Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 119

Good day for the Beginning of Darian's Point...

 I did 20 pages, in Courier 12 pt., double-spaced. It's fast and rough, but here's part of it...

----

The water was too still. Too quiet. The wind seemed not to exist. The sky burned so blue and soft it mocked the meaning of the day. Mocked Caoimhín with its unnatural ways, and he was not one to be mocked. Not after the horrors he had seen over the last five harvests.
He was one of those men who was sturdy and strong, unbending. Hair the color of the rich earth. Skin tanned by sun and wind. Eyes like stones, and just as sharp and focused. He had been blessed with good features, open and honest, marred by only a few scars. The tallest in his clan, after only his father, it was accepted he would take over its leadership, once the elder had passed into the next world.
Now that was not to be.
He wore a tunic specially woven for this moment, its color a mixture of the darkest earth and the shining deep red of blood. He wore no pelt against the wind, and was glad he had not. It would not do for his body to be covered with moisture from himself on this day.
His boat was the lead, his brother, Mícheál, at the helm. Three oarsmen to each side, none wrapped in skins for the simple act of thrusting their oars into the water provided heat enough for them. Their passage was swift, for none had expected the silence of the wind or the ease of the water. Behind them, two similar craft kept pace, each carrying men Caoimhín had known since boyhood. Not one of them unscarred by the recent battles. Not one of them willing to back away from what was to come.
He looked to his left at the endless water. It could carry a man to the edge of the world and he thought for a moment it might be better to aim for that...but what would he then find? Anything? Nothing? Would he even be allowed to make the journey? He could see hints of anger in the water beyond a certain point. Their little boats would not easily cross there. No. That way was for cowards, and Caoimhín refused to number himself with the likes of them. He had seen too many in recent times. What good was a life lived without honor? He had learned this lesson in ways hard and brutal. Vicious and cruel. He could not toss it aside.
He sighed and looked to his right at black rocks that towered above them. Taller than a hundred men. Rough and unyielding, topped by only a hint of green. The edge of his past domain. He had once been to the top of those rocks and looked down to see, so far below, birds whispering in the air as the water thundered up with white foam to shatter itself against them, and the wind pulled at him in ways inhuman. Now the silence was there, as well, and the water but barely touched the base of the rocks. The wind was also easy against them. And no birds danced amongst the crevices and caves it held.
Not there.
He looked up and saw a billowing flock of white creatures on the wing. Pacing his boats. Hovering above them, like a soft pelt of protection. No cries from them. No mewing. No diving into the water for a fish to gulp down, not like they had been when his men drew in their nets from the water. Then, they would steal anything they could, like rats. But today? They were like his honor guard.
Caoimhín chuckled. What a silly thing to believe. Something a child would think. Something Mícheál might still think, him being the sensitive one. The one in tune with the earth. The one who had warned them it would come to this. Who had all but begged Caoimhín to follow his head and not his heart. Who had been labeled coward by many, but who also bore the scars of battle.
Caoimhín cast a gentle look back at his brother and received a near smile in answer. Younger by two summers, his face was more open and honest. His hair like the rich earth that brought forth grains. His eyes soft and the color of slate. One could see how their features lightly mimicked each other, but where Caoimhín was like the trunk of a tree, Mícheál was the branches of a willow, powerful in his willingness to bend and not break. It was with no hesitation Caoimhín now thought of him as the bravest of them all. For he knew from the beginning what was happening and refused to be set aside, not even from the ordeal to come.
Caoimhín sighed and looked ahead. Saw the tiny strip of land that barely rested above the water. Inish Ciúin, he was told. Tiny Island. The name was right. Low and fairly flat, most of it rocks the color of midnight. Very little green showing very little earth. If his thoughts were correct, a man such as himself could circle the damned thing in less than half a day. Not a place fit for anyone to live.
"The witch chose the appropriate spot for this," he muttered.
He caught a glimpse of a small strip of sand slightly to their right and pointed to it. Mícheál looked and nodded and shifted the helm to aim for it, raising a cloth above his head to signal for the other boats to follow. He did not bother checking to make certain they saw him; he knew they would be right behind.
Now Caoimhín could see a finger of land jutting from the side of the island, to his left. It pointed in the direction of the sun...and was covered in grass.
"Why is it so green?" he wondered. "Why does that one spot look so rich? Is this more of her work?"
A closer look showing the hint of two figures atop the tallest part of that bit of land. One male, one female, both gleaming and golden in the midday sun. Standing still. Waiting. He knew who they were.
Mícheál saw them, as well, and drew in a sharp breath of anger. "I see no boat on the sand," he called to his brother.
"Did you expect to?" was Caoimhín's response.
"I would like to think, for a moment, that they were at least a little human, like us."
Caoimhín chuckled. "They were never like us."
"I know. But I still hoped..."
Their boat slipped up to the sand and Caoimhín jumped into the water to walk ashore. The oarsmen followed him and pulled the boat the rest of the way up on the beach, then Mícheál joined his brother. The other two boats followed them, and soon two-dozen men were gathered together, all of them strong and proud. Each had a tunic freshly made, to be worn only for this occasion, and each held a gleaming sword and shield. Their heads were protected by thick leather straps enriched by runes to ward off the worst of horrors, while more leather surrounded their feet and calves. Their eyes, dark and dangerous, all focused on Caoimhín.
He nodded to them, pointed to the green sliver of land to his right and said, "To the witch, we go."
He turned and led them straight across the rocks. It was not an easy crossing. Untold eons had scarred the stones to where they were uneven and small crevices cut between them. But there was no other way, and Caoimhín did not wish to prolong this final confrontation. They were almost there, and he could see the two of them watching him. Both tall. Both regal. More like brother and sister than separate creatures.
The male? The Dagda. A god to Caoimhín's clan; an evil jokester, to Caoimhín. He was taller by half a head. His hair the color of the sun. His eyes the color of ice. His features in perfect harmony and so very condescending. He wore not only a tunic of gleaming white fabric trimmed in gold, but leggings and coverings for his feet that he called boots. A thick cloak of a deep rich blue hung from his shoulders, and his ornate helmet was of silver, as were his sword and spear. He was the only person any of them had known who could make Caoimhín look weak and simple, in comparison. For that, alone, he'd have hated the creature.
The female, however, was a hundred times worse. For Caoimhín knew her too damned well. Morrigan. Said to be queen of the demons, and he now believed it. Without question, she was of incomparable beauty. Raven red hair flowing from a visage of perfection. Eyes as green as the grass upon which she stood. A form to invite the dreams of every living man. Her clothing was also in white and embroidered in gold. Her cloak the same as The Dagda's. Her manner just as haughty...from a distance. Once Caoimhín was close enough to see her expression, he noticed an odd sense of...wariness? Unhappiness? Sorrow? He could not tell. He thought she would be glad for this day to have come, not fighting to hide her true feelings.
The Dagda hid nothing. He was filled with rage and fighting to keep it under control. Caoimhín knew it was not aimed at him, but it was still unnerving to sense. He stopped his men on the side of the grassy finger. It was wider than he'd thought, wide enough for a settlement to be arranged. And it rose farther above the water than he'd estimated. He also saw this bit of land pointed directly to the towering rocks, beyond.
Of course. Now he knew why this spot had been chosen.
Two posts were planted in the ground, perhaps two arms-length apart, both solid and taller than even The Dagda. Leather straps hung from each. Runes had been carved into them, adding to their ceremonious feel.
Caoimhín hesitated then drew in his deepest breath and snarled, "We've come, witch. Let this be done."
Morrigan drew up, haughtier, her expression now cold and nearly cruel. "Do you agree to the conditions of the oath?" she asked.
Caoimhín nodded. "This must be ended in some way, and that is how, so be it."
The Dagda glanced between them, almost ready to speak...but then he decided against it.
Morrigan almost smiled. "So be it. Which of you is the offering?"
"Me," said Caoimhín.
Morrigan jolted at the word. Her composure cracked.
The Dagda stepped forward. "No, Caoimhín, this is not -- "
"It is our decision, not yours," Caoimhín snarled. "Our choice. And it is to be me."
"Caoimhín," Morrigan whispered in a voice so soft and alluring, it could break the heart of a stone. "This is not what we wanted. This not what we...what we..."
"Why not?" And he cast her a glare filled with such hate and anger, she took a step back. "I am the one who started this."

Flawed heroes

I was having trouble envisioning Kevan...so I figured I'd best get his name's spelling right, to start with. It's Caoimhin, which is pronounced Coh-mine, if I got it right. It's derived from the Irish...caomh, meaning kind, gentle and comely; and gin, meaning birth.

This may seem silly, but the way I write I have to see the character. Have a visual image of him or her, and I couldn't find one that's right for him.  He's dark-haired with tan skin and rugged features, strong and skilled enough to handle himself against just about anything, with an air of certainty about him...and condescension. Next in line to run the Uí Bhriain clan.

Liam Neeson is close-ish, as a young man, but too much on the sensitive side. Especially in glasses. He doesn't gain a sense of power until he's well into his 30s, to me. Pierce Brosnan, Aidan Turner and Colin Farrell are too pretty. Cillian Murphy is too off-beat and willowy. Allen Leech was close but he's too light. And Sean Bean is better suited to be my image of The Dagda, he has that golden aura about him (see below), so I had to get away from Irish actors.

Tom Cullen is good and he's Welsh, who are cousins to the Irish. Once or twice removed. I might be able to use him. He had an excellent screen presence and sense of strength in Weekend. Of course, he's been on Downton Abbey, which tends to wuss actors out, so I need to continue avoiding that. 

Caoimhin's younger brother is Mícheál, which is the Irish form of Michael and is pronounced Mee-hale. Probably. We don't really know. They didn't have phonetics 3500 years ago. But him, I got...thanks to Liam's early aura. He can be the caring one, who senses how wrong things are going, but like Cassandra can get no one to listen to him.

Morrigan was easy; I'm using Catherine Deneuve as she was around the time of The Hunger to model her after. And last is Siobhán McKenna when she was young. I saw her in the Irish film version of The Playboy of the Western World and she projected both strength and vulnerability, just right for Caera.

Yeah...this works...this works...so here's the "cast" of The Beginning.

Now comes the fun part...writing it.

Damn, damn, damn...

Well, I am now officially diabetic. Type 2, not extreme but enough to be checked twice a day and take Metformin. Dammit. The little pin I use to jab my finger is fairly soft and easy. I barely feel it. And the monitor is straightforward to use. Now I just need to get into the habit of doing it in the morning before breakfast and 2 hours after dinner.

I'm turning into one of those old men who's got to have a tray with little pockets for every day of the week, where you set up your pills and that way you know you've taken them. This, I never wanted. It's ridiculous.

For Dair's Window, I've just reading my third detailed book on glass working. This one discussed tack fusing in more depth as well as other aspects of the craft. I'd never be able to do it, myself (not without burning off all my fingers) but Dair needs to know this stuff. I'm still shifting information into my head for his story. I'm hoping it will work out the meaning for the title, not just how he does what he does to make Adam's portrait. I can see a way to that part, now; I just need to work through his emotional states to make it start coming together.

But that's on a semi-back burner. The beginning of DP is my main focus, at the moment. I've begun writing it, down and dirty but something to start with, and it seems to be gliding along in my usual casual fashion. I remembered writing the first bit in screenplay format, years ago, and having it read by actors at the Playwrights' Kitchen Ensemble in LA...but I cannot find it. The thing may still be on a CD or even a Zip drive somewhere and I'm not inclined to waste my time looking for it. I want to get at least a first rough done before I hit Houston, in a month; I'll be shifting focus back to APoS, then.

Shit, I still need to get Christmas cards out...

Research, thy name is pain in the ass...

I was in the office most of the day after spending the last three days on the road, and have to call a client tomorrow to talk about a job in Houston, next month, as well as one in Santa Fe. So it looks like my work is beginning to pick up. Maybe I won't go bankrupt, after all.

But I have been doing research for Darian's Point, delving into what is currently known and thought to be known about Ireland's ancient history. Mainly the Fir Bolg, Milesians and Tuatha d'annan as well as neolithic Bru na Boinne, out in Newgrange up near the border with Northern Ireland.

I've been to that, but it was some time ago. It's a megalithic passage grave that predates the pyramids (built around 3300 BC) and has an entrance aligned with the sun at the winter solstice. Pretty amazing. I was planning to make a return trip when everything got canceled.

Of course, when I hit Houston I'll be shifting my research mode to Book 2 of APoS, to dig into that better when I'm ready to return to it. I lived in Houston between 1985 and 1993, then moved to LA. So I don't really know a lot about the city during the 70s. I'm hoping to find something usable at the library, if it's open.

But, hey, that's what research is for, right?

What is known is not known...

I've been working up a voice for the opening of DP, In The Beginning. Very much 3rd person omniscient while keeping the comments and questions in my main character's mind as simplistic as possible. I have a feeling I'll be making up a shitload of stuff regarding the story, because historians in Ireland are consistently trying to change what is and was considered fact about the island's history.

Like how the Irish aren't really Celts. I'm just now digging into this idea and not finding too damn much past the one discovery of three sets of adult bones in an ancient grave on Rathlin Island, off the coast of Co. Antrim. There's a fairly detailed story in the Washington Post from 4 years ago that notes these bones share DNA with today's Irish but predate when the Celts were thought to have arrived to inhabit the island by a thousand years. Older bones found share nothing with them but appear to be more Mediterranean in origin, so everyone's in a tizzy. Five-hundred years of linking the Celts to the Irish is close to being tossed out the window.

What doesn't make sense to me is, haven't bones found during the known Celtic time had their DNA checked to see if they corresponded to that of the modern Irish? I'm having little luck finding out anything about that.

But it doesn't really matter. Everything about that time period is pretty much conjecture so I could probably fake up a good history and societal workup to suit me. People will quibble, but they will anyway so why worry about it? So long as I don't get too ridiculously outlandish. After all, there's little real evidence the Tuatha d'annan even existed except as another group of invaders out to make Ireland their home. Not necessarily part and parcel with The Dagda and Morriggan and the mysteries surrounding them.

I'm also planning to make the harpies more human-like than this rendition offered by Boris. It's important to the whole of the story, and something is working in to make the creatures more understandable, lonely even, if still terrifying and evil.

It's my hope to make this seem real, no matter what. Same for the center story, set in 1910. That has an immigrant Irishman marrying a wealthy woman in very strictly class-oriented Boston then bringing her home to meet mother as they try to figure out if their marriage was really a huge mistake. It won't be easy, either.

The last section, the modern part, will be easiest. The fun I'm having there is showing how far off the mark the researchers are about what happened to start the whole issue.

It's always more fun to write when you can play...

Handwriting is not the way...

 I just wrote 2 pages to get down an idea for the opening of Darian's Point, The Beginning (I really need a better title), and most of it's scribbles. I'm so used to typing, now, I've lost a lot of my ability to do cursive in a way that's readable. Should be fun transcribing it, but I wasn't planning to pen up my laptop, again, so felt this would at least give me an idea of what I was planning.

I'm trying to find a way of describing everything without using modern terms for it all...like, what did people in Ireland call birds 3000 years ago? What did they call the ocean? The Cliffs of Moher? I want it to be as accurate as possible, but I also want it to be easy to follow. Not so difficult, right?

Have to stop, though. I'm working in the morning and need to hit the bed.

BTW, I did no take this photo; I stole it off the internet.

I have a lot left to learn about this time in Ireland's history...

Recharging the batteries...

Tomorrow I'm off to Philadelphia and then New York and then New Haven, so today I spent letting my mind drift while loading a couple of CDs into my laptop for the road trip. I love Depeche Mode's 101 Live album, and also have Yanni's Ultimate album (don't judge me!) along with the score for the movie Topsy Turvy. These are my road tunes, but they don't play well on a player while driving, so I'm trying it digital. Fire up the laptop and listen.

If it works well, I'll load in a few more. Probably some electronica, tho' I also like the German industrial techno sounds of the 90s. I listen to Brave New Rave on KCRW.com once it's posted online. It's a program on KCRW-Berlin that plays on Thursday nights then is uploaded to their site so you can listen to it at any time.

I also joined with some fellow writers on Facebook for a movie night -- Near Dark. A classic horror film about cowboy vampires, with some truly chilling scenes. I haven't seen in it years...and years...and apparently I was less discerning about good follow-through in filmmaking back then.

Aside from the poor streaming from Amazon Prime (!) that kept stopping and hiccuping and dragging, here and there, I got the feeling some moments had been cut out of this copy. It felt like shots were missing and the ending bit with the vampires was shortened...but they may just never have been there, to begin with; I'm just noticing them now...

Of course, I never bought the ending. It was completely dishonest, but the script was written by Eric Red and Kathryn Bigelow (more him than her, I'm sure, considering his screenplay for The Hitcher) and was minimalist to a fault. But Bill Paxton out of control? Adrian Pasdar being prettier than Jenny Wright? Lance Henriksen and Jeanette Goldstein as the papa and momma of the crew? And that bar scene, with cute, terrified James Le Gros being left alive for Adrian to chase and feed upon?

Still worked for me.

Returning to reality...

My crankiness is now past, and I've pulled together everything I have on Darian's Point and its sequel, Return to Darian's Point. I shifted them into RTF files so I can open them in Word, and I also found an outline for the beginning of the story, set 3000 years ago.

Outline for Darian’s Point, the Beginning

Book One

Open With Kevan Ui Briain and his men crossing the sea in small boats to meet Morriggan and The Dagda (father of the ancient Celtic gods) at Darian’s Point, a peninsula on Inish Ciuin, a small island near the Cliffs of Moher. The men are battle-scarred and angry. They have come to offer one of their own as a sacrifice. Kevin declares himself to be the one. Morriggan is not pleased; nor is the Dagda, but they have to accept. A mist builds, blocking out everything, then three creatures swoop in and Kevan is killed as he begs forgiveness from Caera.

5 years earlier, Kevan and Caera talk of wedding, she’s gathering reeds. Playful. The Dagda passes, a blond elegant man of the Tuatha d'annan. He sees her. Talk. He won’t make it home and a storm coming. She offers shelter; good manners.

Dagda given shelter for night in compound. He flirts with Caera. She reciprocates. Kevan is jealous. Father tells him to cool it, the man is a guest. Kevan storms off. Caera angry with him, talked into sex by Dagda.

Seagull sees and goes to tell Morriggan. Furious, she casts runes to find the one closest to Caera, and it’s Kevan. Morriggan finds him atop the Cliffs of Moher and seduces him. She becomes pregnant by him and has a daughter.

Caera winds up pregnant. Everyone thinks it’s Kevan’s, but he denies it. Forced to marry, but he will not sleep with her. “Dream of your god-man.” Caera has a boy. Midwife whispers, “Born with hair the color of moonbeams and eyes as blue as the sky. Eyes already open.” Everyone now knows the child is not of their bloodline.

Caera admits baby is the Dagda’s. That Kevan has never been with her. Kevan refuses the child and Caera. His father takes on their responsibility, angry with Kevan for his unwillingness to accept human weakness. Hopes he doesn’t regret it. 

Seagull hears and reports it to Morriggan. She confronts the Dagda, vicious argument. No longer a secret that can be kept. She's more upset at him screwing a lowlife woman than at pregnancy. He throws her own infidelity in her face, which pisses her off more. 

Morriggan's child arrives and takes after Kevan; She refuses to accept her but the Dagda won’t let her give her away. Morriggan casts runes to learn her daughter and Caera’s son will wed and bear a son, who will bear a son...and their blood will be cursed till the death of the last Ui'Briain.

Morriggan does not tell the Dagda his child is male. She calls her adult daughters. They cast runes to find Caera to kill her and the boy, to prevent the prophecy. Caera kept apart from other women. Surrounded by a mist. 4 figures appear -- 3 of them Morrigan’s daughters as Morriggan cuts her throat. Baby’s not with her.

Kevan accused but has alibi; hunting with brother and father. En route back with kill when heard. He is beside himself with grief. Witness tells of the mist surrounding Caera for a moment. “That’s how the Tuatha d’annan came to island.”

Kevan, father and men go to Tara and confront The Dagda. “She had my son?” Morriggan is furious that he knows. “So what if the child was a boy?” The Dagda realizes what Morriggan has done. “If you touch him, you are dead.” She reminds him he coerced a mere woman into sex. Not exactly innocent. 

The Dagda acknowledges he did wrong and renounces Morriggan as his wife. He washes sins away in the surf off the Cliffs of Moher.

Morriggan snarls about the hypocrisy of men and their attitude towards women. Forms The Dagda’s sins into 7 harpies, forbids them to ever harm a female, and sets them loose on the land. Kill every male child you find (hoping to get Caera’s boy). Daughters help her.

Slaughters occur. Kevan and Father build army to fight the creatures. Track them down, kill 3 of them, but at great cost. Even Morriggan is horrified by what she has started, but harpies are not controlled by her. They're viciously upset, “Why no man for us?” Plan to keep killing. 

Morriggan joins with The Dagda to force a compromise by helping kill another harpy. This finally convinces the creatures to back down or will be annihilated. Live in the Cliffs, safe from men. Come out during storms and feed on fish in the sea, but every hundred years a young man of the Ui Briain clan is to be offered in sacrifice to them.

Morriggan knows the saying is now fulfilled and is devastated by it.

Replay of first scene.

Book Two takes place in 1910, and Book Three, which finalizes the prophecy with the last death of the last Ui Briain, is set in modern times.

Cranky today...and yesterday...

 I'm going through my usual withdrawal state of being cranky and unfocused, now that I've done a full semi-decent draft of APoS. I'm not coasting to a stop, as I'd like; I'm sort of spitting and moaning and wondering if I should park here or there or look for a better space to sit my ass down. Which means I'm getting nothing done.

So today I drove out to Niagara Falls Community College to have another Covid test, to satisfy the state, then stopped at Niagara Falls to see how it looked after a fairly decent snow storm. I guess the snow didn't hit there as hard as it did in my area; I live about 15 miles south of the Falls.

Damn, it was cold thanks to a steady wind. But I caught a rainbow from the end of the observation deck. I took video of another one I saw, earlier, and posted it my Facebook page; it shows the deck in the background for part of it.

The spray from the Falls does it, and they don't last long as you can see in the video. I caught only the tail end of the one in the photo before it disappeared, but it reminded me of the time I was on Inisheer, the smallest of the Aran Islands off the coast of Ireland, and I caught one over the North Atlantic Ocean.

I was on a hilltop next to the ruins of a small chapel that had just been dug out from under layers of sand. Over the winter, the storms fill the church's space with sand and seaweed and it's cleared out every Spring. I was there in late March, as they were nearing completion.

It's a reminder of my other Irish story, Darian's Point. I'd gone to Inisheer to get a feel for a small island located under the Cliffs of Moher, and the damn cliffs were barely visible over the ocean. Not at all intimidating, like I'd planned...but worthwhile enough to show me the way to make the story work.

It's in screenplay form, as is a sequel I worked up that damn near got sold. Director wanted it. Producer wanted it. I wanted it. But the man who signed the checks already had an Irish film in production and didn't want another, so said No.

Fucking luck of the Irish.

My next step is to write it into book form. Another 3-part story -- the beginning, which starts in ancient times; the middle, which happens in 1910; and the end, which occurs in modern day. Only the last two are fully written, and I am very proud of them; as screenplays, Darian's Point damn near got me a Nicholl Fellowship and both it and Return to Darian's Point have won awards. I know what needs to go into the beginning; it's just buckling down to write it. I was going to visit Cragganouwen, a lake dwelling that would factor into the story, but Covid scuttled that trip to Ireland.

Hmm...maybe this is a sign...

The end is the end...and still the beginning...

 

I've got the ending of APoS set in the way that makes everyone happy. Now I'm going to let it sit for a while to give myself some perspective; I'm way too tight with the story and Brendan's life, at the moment. I can't see what works and what doesn't, but it's not ready to send to get feedback on, yet...and to be honest, I'm not sure who I could send it to.

Not that it's a pressing issue. I figure on at least two more passes through it before I might be willing to ask. Probably three. And those will take place over the course of 2021.

I'm not rushing this story. After playing around with it and fighting it and trying to talk myself out of even attempting it for the last 20 years, another 12 months ain't gonna make no difference. I can now focus on my reading and research, to better work in the area's social mores. That's going to be my Achilles Heel. I'm not from there and I've had two people I met in Derry say there was no way I could make it right for a Derry person. Did a lot to boost my confidence...not.

What's nice is, Brendan seems happy with me, for a change. That is a huge deal, to me. I'm letting him breathe in full...and he does things that are not nice, at times...things I would rather he not do. But I'm seeing him as human and real, almost complete, which is usually a good indication I'm doing right.

And always a danger signal that I'm falling in love with my words.