Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 112

Draft 3 is done...

I finished draft 3 of APoS, and I decided to add the to be continued bit to make sure people will know the story does not end here. So far, it's 524 pages in Courier 12 point, double-spaced. 119,690 words. And I am emotionally exhausted. I always knew this story would be draining, and it has lived up to my expectations.

I'm still nervous about actually capturing the essence of Derry's society, at the time. How they spoke and acted with each other. Now that the story's set, I can concentrate on making that better. I have a few memoirs from the area to read through in more detail. We'll see how it goes.

I'm taking tomorrow off from writing, then I'll dig into CK on Monday. I have a lot left to do in that book, but it's going to be nice and light and fun, in comparison. A woman using men like sex objects. I know straight guys dream of this, but not in the way she does it. I don't think...

Not being a straight guy, I'm not sure.

I mean, I've got one scene where she ties a college guy to a chair, naked, and toys with him for information. He's the one who reveals Zeke was there when her daughter was raped, but it looks like he didn't know what was going on. I don't know how I'll handle that, yet. Zeke's not a goody-two-shoes, but neither is he a villain. He's a guy who is just...there...with no-place else to go. Almost tragic, really.

One chapter left in this rewrite...

I will have this draft of APoS done this weekend. It's closing in on 120,000 words, so it's a real novel. I just did the part where Brendan takes Joanna to see the circle fort, Grianan Aileach, atop a nearby Donegal hill, and he reveals he's planning to leave Derry. He knows his history and can see the place sliding into chaos, and wants no part of it.

At the fort, he feels free and open and can talk with Joanna like he talks with no one, not even his best mates. People are recognizing he's not one to spread tales, unlike his brother Eamonn...who doesn't do it deliberately. Things just slip out when Eamonn gets angry or excited. So it's hurting him now that he's part of PIRA. But Brendan can be trusted.

So far I haven't come across a book dealing with the catastrophic way in which British Forces set in motion the next 10 years with their heavy-handedness. Almost like it was deliberate, it was so stupid. I've read some who think it was just British arrogance that caused this to happen. Their certainty that if they worked the plans out just right, they would succeed.

But history shows that doesn't work. You can have the best plans ever, with each detail in just the right spot, but expecting hundreds of men to carry it out with precision and without anger or fear or any human emotion? It's always going to go wrong. And it did on Bloody Sunday. And the British being idiots, they assumed they could control the narrative with their press releases...but that didn't happen. Too many people in Northern Ireland had friends and relatives in the Republic, and word got around.

It's the same, today, albeit a lot faster. The people in power don't understand how pervasive the internet is and how there are always methods bloggers and hackers can use to get around even the most stringent safeguards and censorship. Right now, Chinese officials are trying to manage the disappearance of a tennis star who made allegations of sexual assault against a high-ranking politician, and they're finding it is impossible. One woman vanished...and the Chinese censors can't keep it quiet. They've lost but just cannot accept that reality.

The 60s brought about the beginning of the end for control of the information flow by those who would oppress others...and the Troubles exacerbated it.

APoS moving ahead so...

Here's a taste of Carli's Kills. Jake still thinks Carli's suffering from PTSD...and she might be...so after a second conversation where they learn a bit more about each other, he invites her on a midnight picnic to his favorite spot in the area.

---

The Harley thrummed to life, its deep growling engine ready to go, now, now, now. Zeke looked at Carli, waiting. Loki looked at her, wary...but also waiting in his dog seat. She slipped the helmet on and slung a leg over to sit behind Zeke and hold onto the back handles. Her knees were touching his hips and thighs. Shivers raced through her. Confusing shakes that made her catch her breath.

"You can hold my waist, if you want," he chuckled. "I promise not to take advantage if you don't."

She laughed. "Didn't want to seem too forward."

"You never rode a bike, before?"

"Ten-speed."

"Yeah...this is a little different."

She slipped her arms around him and he set the bike in motion. Smooth and easy. Nothing crass like the hogs, the night before. Just another light thrum...and in moments they were whispering down the road.

Carli almost gasped at the gentleness of the wind as they zipped along. The tenderness of it. The elegance. She looked to the left to watch dark scrub and even darker mountains in the distance almost appear to be pacing her in ways that seemed too real to be right. To her other side, the space was more open, the dark cacti and bushes extending all the way to the end of the world so they could meet the sky. Looking up revealed the deepest, blackest velvet gleaming with stars enough to put the overwhelming lights of the LA basin to shame. And with it all was the soft silence, punctuated only by the gentle engine as they sped along.

Without thinking, she lay her chin against Zeke's left shoulder. Strong and yet so welcoming. The leather of his jacket seemed to rejoice in her presence...and the smell of him...the casual masculinity of him...she felt close to drunk from just breathing him in.

He wasn't solid around the waist; she could feel a bit of a tummy, even through the jacket. She could also make out his belly button was a little innie...and feel the top of that buckle and wonder how he kept it from cutting onto him. On top of this, she noticed he did not cringe or tremble at her touch. No discomfort. Just him as anchor to keep her on the bike.

But the emotions running through her were intensifying. This moment...this pinpoint of time...she felt as if it were poetry. Like it was the world as it should be. One person connected to anther and surrounded by peace and understanding. Clear wind caressing them both. One pressed close to the other in a way that grew more and more sensual as the ride continued. It made her almost happy.

How long had it been since she was with a man? And not just one used to scratch an itch, but one she felt was worth being with? Liam? Her laughing Aussi, who'd been named after that Irish actor and had a lot of his look and attitude, but with dancing eyes and a perpetual grin instead of that sad sack aura. Probably came from being raised in Brisbane instead of Dublin.

She had joined his Aikido classes in LA, and watching him demonstrate his moves was like watching art come to life. She also knew from the start he was ten years her junior, and was seeking a career in Hollywood...but was finding that since Covid all doors were closed to newcomers unless they came with more than just a nice face. And Liam's was very, very, very nice.

Oh, was he ever nicely built. Trim and easy, walking like a panther instead of a lumbering ox. She had suffered a few too many of those. But Liam? Liam had been like a cat that loves to curl itself around your neck and shoulders, and just sit there, purring...especially after sex and just before sleep.

Initially, she had thought he would just be fun for a night, so had put out the hints of interest. He picked up on them and asked her to stay after class, one day...and three months later they were still an item. But then he'd got a part in one of the Marvel Universe films shooting in Australia because him being from there would help the production with its tax breaks, so had packed up and moved home.

Yes, there had been a number of bed partners since then, but she had missed Liam. His hands knew where to go to drive her wild. His lips had always done exactly the right thing. His body next to hers had felt real and alive instead of perfunctory. And drawing her fingers along his lightly tattooed back, and that ass with the perfect tan line from surfing, just the right amount of hair on him to caress and not tickle...no one had pleased her nearly as much, since...since...a year ago?

Jesus...had it been that long?

She looked at the back of Zeke's neck, what she could see between the helmet and jacket collar. Tattooed on one side but not the other. Skin clear and clean and smooth. Hair cropped close so you could even see the base of his skull. Liam's hair had been too long, and brushing it up or to the side only made that area look dirty and ill-kempt.

She wanted to touch Zeke's neck, but something told her this would not be viewed with a positive light, by him. True, he had invited her to hold him close, but he had also set up other barriers, and for now it was best to respect them.

For now.

This amazingly lovely, beautiful, elegant ride would be enough, for now. Free and alive and not a care in the world. No past to hold them, only an unknown future of promise and grace.

If only it could last forever.

Much too soon, Zeke slowed the Harley and turned to pass through a dilapidated gate onto a dirt road. Carli could just make out they were approaching an outcropping of rocks in the near distance. She felt lost but not the least bit unsure. Something told her to the right was the east, so they were heading north. At a slower speed, yes, but still rumbling along as if on a magic carpet.

She looked back over her shoulder at Loki to find he was watching her, still wary, his eyes all but screaming, You try one fucking thing wrong with my boss and I'll rip your throat open.

She chuckled and thought, Don't worry, puppy. My blood lust was satisfied, today. And I got a feeling your boss will be safe from me.

At least, I hope so.

Bloody Sunday is set...

I did a rewrite of what I'd rewritten in my rewrite of this draft of APoS regarding Brendan being in the middle of Bloody Sunday, in Derry. From where he winds up to hide from the British bullets, he sees several of the young men shot and killed, but not all. I had to be careful about that. He was already thinking of leaving Derry. Now he's making definite plans.

I also emphasized this is the point where the antipathy between Brendan and his mother explodes into near hostility. She's all for taking up arms and fighting back, like Brendan's older brother, Eamonn, is doing, while Brendan knows history too well to think this will work out. He'd move, but he has nowhere else to live except on the street, so he spends more and more time at the auto repair shop he works for.

I'm not doing another draft of this section, but moving on to the last two chapters. If it goes well, I may be done this weekend. Then I can finish Carli's Kills.

It ain't easy multi-tasking...

Busy day...

Had to go into the office for a bit, and we all went to lunch, then had errands and such to run that took me till late, so I'm getting back onto APoS, tomorrow. I already have notes on my printed copy of the Bloody Sunday chapter, and need to increase the meaning of the break between Brendan and his mother after the slaughter. That will carry over into the next two chapters...and once those are done, I will have a full draft rewritten.

I honestly cannot believe I'm this close to done.

So instead, after dinner, I wrote a scene out of order, for Carli's Kills. After Carli's committed another murder, she senses Zeke could be an anchor for her. He thinks she's suffering from PTSD and offers to take her on a ride, on his Harley. She's hesitant because she's still not 100% sure about him, but agrees...and it becomes a near sensual experience for her.

Carli's always been open to hitting the bed with a guy, but usually just to scratch an itch, as she puts it. The last man she actually enjoyed being with was an Aussie who was instructing her in Aikido. She felt he was worthy of her, but then he packed up and moved back to Brisbane. Now she's on the back of Zeke's bike, holding him around the waist, and felling the need for another man she can be with.

The darkness of the passing landscape. The black velvet of the night sky clustered with glistening stars. The wind whispering over her. From this point forward, she kills no one. Just gathers information...and realizes how far into madness she had descended.

But I'm also keeping the suspense, because slotted into her belt is a single-edge razor blade she used against the three men she's killed, so far. And she could use it on Zeke at any moment.

Especially once she learns he was there the night her daughter was raped.

I spoke too soon.

Yesterday, while writing some background into Carli's Kills and thinking I'd probably finish it before I got back onto A Place of Safety, I found the way into Brendan's horror at seeing people killed during Bloody Sunday. It happens three days before his sixteenth birthday, and he starts the day out excited about that. He's quit school and has a job and is feeling very much like a man.

When the march begins, he's with his friends, a couple of whom are veteran rock-throwers at Aggro Corner. That spot, where Waterloo and William connect, had become the location of an almost daily back and forth between Catholic teenagers and the British Army. The boys would throw stones that just bounced off the soldier's shields, and the soldiers would fire rubber bullets at them, which weren't normally lethal but could hurt. It was almost like a play date.

So when Brendan hears the first gunfire from the Paratroopers, he thinks they're crackers left over from Christmas and he thinks he'll have some for his birthday party. Then people start running and hiding and rushing about, and he sees a couple boys close to his age shot in the back and fall and bleed. He is almost shot but his best mate, Colm, yanks him out of the way, and the bullet whips past his ear...and he still can't believe what's happening.

When he finally gets home, he and his mother have a moment of agreement at the stupidity of what just happened that is quickly shattered when he says he's thinking of leaving Derry. Each has chosen a path -- her, pushing to fight violence with violence; him, seeing the British are using an old playbook that has never worked and will only bring death and destruction. The only thing that keeps him from leaving, right then, is his love for Joanna.

But even that is being tested by this.

CK has taken over...

I'm having so much fun writing Carli's Kills, I'm neglecting A Place of Safety. However, I'm not sorry for it. Not apologizing. And the reason why is simple.

I'm feeling extremely frustrated over the inaction from our Department of Justice to haul in people who are ignoring Congressional Subpoenas and who plotted to overthrow our government on 1/6. I'm having to avoid social media because every five seconds someone on there is trumpeting THIS IS IT! THE END OF THE GOP AND EVERYONE GOES TO JAIL or some such shit, and then nothing happens.

It's amazing how often the powers that be undermine reality in order to prevent anyone from finding justice. After Bloody Sunday, Westminster was immediately putting out word that the British Paratroopers had been fired upon and the only people shot were those with guns trying to kill them. Bernadette Devlin was seated in Parliament at the moment the lies were being spread by Home Secretary, Reginald Spaulding, and finally had enough. She stormed over and slapped the bastard.

Of course a brawl broke out and she was attacked by the British Press for being unladylike. Her response. "I'm only sorry I didn't hit him harder."

Read about it here. It's a slanted version and not 100% accurate -- the Bloody Sunday march was specifically against Internment -- but right now I feel that's fine. The image is of Edward Daly, who was wounded at Bloody Sunday. The people trying to carry him to someplace he could be cared for were fired upon by Paratroopers; I think the man leading them with the white flag was a priest.

We need some of Devlin's decisive action in Congress, right now. We have mentally unstable people in there...people like Marjorie Taylor Greene and Paul Gosar actually threatening others with violence...and nothing is being done to stop them. They are not being held accountable by Pelosi; she's only spouting a lot of words. Nor will this change before those two actually kill someone.

In order for there to be justice, there has to be a willingness to enforce the laws and the rules, and too much of our government is built on the buddy system. I know you and don't think you're a bad person, so we'll just minimize the fact that you threatened to kill a fellow representative or run around with weapons, suggesting you can kill someone.

Three white men are being tried in Georgia for murdering a black man, by an all-white jury, and the probability is they will get off. In Wisconsin, the prosecution is letting a clearly biased judge help the defense of a teenage boy who murdered two men and wounded another during a BLM protest, because the dead men weren't the right kind of guys. Cops get this all the time. So you shot him 47 times in the back? It was self-defense. 

It's like that all over the country, and has been for decades...and it's maddening. So I'm stepping back and working on an erotic-horror-thriller about a woman taking revenge on the men who drove her daughter to suicide since the system of justice won't. And it is getting brutal.

But facing APoS right now is like facing my own country, and I'm tired.

Another Day of CK

This story seems to be edging into erotic horror them mellowing down to erotic suspense. Not sure what to make of it, yet, but I just wrote the part that starts the explanation of why Carli is out for revenge...and the Biblical tale of David bringing King Saul 200 foreskins from Philistines he'd slaughtered worked into it (he did it to buy himself a royal wife). I guess it doesn't require saying that the tale is becoming somewhat kinky.

What's going to happen, as of now, is halfway through the story, Carli finds out her reason for going after these guys was wrong. She's a strong woman who's out to right a wrong and the people she initially goes after are not innocents, but neither are they the ones she should be attacking. She thought she knew what happened and why they did what they did, but she didn't have all the information, and now she's trying to back away but it's too late. It's war, and more innocent people will die along side the guilty.

Still, in the end it doesn't matter; everybody deserves what they get...except for one person. This guy. Zeke. He goes along with some things he shouldn't have, but only out of a misplaced sense of loyalty. He's the only truly decent person in the whole story, and he's part of the reason Carli begins to back away. He helps her see her campaign is counter-productive.

I'm not sure how this will play out with readers. But it's how the story wants to be told, and it's digging in its heels, with the characters supporting it.

I had a bit of this same dilemma with Brendan in Book 2 of APoS. He does some cruel things in the last half of this section, and while they're understandable, they're still hard to take. But I stuck with him on them. He doesn't want to remain a sweet boy throughout the story, and it's affected part of his growth in Derry...and also sets up conflict when he returns to the town.

I remembered helping a friend with a documentary about a punk band in San Antonio who had to travel to Austin to get playing gigs. This was in 1979...and it's working in nicely with my notes for the next two parts of the story. right now, I'm closing in on 112,000 words. Should prove interesting.

That's the way it works, sometimes. You go where the characters lead you or destroy what you're writing. There is no in-between.

CK Day

This is the opening of Carli's Kills...

Carli Vincenzo had a rating system for men. She felt it was only fair, since they had one for women, but hers was a bit more demanding.

Number one was the eyes. While she had a preference for men with nice, dark, sloe eyes, the main deal was...they have to look at her, not through her or up and down her. Meeting her gaze? Positive note. Glancing at her boobs? Demerits out the ass. 

Next came the lips. Had to be kissable, like Chris Evans, and hold a smile, not a smirk or grin. Either of those was another demerit...unless, of course, he was really, really gorgeous. Like Chris Evans. Not that she had a special thing for him. Honest. She'd never met the guy so had no idea what he was like.

But...if he did happen to have some of Chris' attributes, then she would happily make use of him to scratch an itch...and nothing more. Because those types of men always seemed to think once they'd fucked you, they owned you. Stupid boys. Big demerits, on that. 

Following that were his hands. Lean and strong, not beefy, and with fingernails that were clean but not manicured; that's too indicative of a man who's high-maintenance. Nothing down and dirty with a boy like that. She even liked to see a nail or two nibbled at, because that suggested he was the feeling sort, with a hint of nervousness. Much easier to be around...have fun with. 

Which led to number four -- flexibility. He could not one who always had to set the evening's agenda, be it on the town on in the bed. If they meet at a bar or restaurant for drinks and dinner, he wouldn't mind if it was late, and he would be willing to go to a midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show or a new screening of Singin' in the Rain, just for the hell of it. Of course, she was open to some give and take on that. Nothing wrong with the Marvel Universe or Fast and Furious number forty-seven. But if he was not willing to let her in on running the show? Very negative in the merits. 

The last big point was, he better smell good. Not perfumed, but at least a bath, deodorant and...well, maybe a hint of cologne. She had been around too many grunts in the Army who thought showering daily was for sissies and their manly odor was a turn-on, like they were beasts in the jungle. Not in the slightest, with her. That sort of attitude only showed he cared nothing about his effect on other people. Of course, too much cleanliness would fall back into the high-maintenance type, and she ain't got time for that. Just a nice, easy balance. 

The rest -- fine body, solid legs, round ass, good dick...those are to be considered but were secondary. And if he had a good laugh, they became superfluous. 

So as she quietly stood in a closet on the 25th floor in the dark master bedroom a luxury condominium on the Wilshire Corridor in Los Angeles, she was quietly ticking off each one of those points as she watched a man who was very involved in having sex with a young woman ten years his junior. In her bed. Atop her silk sheets. Which she was enjoying just as much as he was, if her groans and sighs and snarls and groping hands were to be believed.

His name was Mikey. She had no idea what the rest of it was, yet; that had been the only name mentioned by the woman. Whose name Carli did know -- Anastasia Florencia Devaux, better known as Stasi to any and all of her minions. She was twenty-three years old, five-seven, and a hundred and ten pounds. Body by personal trainer. Head a size too big for it, as were her breasts. Definitely enhanced. Obviously, Carli also had a rating system for women, and it was nowhere near as kind as for men.

To put it simply, Stasi was way into negative territory.

To start with, the nose job was obvious, thought it probably had helped the symmetry of her face. Her big eyes carried more than a hint of cruelty in them, but men tended to ignore that in their fake women. To be honest in her rating, Stasi's big lips could have been Botoxed but somehow Carli didn't really think so. Still, it was hard to really tell for sure in the low light and high shadows of the room. 

But none of that slowed Mikey down. She had curves enough to show she was female, with no tan lines and a willingness to get as down and dirty and hard at it as him. That was a demerit on his part, thinking what he was having with her was good sex. 

Carli halfway thought she should take Mikey on and show him what it meant to make love. Serious, solid, strong, intense love that blinded you for an instant at the moment of climax. She almost chuckled at the thought, knowing if she did he would never be interested in a superficial piece of plastic like this bitch, again. 

Stasi's superficiality extended around the room, which was custom designed to give the impression of old money well-spent, but carried just enough detail to undercut that intention. Silver molding along the polished white ceiling? Silver lamé drapes flanking the sliding glass doors to the balcony? A six-inch deep carpet in black and white waves with a faux polar bear rug atop it? All of that was bad enough, but the true piéce-de-resistance was a massive shell-like headboard done in chrome and polished into perfect reflectability above silver silk sheets and comforter and even fucking duvets? Jesus, it was all so tacky just looking at it was hard to take. The one good aspect of the room was it faced south, overlooking the basin. Imagine having the morning or evening sun blasting in against that headboard? Its reflections could start a fire as far away as El Monte or Malibu. 

But the whole condo was overwrought, like that, emphasis on silver and gold. Carli had cringed her way through it all as she skulked around, looking for the best spot to hide. A poor man's idea of what rich looks like. Of course, it made sense as far as Stasi was concerned. Daddy built his multi-millions in real estate back in Arizona, straight out of his double-wide mobile home for the first ten years. Not that there was anything wrong with that. But he still wore cowboy boots with his bespoke suits, and now had his twenty-six year-old trophy wife dressed in the latest of the latest styles ensconced in a penthouse on North Central, and had bought himself a seat in the Legislature while Stasi's mom played drunk golf in her khaki and turquoise ensembles outside her own condo-complex fronting an evergreen course that cost more to keep watered than the national debt's interest payments. Nouveaux riche in the worst way, straight down the line. It made Carli shudder, to see it in practice. 

She had no trouble sneaking in. Despite its vaunted security system, Carli had found five blind spots in the tower that gave her access to emergency stairwells. All she needed to do was steal a pass-card from one of the residents, which was easy to accomplish by following one very preoccupied society matron to a spa, accidentally running into her to make her drop her purse and helping her put it back together while ignoring the nonstop insults she spat at Carli for not watching where she was going. It was so cute. 

Of course, the negative part was climbing twenty-five flights of stairs to get to Stasi's floor. That was why Carli had been waiting in a disgusting chrome and leather chair in the bedroom. She was in excellent shape, but that was still a workout. 

Fortunately, she knew Stasi would be out till late with her latest boyfriend, so she could just sit and Zen until she heard the woman enter. But then she heard a man's voice, with her. Both sounding a bit drunk with wine and lust. The closet had been a tactical shift in plan, one she was actually finding it to be a positive shift. Because watching big, bad, buff Mikey undress...suit coat, shirt, shoes, jacket, and then the slow removal of his trousers to reveal a very nice ass. Lovely, even in gray boxer briefs. Surprisingly firm, from how little it jiggled as they were pulled off and he and Stasi fell on the bed and he went hard against her. Good clenching, too. Add to that the strong legs and fine hands, and how he'd focused his lips on her breasts and neck and kisses instead of just humping...those attributes put him on the positive side, despite the fact that he was fucking around on his wife. 

This is what research will bring you. Stasi only had married boyfriends. No chance of commitment for this little bitch. She was having her fun, and soon as a guy got too close, he kicked to the curb. It was a major demerit for a man to cheat on his wife, but the image Stasi presented would be hard for any guy with a female-oriented dick to resist. And Carli had to admit, the more she saw of Mikey at work, the more she wanted to let him live. 

Might even make use of him, later, since she was certain he was soon to be an unmarried man. Horn dogs like that who get dumped by their wives are easy. 

But first things first. Let's get it done, folks. 

As in, finish up. 

Today, okay?

Up to the last 3 chapters...

Today I took APoS up to Bloody Sunday. This is going to be a rough one to write because it's not so much the actions involved but the fact that Brendan is witnessing death, first hand. That's going to change him, massively. Send him careening into decisions that will have disastrous effects. Not of his making, but which include him, despite his best intentions.

The backstory is: on January 30, 1972 a peaceful demonstration against the British policy of internment -- arresting men and women and holding them without trial under the Special Powers Act -- was attacked by British Paratroopers. They claimed they were only returning fire against those who'd tried to shoot them, but there was no evidence they had been fired upon and the men and boys they killed were either running away or trying to help others who'd been shot.

13 died, right then. Another died later, from his wounds. Not one paratrooper was wounded by gunfire. The British government put out a whitewashed report that exonerated the Army, completely, but even the most ardent supporter of British involvement in NI had to admit that all the army had achieved was increase support and recruitment for the IRA and PIRA. And the region collapsed into what was, effectively, a civil war.

No one would call it that, but it was. Catholics now saw the British as occupiers, not saviors or protectors. And the world stood by and tut-tutted as the violence exploded. Before the peace accords, in 1998, over 3000 civilians and soldiers were dead and Northern Ireland was close to ruins.

3000 dead may not sound like a lot over 30 years, but to put it in perspective...that would be the equivalent of around 600,000 dead from civil warfare in the US, going by today's population, and most of it happening within the first 10 years.

I've found one of the books I have dealing with The Troubles in NI is from a very British viewpoint. It glosses over the atrocity with the usual casual prose. But that's how it was, for too long. I have plenty of other books that delve into The Troubles with much more honesty and clarity.

This part...this is going to be gut-wrenching.