesn't trust anybody with his guy...so maybe things will work out.
I think I know how it ends, and right now I hate it, but so far the story is leading to that. Wants that. Demands it. So I'm going to make it as gut-wrenching as possible. Meaning I'm probably killing it as a fun little read for summer. No simple erotica here for women to dream about.
But you do what the story wants or it comes out like crap, so...

Thanksgivng.

 Nothing serous to report, today...just too much turkey...and yams...and green beans...and...you get the drift. So here -- enjoy the truth about Thanksgiving.

Theme music for Carli's Kills...

Romance de Amour has always been Zeke's theme. In the script he's playing it on his guitar when he first meets Carli, unaware she might be planning to kill him. Only his dog, Loki, is at his side, protective and wary of her...and she cannot get close. It's the same in the book, now...but more intense. More dangerous. More meaningful, I think.

This is an extended version of the song that works beautifully into the theme of the story.

I first heard the melody when Charro played it on a late night talk show. She's always been such a character, but when she plays the guitar, it becomes an extension of her soul.

Typical...

I spent half the day working Zeke's back story into Carli's Kills...only for it to explode in my face. I wasn't paying enough attention and started adding in details that didn't belong there. Making Zeke half-Indigenous and half-Anglo and complicating his estrangement from his family in silly ways...so I hit a glorious bout of writer's block.

Took me a couple hours, a bit of depression, some serious banging of head against wall time before finally just removing everything I'd done to get to where I could hear him, again. Simplified the background, a lot. He's adopted. Doesn't know who his birth mother is. And the people who adopted him act more like his guardians than parents. A very strict Calvinist upbringing in central Minnesota by the Reverend and Mrs. Lindstrom...and that is what he calls them. Not mom and dad. It finally leads to an overwhelming sense of dislocation and he rebels. And things went downhill fast.

I've got just over 14,000 words left to write in seven days in order to make this month's challenge. Hopefully, there won't be any more days like this, because those put me way behind. I just have to keep listening to the characters...and staying true to them. It's when I work at making things cute that I fuck things up, but that's the screenwriter in me.

All the books I read on that style of writing emphasized character traits instead of human beings in scripts. The hero is a good man but flawed and has a personal tragedy in his background...and his dog or snake or parakeet loves him, anyway. She has a past filled with secrets and trauma but finding the right man will unlock them and help her heal. That kind of shit.

Small wonder I never made it as a screenwriter; I don't know how to make such nonsense work. But something I am proud of? Every actor who ever read one of my scripts loved them. I gave them people to work with, who weren't easily categorized.

Just trying to keep it real with CK, too.

Grady's last ride...

 Grady's heading for the woman's place for a night of fun...he thinks... 

-----

The midnight sky glistened with stars and only a hint of a moon as the Mercedes C class zipped down The 14, as silver and sleek and silent as death. Well, silent relative to Grady's Hog. He was having all sorts of fun playing tag with the car. Rushing ahead on the straight, narrow road. Pulling in front. Letting the car whip around him, the woman laughing as she flipped him off. They were joyous, together.

More than once, he would draw parallel to the driver’s door. And she would beckon him closer, smiling. And he would edge to within an inch of the speeding car. And she would reach over to caress his inner thigh...and tickle his crotch.

He almost lost control of the bike the first time, he was laughing so hard from the surprise of it. Hot DAMN, he wished he hadn't worn briefs. They kept his package from being as impressive as he thought it could be under a woman's touch. Instead, he'd shoot ahead, doing a wheelie in excitement...and they'd do it, again.

Until in the middle of another wheelie, she laughed and hit her brakes, then did a sliding turn to rush through a gate and race down a gravel road.

Grady realized, slammed the Hog into a skidding turn and raced back to the gate, snarling, "Shit, shit," at least a dozen times. He chased after her, roaring far too fast over dirt and rocks as he fought to catch up to the billowing dust. He could just make out the red glow of the Mercedes’ taillights through the muck...until they went bright and vanished.

A moment later, he drew up to an isolated house that looked as if it were hiding from the world. Beaten, dark, surrounded by nothing but scrub, even in the shadows you could tell it hadn't been painted in a good thirty years.

The Mercedes was parked by the front door, the woman leaning against it, watching him glide up. He stopped behind the car and got off the bike. Dust now covered his front, from head to toe. He beat most of it away, pulled off his helmet and removed his goggles to look around, not at all impressed.

"Didn’t know anybody lived in this shack," he said.

"It’s nicer inside," the woman said as she pushed away from the car and started for the door.

"Oh, fancy? Should I hose-off, first?"

She looked at him, seeming to chuckle. Even in the pale starlight her smile was lovely. "You could wash your face. Use some mouthwash, too. Or would you prefer another beer?"

"Shit. You gotta ask?"

She linked a finger in his belt and pulled him in through the side door. He giggled.

Inside, the furnishings were cheap-ass everything. Not even on the level of Ikea; more like 50s retro bargain basement. She led Grady in, and he grabbed at her, as best he could, pulling her close for a kiss. She broke away, saying. "Let me get those beers. You can use the kitchen sink, for your face. Wash your hands, too."

"What for? I wore gloves."

"Even more reason."

He giggled.

She backed into a kitchen. He yanked off his jacket, dropped it on the floor and followed her in.

The kitchen was as old and beat-up as everything else, including the linoleum floor. Reminded him of his grandmother's place, in Lytle, outside San Antonio. About to crumble into dust. He turned on the faucet. It grumbled and groaned but clean water soon poured out.

She pulled a couple of Dos Equis from the ancient fridge.

He grinned. "How'd you know?"

"Told you, Mexican beer's good."

"What’s your real name?" Grady asked as he ran soap up his arms.

"Call me Stasi," she said.

"Hmph. Knew another chick by that name. Bitch was crazy."

The woman grew still. "Aren't we all?"

He used a dishcloth to dry himself as she offered him an open beer. He took it, and barely held onto it. Gave her an embarrassed shrug then guzzled some.

"So...what do I call you?" she asked. "Asshole?"

He backed her against the counter and pressed against her, one hand groping a breast, saying, "Grady. Mmm..."

She chuckled. "Oooooh...Grady’s hungry."

"Been a long time since I ain’t had to pay for it."

He tried to kiss her, but she put her own bottle to her lips, teasing him. "Oh, it’s gonna cost you," she murmured. "Just not money." Then she set her beer down, reached around and grabbed his ass to purr. "Oooohhh...nice. Big. Round."

He giggled and almost got a kiss in before she leaned back, ran her hands up his sides and grabbed the throat of his shirt.

Now he gasped. "Careful, this is my saint shirt."

"Saint shirt?"

He giggled as he said, "All holey."

She laughed and tore it open to reveal an elaborate tattoo of geometric designs covered his chest.

"Oh, my," she whispered. She ran her fingers over it, tracing some the design before pinching at his tits.

He gasped, deep and shocked. "Oh, shit, shit, girls do that to guys?"

"Depends on the guy. Have you had a dude do this, to you?"

"Fuck no. I mean, one tried, but..."

"Don't you like it?" She twisted his nipples, soft. Almost erotic.

Every sensation he could think of rammed through every part of his body. "Fuck...love it...when you do it."

"Cool. Any more tatts to play with?"

He pulled her close. "Stasi sees...real soon."

She licked her lips and dribbled beer down her front. He gasped and dove down to lick it up. Which led to him nuzzling her breasts. Rubbing his nose in her cleavage. "Oh, fuck," was all he seemed able to say. "You in a corset?"

She nodded. "Adds to the moment, don't you think? I've got high-heeled boots, too...if you're up for that."

She ran a hand up the inside of his thigh to emphasize her intention, groping him, in full.

Oh, was he ever. He leaned back, a little and let out a long slow sigh of the deepest pleasure before guzzling more beer.

She unbuckled his belt. Undid the button on his jeans. Shifted them to his hips. Then she pinched his tits, again. Toyed with the hair on his chest. On his poochie little belly. Up his arms. He pulled her tight and ground against her, about ready to pop out of his briefs and...

He grunted, confused. He leaned on her, trying to keep his balance. His heart was going a mile a minute and his head spinning and nothing was making sense.

She pulled away from him, fake concern on face. "Oh, Grady...too much too soon?"

"Just feel weird," he muttered, "and...and...what the fuck? That beer..."

"Wow, Grady, have roofies been used on you, before?"

He stumbled back, just beginning to understand. "Roofies? Me?" He was able to make out she was grinning at him. Just standing there. He grabbed the kitchen counter and tried to move to the door. "Fuckin’ bitch...what you...what you doin’?"

She tripped him.

He collapsed to the cracked linoleum. Smacked his head, hard. Tried to talk but his words dribbled into nothingness. He rolled onto his back to see...

She towered over him. She pulled off her hair.

Grady gasped. Oh, fuck, it was a blond wig. She’s brunette.

Then she undid her shirt and opened it to reveal a bustier was pushing her breasts up. It also accentuated her curves. She shrugged it off. Now wore only jeans. She let out a long, slow sigh of relief as she stretched. She was still lovely, but now looked almost completely different.

She smiled down at Grady...and it was one of the scariest smiles he had ever seen...as he drifted closer and closer to some weird unfocused darkness...and the last words he heard were, "Now I’m naming names," before he passed out.

CK grows and builds...

This is a bit that comes just after Carli's killed Stasi. When I wrote this as a a screenplay, I had Stasi falling 25 floors to the ground then cut to Carli smacking the pool balls.

-------

Wednesdays and Thursdays were usually quiet and easy, which suited Zeke fine. Some regulars would come in. Some buddies. And sometimes they'd talk. And sometimes he'd join them in a beer. And life would be good, for a moment.

But this particular Wednesday night, that's not how things were going. There was an energy in the room that troubled him, and it emanated from the woman playing pool on the table closest to the bar. She was tall, well-done in every way, thick blond hair cascading down her back. She wore a tight pair of jeans that emphasized her glorious hips and rear, and a loose shirt unbuttoned just fare enough to show off a nice set of breasts. High-end cowboy boots finished off the near-perfect ensemble. She was playing alone in a way that showed her body off, and which made Zeke wary. She was up to something; after several years at this bar, picking up on trouble had become like a sixth sense...and she radiated trouble.

But no one else seemed to notice, though Rhonda, the Cantina's waitress, did act like she wasn't there. Poor Rhonda. Plain hair, plain face, probably twenty pounds underweight to pull off the jeans-mini-skirt, tie-dyed t-shirt tied at the waist in a way to give her a midriff, doll-like boots on her feet, and heavy emphasis on turquoise jewelry on her wrists and around her neck. If a woman came in who wasn't attached to a biker or a jock, she had to be forced to serve them. And it looked like that was how it bout be, tonight.

Except it didn't look like the blond woman was ready for a refill, yet. She'd been nursing that beer for an hour as she played game after game. Zeke had no problem with that, at first, but then a couple of his buddies, Grady and Spit, had arrived.

Grady was one of those linebacker types who used to be in top shape but now was gone to seed. He kept his head shaved, was never outside without his sunglasses, and seemed to have nothing but t-shirts and crappy Wranglers to wear, along with an ancient pair of Dingo boots. Only his bushy eyebrows gave away the fact that he was red-haired. An ex-marine, like Zeke, he had been in a chopper crash that burned his hands and arms. He could use them, thanks to the surgeons at Brooke Army Medical Center, in San Antonio, and rehabilitation crew at William Beaumont, in El Paso, but only with limited success. Elaborate tattoos covered the scarring, right down to his nails, with a fleur de lis also tattooed, above each ear.

"Those hurt and bled like a motherfucker," he'd told Zeke over a couple of Dos Equis at a cantina on Avenue Lerdo, just across the bridge in Juarez. He swore the beers tasted better over there.

"Why'd you do it?" Zeke had asked, eyeing them.

"For the fuck of it," Grady had sighed. "Remind me what pain is." He flexed his fingers as much as he could. "Remind me there's still so much fuckin' pain in the world."

It was at Beaumont that Zeke had met him, while learning to use his new leg. Grady had just taken him to get his first post-op tattoo, to hide some of the scarring.

"It hurt much?" he had asked as he took another swallow of beer.

Zeke had just shaken his head. "I had a tatt on my leg. My calf. Knew what to expect."

Grady had chuckled. "You're a good kid."

"You ain't so much older'n me."

"Ten years, motherfucker. An' two lifetimes." He had leaned back to gaze at the slow-moving ceiling fan. "Ten years an' two lifetimes."

They had watched over each other, ever since. He was the one who had gotten Zeke the job behind the bar; he knew the owner from basic. Helped him set up in the trailer behind the place. Helped him learn to ride a bike, even with one leg. Now Zeke had been here going on ten years. Ten years of solitude and peace.

And blessed loneliness.

Grady lived in an old ranch house with Spit, who might turn out to be attractive if he would lose half the weight he was carrying...and not carrying well. Clothes a size too small. Hair long and always looking like it needs to be washed. Tattoos on his arms but nowhere else that anyone knew about. Well, anyone but his Rubenesque biker girlfriend, Katty, whose outfit was also a size too small and whose hair was so bleached, you knew it was sanitized.

Neither of them had ever offered up their real names, and Zeke wasn't one to care, and so it was what it was. They both rode Harleys and sported leather wrist bands and jackets and belts with buckles the size of Texas on them. It was a wonder Spit's didn't cut into his gut.

The three of them had taken up residence in their usual booth near the pool table, and Rhonda had taken their usual order -- Coors for Katty, Michelob for Spit and a bottle of Dos Equis for Grady. Spit had maneuvered them into the booth so he could watch the blond woman do her thing around the table, and chuckle like a growly hyena at her every move. Katty noticed and was not in a good mood, thanks to it.

Another red flag to Zeke.

Then Spit got up, snarling, "Gonna take a piss." But as he walked past the woman, he grabbed her ass and chuckled, "Sweet cheeks."

Before either Zeke or Katty could react, the woman whipped her pool cue up between Spit's legs.

He cried out, grabbed his crotch and fell over...then howled in pain. "Aw, fuck...fuck...my back...fuck..."

"Oh, shit," sighed Zeke as Grady went to Spit and helped him up, with Rhonda's assistance.

The woman stood there, watching them, impassive, cue held in a way that she could use it as a weapon, if need be.

"Now you done it," Grady said to her. "You hurt Spit's back, and him havin' to work, tomorrow."

"His name fits," the woman said.

Grady helped Spit settle back into the booth, where Katty swatted him, angry.

"Ow!" he yelped. "Baby, my back..."

But she wasn't having it. "It's your own damn fault, asshole."

Grady sighed and looked at the woman. Saw violet eyes gazing back at him and lips caught in a half-smile. It had been a long time since he'd had a woman look at him, like that, especially one who was actually nice to look back at.

"Now you know his name," Grady said. "What name fits you?"

She gave him no response.

"O-kay," Grady sighed, "Let's pay that game. What name fits me?"

She looked him over, like a jackal would eye its meat, and chalked her cue. "How ‘bout a game?" she asked. "Winner names names."

He held up his hands. "Ain’t so good with pool."

She smiled, actually amused. "Let's say I spot you a couple balls." Then she blew chalk dust off the cue. 

O-KAY. Grady picked out a cue. Set his beer beside hers. Offered a drag on a joint...and she took it. And toked it. And held it for a nice long moment before letting the smoke drift through her pursed lips. 

Grady actually shifted under his tshirt and jeans in a way that was filled with expectation. "Stripes or solids?" he asked.

She shrugged.

He looked the table over. She had already dropped two of each, so he leaned across, struggled to set up his cue, shook a little but then smacked the white ball...and dropped a couple solids! That was a first. He looked over to ask if Zeke had seen it, but the guy was busy prepping an order for Rhonda. A couple of college jocks in designer slum-wear were seated at a table, focused on their phones. Texting twerps. 

Grady felt a twinge of jealousy at how easily their fingers moved over the tiny keyboards. Hell, he had trouble typing on a regular computer. But then he noticed Laila, a biker chick with boobs and curves in leather everything, hair the color of cotton candy, was circling in on them. He chuckled. Those boys were about to find themselves on the ride of their lives, and their daddies' credit cards would soon be maxed out. He hoped Laila would take pictures; she loved controlling the little twerps.

He turned back to the woman, saw she was eyeing him, waiting, her mouth slightly open, her tongue poised just under her upper lip. He gulped, felt more than a stir in his dick, lined up too quick and shot...and missed. He was getting flustered, and also a bit pissed he'd worn briefs, today. Harder to show off the equipment, and while the rest of him was kind of sloppy, Grady was proud of the most important thing he had to offer.

She let out a sigh, casually leaned over the table and dropped one. Then she rounded it, completely, eyeing the balls as she chalked her cue. She stopped next to Grady, nodding. Gave him a side glance. Grabbed hold of his beer and took a nice, long swallow, her eyes never leaving his.

"Mexican beer," she said. "Good taste."

Then she leaned over the table, her hips nudging his, making him hold his breath in fear he'd scare her off with his giggles...and deliberately missed her next shot. She rose, gave a little girl pout and said, "Oops."

O-KAY!