Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 131
February 14, 2019
Been lost...
I want nothing to do with the world, right now, beyond what is necessary...because this is all allowed to consume me...Part 3 of A Place of Safety...where Brendan's returned home on the sly but been found out...perhaps betrayed...and has been handed over to the British to be interrogated at Castlereagh Interrogation Centre. They want information about the bombing that sent him into a psychotic break and forced PIRA to sneak him out of the country...
--------
I lay on the mattress, wondering what next was in store. My stomach protested. My head screamed at me. I felt nauseous. And don’t think I hadn’t noticed there’d been no official intake. Meaning there was no record I’d been brought here. I could lay on this bloody bit of sponge for the rest of my life and no one would ever know. Fear almost choked the breath from me, because I knew this had been much too easy a meeting with them. Something worse was sure to follow, but what it was -- I had no idea.
For hours nothing happened except the light kept burning and burning and all sounds remained absent. I found myself humming melodies from that old Johnstons album just to fill the void and smiling at the thoughts I’d had that night -- Christ, was it only twelve years ago, last January? Holding a child’s vision of what his life could be. Dreaming a child’s dream that a girl I hadn’t even met yet might become his partner in life. Hoping I could be the one who showed Eamonn and the rest of the PD how to avoid the trouble I’d seen coming. All had proven to be impossible, and that I’d come close to achieving them meant nothing; once again, the world had seen to it that only hatred was allowed to flourish. Understanding and love meant nothing, and my sad attempts at both had done little but lead me straight to this very cell, for I seemed not to learn from my disasters. I might have detoured here and grown a bit more aware there, but it’s the end result that matters, isn’t it?
And what was my end result? My love for two different girls had brought catastrophe to them both. My aunt now had questions about her love for her husband. I’d helped put my brother in jail. And I’d cursed my mother as she lay dying. That last was a sin -- but was it venal or mortal? I couldn’t recall, it’d been so long since my catechism. Since I’d all but rejected the church.
It was here for the first time that I wondered -- seriously wondered -- if I had the nerve to just end it. I believed that might be the only way I could fully protect my family and mates, and it’s not like my passing would cause even a ripple in the meaning of time. Joanna was still dead to me. Vangie was pursuing another life in another part of the world, where I was not welcome. I’d achieved nothing on this earth but pain and heartbreak and would leave even less behind. And it would cause embarrassment to the Brits to no end; Maeve and Aunt Mari would see to that...and maybe even Joanna. Maybe.
The idea began to take on solid appeal. So how to do it? I’d come with neither belt nor shoes, but I could use my shirt as a noose. Do it quietly so they’d have no reason to come in till I was long dead. I looked about the room but could see nothing from which to hang myself but the fixture holding the light bulb, and it was well out of reach. Same for the vent. Then I thought, I could just tie a sleeve tight around my throat and put a knot in it so I couldn’t undo it before passing out...but I had no idea if that would work. Doesn’t there need to be a lot of pressure on the throat to cut off the full flow of oxygen to your heart and lungs, and blood to your brain? Could doing it wrong merely leave me a mental defective?
Christ, wouldn’t that be perfect? Wind up simple, like Ma'd always thought.
On top of it, there was nothing sharp anywhere in the room upon which I could slice open my arms or throat...unless I was able to tear apart the chamber pot, but it was so solid, unless I had some tool nothing was going to happen there, either.
All right then -- what if I rammed my shirt down my throat to choke the life from me? Or swallowed bits of that sponge? It could become lodged in my esophagus and I could choke to death, that way. Even if I tried to vomit it out, it would only soak everything up and become more firmly in place. But how long would that take and would it cause much pain or me to -- ?
The door whispered open and four guards came in.
“Up,” said the first one.
I ignored him, so they grabbed me, one at each limb. I tried to kick them away, but they were more used to this than I was and held me down tightly enough to manacle my feet together, then they slapped a belt around my waist and shackled my hands to it, and me struggling wildly against them did nothing to stop them -- hell, to even slow them down. What was odd was, I said nothing through it all. Not one word against them or their mothers or their parentage or anything. All that escaped me were little grunts and gasps of pain as they held me in place and took complete control of me.
“Quiet one, in’nt he?”
“Fookin’ Taig dunno how to speak.”
“He’s scared ya’ll find out he loves your touch.”
“Aye, that, look-it his arse move.”
“Give it up, ye fookin’ bastard!”
“Where ya think ya’ll go if we don’t get this on ya?”
“He knows what’s comin’.”
“Some playtime, eh? Ya’ll like that, ya will.”
“Wait’ll ye see who’s come to arsk ye questions, ye fook.”
“I got me seat reserved to watch.”
“I got the ale.”
“We’ll see how long ya hold ya tongue.”
“Fookin’ Taig.”
“Papist bastard.”
They kept it up even as they dragged me back to that same interrogation room and slammed me into that same chair. But this time, the other two chairs were off in separate corners and the table was in the center of the room. And Terrence already stood beside it, no longer dressed in his ill-fitting suit but now in camouflage trousers and t-shirt to match. With him were two others dressed the same way, all of them fit and powerful, all of them with their eyes on me.
The guards left, probably to join their fellows in the room behind the mirror and drink beer and have a good craic about the stupid fucking Catholic bumbler about to be destroyed by those strong superior Brits. It’d be fun all the way around.
At that particular moment, I wished I’d eaten that fucking sponge.
--------
I lay on the mattress, wondering what next was in store. My stomach protested. My head screamed at me. I felt nauseous. And don’t think I hadn’t noticed there’d been no official intake. Meaning there was no record I’d been brought here. I could lay on this bloody bit of sponge for the rest of my life and no one would ever know. Fear almost choked the breath from me, because I knew this had been much too easy a meeting with them. Something worse was sure to follow, but what it was -- I had no idea.
For hours nothing happened except the light kept burning and burning and all sounds remained absent. I found myself humming melodies from that old Johnstons album just to fill the void and smiling at the thoughts I’d had that night -- Christ, was it only twelve years ago, last January? Holding a child’s vision of what his life could be. Dreaming a child’s dream that a girl I hadn’t even met yet might become his partner in life. Hoping I could be the one who showed Eamonn and the rest of the PD how to avoid the trouble I’d seen coming. All had proven to be impossible, and that I’d come close to achieving them meant nothing; once again, the world had seen to it that only hatred was allowed to flourish. Understanding and love meant nothing, and my sad attempts at both had done little but lead me straight to this very cell, for I seemed not to learn from my disasters. I might have detoured here and grown a bit more aware there, but it’s the end result that matters, isn’t it?
And what was my end result? My love for two different girls had brought catastrophe to them both. My aunt now had questions about her love for her husband. I’d helped put my brother in jail. And I’d cursed my mother as she lay dying. That last was a sin -- but was it venal or mortal? I couldn’t recall, it’d been so long since my catechism. Since I’d all but rejected the church.
It was here for the first time that I wondered -- seriously wondered -- if I had the nerve to just end it. I believed that might be the only way I could fully protect my family and mates, and it’s not like my passing would cause even a ripple in the meaning of time. Joanna was still dead to me. Vangie was pursuing another life in another part of the world, where I was not welcome. I’d achieved nothing on this earth but pain and heartbreak and would leave even less behind. And it would cause embarrassment to the Brits to no end; Maeve and Aunt Mari would see to that...and maybe even Joanna. Maybe.
The idea began to take on solid appeal. So how to do it? I’d come with neither belt nor shoes, but I could use my shirt as a noose. Do it quietly so they’d have no reason to come in till I was long dead. I looked about the room but could see nothing from which to hang myself but the fixture holding the light bulb, and it was well out of reach. Same for the vent. Then I thought, I could just tie a sleeve tight around my throat and put a knot in it so I couldn’t undo it before passing out...but I had no idea if that would work. Doesn’t there need to be a lot of pressure on the throat to cut off the full flow of oxygen to your heart and lungs, and blood to your brain? Could doing it wrong merely leave me a mental defective?
Christ, wouldn’t that be perfect? Wind up simple, like Ma'd always thought.
On top of it, there was nothing sharp anywhere in the room upon which I could slice open my arms or throat...unless I was able to tear apart the chamber pot, but it was so solid, unless I had some tool nothing was going to happen there, either.
All right then -- what if I rammed my shirt down my throat to choke the life from me? Or swallowed bits of that sponge? It could become lodged in my esophagus and I could choke to death, that way. Even if I tried to vomit it out, it would only soak everything up and become more firmly in place. But how long would that take and would it cause much pain or me to -- ?
The door whispered open and four guards came in.
“Up,” said the first one.
I ignored him, so they grabbed me, one at each limb. I tried to kick them away, but they were more used to this than I was and held me down tightly enough to manacle my feet together, then they slapped a belt around my waist and shackled my hands to it, and me struggling wildly against them did nothing to stop them -- hell, to even slow them down. What was odd was, I said nothing through it all. Not one word against them or their mothers or their parentage or anything. All that escaped me were little grunts and gasps of pain as they held me in place and took complete control of me.
“Quiet one, in’nt he?”
“Fookin’ Taig dunno how to speak.”
“He’s scared ya’ll find out he loves your touch.”
“Aye, that, look-it his arse move.”
“Give it up, ye fookin’ bastard!”
“Where ya think ya’ll go if we don’t get this on ya?”
“He knows what’s comin’.”
“Some playtime, eh? Ya’ll like that, ya will.”
“Wait’ll ye see who’s come to arsk ye questions, ye fook.”
“I got me seat reserved to watch.”
“I got the ale.”
“We’ll see how long ya hold ya tongue.”
“Fookin’ Taig.”
“Papist bastard.”
They kept it up even as they dragged me back to that same interrogation room and slammed me into that same chair. But this time, the other two chairs were off in separate corners and the table was in the center of the room. And Terrence already stood beside it, no longer dressed in his ill-fitting suit but now in camouflage trousers and t-shirt to match. With him were two others dressed the same way, all of them fit and powerful, all of them with their eyes on me.
The guards left, probably to join their fellows in the room behind the mirror and drink beer and have a good craic about the stupid fucking Catholic bumbler about to be destroyed by those strong superior Brits. It’d be fun all the way around.
At that particular moment, I wished I’d eaten that fucking sponge.
February 10, 2019
I want a head transplant...
I've spent the last few days fighting a headache that's not quite there but almost and it's irritating. Initially, I though it was my glasses causing it because it starts in the back of my left shoulder and trapezius and my left eye aches. But today as I was pulling my laundry from the dryer I held my head back a bit too much and got overcome a dull throbbing. Like I pinched a nerve but not quite enough to really hurt me.
It slowly went away, but I'm now too damned aware that my body is wearing out. One of the joys of age. So I'd better get my ass in gear and dig into APoS and get it done before I'm recalled to the factory for an overhaul for faulty everything. I guess Advil is now my vitamin of choice.
I was reading Clive Barker's Damnation Game...and reading...and reading...and reading...and finally gave up on it about halfway through. I sort of liked Marty, who was almost the lead character (for some reason I was picturing a young Guy Ritchie as him), but I didn't believe a word of what I was reading. It was like...I dunno...obnoxiously nasty for nastinesses sake. Like Steven King started to write in the 80s. I stopped reading him after Firestarter, but I was getting weary of his rub-your-face-in-it characters as early as The Stand.
One reason I couldn't get into Barker's book was, I didn't believe a word of it; it was so divorced from simple day-to-day reality. A woman gets skinned alive without screaming loud enough to wake a man asleep in the upstairs bedroom? Dogs protecting a house go into a frenzy of barking and howling as they're being slaughtered but no one in the house notices? C'mon...
I feel the same way when I see movies ignore reality in order to keep the plot going. My favorite example of this is A History of Violence. There's a long, loud shootout in a mansion in a wealthy area of Pittsburgh and no cops come. Why? The hero needs to be able to get away. It's lazy, to me. Unimaginative. Takes me out of the story.
The positive thing about this is it reminds me not to get carried away with my normal tendency to meander. I like letting characters talk and explore each other for a while, but it can get boring is not important and well-done...both aspects I still need work on.
Maybe I'll try some Grisham, next...
It slowly went away, but I'm now too damned aware that my body is wearing out. One of the joys of age. So I'd better get my ass in gear and dig into APoS and get it done before I'm recalled to the factory for an overhaul for faulty everything. I guess Advil is now my vitamin of choice.
I was reading Clive Barker's Damnation Game...and reading...and reading...and reading...and finally gave up on it about halfway through. I sort of liked Marty, who was almost the lead character (for some reason I was picturing a young Guy Ritchie as him), but I didn't believe a word of what I was reading. It was like...I dunno...obnoxiously nasty for nastinesses sake. Like Steven King started to write in the 80s. I stopped reading him after Firestarter, but I was getting weary of his rub-your-face-in-it characters as early as The Stand.
One reason I couldn't get into Barker's book was, I didn't believe a word of it; it was so divorced from simple day-to-day reality. A woman gets skinned alive without screaming loud enough to wake a man asleep in the upstairs bedroom? Dogs protecting a house go into a frenzy of barking and howling as they're being slaughtered but no one in the house notices? C'mon...
I feel the same way when I see movies ignore reality in order to keep the plot going. My favorite example of this is A History of Violence. There's a long, loud shootout in a mansion in a wealthy area of Pittsburgh and no cops come. Why? The hero needs to be able to get away. It's lazy, to me. Unimaginative. Takes me out of the story.
The positive thing about this is it reminds me not to get carried away with my normal tendency to meander. I like letting characters talk and explore each other for a while, but it can get boring is not important and well-done...both aspects I still need work on.
Maybe I'll try some Grisham, next...
February 9, 2019
Weird day so watched a movie
I stayed up way too late, last night, working on something so had a niggling headache all day and just piddled around till I finally just gave in and watched All About Eve. Still a hint of the headache, but the movie made me happy. It is one of the most literate scripts ever...and couldn't be made, today.
TOQATM's take on it is fun.
TOQATM's take on it is fun.
February 8, 2019
Memory...
When I worked at Book Soup, I was usually the 4-midnight shift. Sometimes I'd walk to work instead of drive, which entailed heading up San Vicente to La Cienega then up to Sunset, meaning the reverse heading back. But en route home about half the time I'd stop at the Norm's on La C and have an early morning breakfast -- eggs over easy, hash browns, bacon, hot tea, sometimes a short stack. It was the best.
I worked really late, today, so thought I'd try that out, again. There's a 24 hour diner not all that far from me so I bopped in...and ordered as close as I could to what I used to...but they don't do hash browns. What kind of diner don't do hash browns? And everything was served warm, not hot. Even the tea was just warm.
Man...it's true what they say -- you can't revisit your memories in reality.
I worked really late, today, so thought I'd try that out, again. There's a 24 hour diner not all that far from me so I bopped in...and ordered as close as I could to what I used to...but they don't do hash browns. What kind of diner don't do hash browns? And everything was served warm, not hot. Even the tea was just warm.
Man...it's true what they say -- you can't revisit your memories in reality.
February 5, 2019
/Some more of APoS...
I'm jumping around but still filling in the bits. This is about 1976/77 in Houston, not sure which, yet. Evangelyn is the daughter of a Cajun man Brendan works with...
--------------
I led Evangelyn into the pool house and the first words from her were, “Man, you were sure of yourself.”
“What d’you mean?” I asked her.
“Look at this joint, all clean and cool. Like you’re expectin’ company.”
I looked around and honestly had no idea what she meant. My room was tidy, yes, but hardly what I’d call clean. All I could respond was, “Dunno why you said that. Tomorrow’s my cleaning day.”
“Your cleanin' day?”
“Yeah. I clean every Sunday.” I stopped short of telling her I’d been this way first seeing Joanna. Even while living in what I now saw as filth, I’d kept my part of it as neat as I could. It wasn’t even a thought for me. That Evangelyn should make such an issue of it surprised me and gave me my first idea as to why Paidrig had asked me if I was right in the head. Perhaps being so focused on clean wasn’t what people normally are like -- like Scott bringing home months worth of laundry and his room being in a state, or Uncle Sean and his car, enough said about that.
But then Aunt Mari was neat about her home, and all by herself; no maid or housekeeper to help her. And the girls were the same. And thinking of it, Mairead had done her best to keep the hovel we’d lived in from being too far gone, and with the new spot had focused double hard, even while working her job and pregnant, to keep it from slipping into the same state as before, while Ma had fussed she, herself, had kept things clean enough.
So I just added a shrug and said, “I can’t live in filth.”
She looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “So you’re a Felix.”
It took me a moment to understand she was referring to a character on a TV show -- what was it called? The Weird Couple? I’d only seen an episode or two and it hadn’t been on for a couple years. American humor really did nothing for me, mainly because I didn’t understand half the jokes.
“Is that a problem, then?” I asked as I motioned for her to take a seat. I said it only for fun. Her dark eyes gave no hint of disparagement or distance, but instead were sharp on me in a way I found made my heart’s rhythm increase.
She floated down to the side chair and dropped her purse next to it. He skirt whispered around her legs as if trying to find just the right position to take in order for her to look her best. As if she could ever look anything less. Nails as red as her lips. Her hair gliding about her face, framing it in ways that only added to her loveliness. I froze at the sight of her, lost in just appreciating the picture she made...until she leaned forward and asked, “Brendan, are you gay?” And her voice was so sure the answer was, Yes, I actually wondered if I was.
I sat against a stool by the counter, almost laughing. “So being clean makes me a poofter, is that it?”
“Poofter?”
“Man who likes men. Like Jeremy.”
She shrugged and continued on with, “I don’t care one way or the other. I got friends who are and they’re great, but if the only reason you’re seein' me is to lay a fake trail -- ”
I laughed. “What the devil is it with you Americans? I’m neat, I don’t run about cussing up women and yakking about your football, and I like a woman who isn’t white, and that makes me queer?”
“I’ve never seen you with any other girls, and Jeremy’s definitely after you -- ”
I put up my hand to stop her. “Jeremy is a friend, and a good one. But he’s nothing to me, that way. As for girls, I’ve been here four years and you’ve known me for but one of them. Rest assured, I’ve been with others.” I wondered if I should tell her of Rainie...or even of Carla’s actions. I decided it’s best not to. Don’t want to be seen as a chatty lad when it came to the birds.
“How many? Girls. How many?”
Nosy little thing, wasn’t she? But in response, I held up two fingers and whispered, “That’s all you’ll get from me.”
“C’mon, Brendan, you can trust me. Haven’t you taken even one walk on the wild side?”
“What makes you think I would?”
“The way you look at Jeremy, sometimes. Like he could be more than just buddy.”
I shot back with, “Have you taken that walk? Like with a girl?” Her response was to merely offer up that cryptic smile, which I took to mean Yes, of course. “Oh! Well -- there’s an image’ll stay in my mind for a while. Now, I’ve got some wine and beer. Would you care for one or the other?”
She shrugged. “Wine’s good.”
I hopped up to hit the kitchen and pointed to my stereo. “If you want to put on some music...”
She rose and went to the stereo. “Nice set-up.”
“My one extravagance.” Which I’d found in a pile of trash behind a house and rewired, at a cost of maybe four dollars, total -- but no need to sound too much the penny-pincher. Though I was curious, “Why the interest in me and Jeremy?”
“Just curious.”
My arse. I half think she was testing me for some reason or other, and I’d no idea if I passed. She looked through my LPs and noticed I have a number of cassettes and reels of tape. “No eight-tracks?”
I dug into the fridge and pulled out the three open bottles with their corks stuck in -- a Chardonnay, a Rose and something I couldn’t even pronounce let alone spell. “Reel-to-reel stuff has some I transferred, but I borrowed the cassettes.” It looked as if none of the bottles had been gone into since I moved into the place. The Chardonnay was the only one with enough in it and it still smelled good, so I dug for two glasses. “There’s a player under the table that I connect, once in a while, but for the most part, the cassettes are easier to work with.”
“You got some old stuff here. No ABBA. No disco at all.”
“Fun to dance to, boring to listen to,” I said as I poured the wine.
“Not even any Marvin Gaye?” Then she found my collection of The Eagles and pulled out an LP. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Nothing.” She put the LP on the turntable and set it to going.
I heard the first chords of Hotel California as I brought her the wine. “You like The Eagles?”
“I like The Grateful Dead more. Don’t tell my momma.” And she settled into the couch, this time, sideways with a leg tucked under her. She sipped the wine, nodded and set it on the floor then pulled her bag up and dug into it.
I sat next to her, saying, “I never spill secrets.”
“I know.” And she brought out a little glass pipe with a tiny bowl.
“You’re a bold one, carrying that around and this being Texas.”
“And me bein' black?” I shrugged...then nodded. I was beginning to see how vicious people were in his country about race. “Helps to have a brother who’s a cop.”
She poured a bit of wine into the pipe’s bowl then packed it with some pot. I lit ciggies for the both of us and set hers on an ashtray then handed her my lighter. She fired up the pot and inhaled it through the wine with a tiny gurgling sound.
“Vangie,” I asked, daring to use a name I’d heard her referred to by a friend, “is it that harsh, being black in America?” Then I took a turn at the pipe.
She leaned back, her dark curls shading down to her bare shoulders, her skin soft and unblemished, her eyes caught in a thousand yard stare. She finally exhaled and added a sigh to it. Without looking at me, she said, “Did you know that in Louisiana, if you have even a drop of negro blood in you, you’re classified by the state as black? A man could be as white as you and it wouldn’t matter. You should hear what people say when they find out. It’s like they’ve been insulted.” She looked at me. “Do you even have black people in Ireland?”
I exhaled and croaked, “Northern Ireland, and many of the British soldiers are black. And they’re as big of arseholes as the white ones.”
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--------------
I led Evangelyn into the pool house and the first words from her were, “Man, you were sure of yourself.”
“What d’you mean?” I asked her.
“Look at this joint, all clean and cool. Like you’re expectin’ company.”
I looked around and honestly had no idea what she meant. My room was tidy, yes, but hardly what I’d call clean. All I could respond was, “Dunno why you said that. Tomorrow’s my cleaning day.”
“Your cleanin' day?”
“Yeah. I clean every Sunday.” I stopped short of telling her I’d been this way first seeing Joanna. Even while living in what I now saw as filth, I’d kept my part of it as neat as I could. It wasn’t even a thought for me. That Evangelyn should make such an issue of it surprised me and gave me my first idea as to why Paidrig had asked me if I was right in the head. Perhaps being so focused on clean wasn’t what people normally are like -- like Scott bringing home months worth of laundry and his room being in a state, or Uncle Sean and his car, enough said about that.
But then Aunt Mari was neat about her home, and all by herself; no maid or housekeeper to help her. And the girls were the same. And thinking of it, Mairead had done her best to keep the hovel we’d lived in from being too far gone, and with the new spot had focused double hard, even while working her job and pregnant, to keep it from slipping into the same state as before, while Ma had fussed she, herself, had kept things clean enough.
So I just added a shrug and said, “I can’t live in filth.”
She looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “So you’re a Felix.”
It took me a moment to understand she was referring to a character on a TV show -- what was it called? The Weird Couple? I’d only seen an episode or two and it hadn’t been on for a couple years. American humor really did nothing for me, mainly because I didn’t understand half the jokes.
“Is that a problem, then?” I asked as I motioned for her to take a seat. I said it only for fun. Her dark eyes gave no hint of disparagement or distance, but instead were sharp on me in a way I found made my heart’s rhythm increase.
She floated down to the side chair and dropped her purse next to it. He skirt whispered around her legs as if trying to find just the right position to take in order for her to look her best. As if she could ever look anything less. Nails as red as her lips. Her hair gliding about her face, framing it in ways that only added to her loveliness. I froze at the sight of her, lost in just appreciating the picture she made...until she leaned forward and asked, “Brendan, are you gay?” And her voice was so sure the answer was, Yes, I actually wondered if I was.
I sat against a stool by the counter, almost laughing. “So being clean makes me a poofter, is that it?”
“Poofter?”
“Man who likes men. Like Jeremy.”
She shrugged and continued on with, “I don’t care one way or the other. I got friends who are and they’re great, but if the only reason you’re seein' me is to lay a fake trail -- ”
I laughed. “What the devil is it with you Americans? I’m neat, I don’t run about cussing up women and yakking about your football, and I like a woman who isn’t white, and that makes me queer?”
“I’ve never seen you with any other girls, and Jeremy’s definitely after you -- ”
I put up my hand to stop her. “Jeremy is a friend, and a good one. But he’s nothing to me, that way. As for girls, I’ve been here four years and you’ve known me for but one of them. Rest assured, I’ve been with others.” I wondered if I should tell her of Rainie...or even of Carla’s actions. I decided it’s best not to. Don’t want to be seen as a chatty lad when it came to the birds.
“How many? Girls. How many?”
Nosy little thing, wasn’t she? But in response, I held up two fingers and whispered, “That’s all you’ll get from me.”
“C’mon, Brendan, you can trust me. Haven’t you taken even one walk on the wild side?”
“What makes you think I would?”
“The way you look at Jeremy, sometimes. Like he could be more than just buddy.”
I shot back with, “Have you taken that walk? Like with a girl?” Her response was to merely offer up that cryptic smile, which I took to mean Yes, of course. “Oh! Well -- there’s an image’ll stay in my mind for a while. Now, I’ve got some wine and beer. Would you care for one or the other?”
She shrugged. “Wine’s good.”
I hopped up to hit the kitchen and pointed to my stereo. “If you want to put on some music...”
She rose and went to the stereo. “Nice set-up.”
“My one extravagance.” Which I’d found in a pile of trash behind a house and rewired, at a cost of maybe four dollars, total -- but no need to sound too much the penny-pincher. Though I was curious, “Why the interest in me and Jeremy?”
“Just curious.”
My arse. I half think she was testing me for some reason or other, and I’d no idea if I passed. She looked through my LPs and noticed I have a number of cassettes and reels of tape. “No eight-tracks?”
I dug into the fridge and pulled out the three open bottles with their corks stuck in -- a Chardonnay, a Rose and something I couldn’t even pronounce let alone spell. “Reel-to-reel stuff has some I transferred, but I borrowed the cassettes.” It looked as if none of the bottles had been gone into since I moved into the place. The Chardonnay was the only one with enough in it and it still smelled good, so I dug for two glasses. “There’s a player under the table that I connect, once in a while, but for the most part, the cassettes are easier to work with.”
“You got some old stuff here. No ABBA. No disco at all.”
“Fun to dance to, boring to listen to,” I said as I poured the wine.
“Not even any Marvin Gaye?” Then she found my collection of The Eagles and pulled out an LP. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Nothing.” She put the LP on the turntable and set it to going.
I heard the first chords of Hotel California as I brought her the wine. “You like The Eagles?”
“I like The Grateful Dead more. Don’t tell my momma.” And she settled into the couch, this time, sideways with a leg tucked under her. She sipped the wine, nodded and set it on the floor then pulled her bag up and dug into it.
I sat next to her, saying, “I never spill secrets.”
“I know.” And she brought out a little glass pipe with a tiny bowl.
“You’re a bold one, carrying that around and this being Texas.”
“And me bein' black?” I shrugged...then nodded. I was beginning to see how vicious people were in his country about race. “Helps to have a brother who’s a cop.”
She poured a bit of wine into the pipe’s bowl then packed it with some pot. I lit ciggies for the both of us and set hers on an ashtray then handed her my lighter. She fired up the pot and inhaled it through the wine with a tiny gurgling sound.
“Vangie,” I asked, daring to use a name I’d heard her referred to by a friend, “is it that harsh, being black in America?” Then I took a turn at the pipe.
She leaned back, her dark curls shading down to her bare shoulders, her skin soft and unblemished, her eyes caught in a thousand yard stare. She finally exhaled and added a sigh to it. Without looking at me, she said, “Did you know that in Louisiana, if you have even a drop of negro blood in you, you’re classified by the state as black? A man could be as white as you and it wouldn’t matter. You should hear what people say when they find out. It’s like they’ve been insulted.” She looked at me. “Do you even have black people in Ireland?”
I exhaled and croaked, “Northern Ireland, and many of the British soldiers are black. And they’re as big of arseholes as the white ones.”
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February 4, 2019
I remember why I don't drink much...
I got done with the Miami Map Fair and went to a restaurant called Rosie's in Wilton Gardens, the Montrose and West Hollywood area of Fort Lauderdale. It's sort of like Hamburger Mary's but not as much fun. I had a burger, salad and potato salad (not), and had a super sangria drink of red wine, fruit juices and rum with a Maraschino Cherry. Not enough to make me drunk; just enough to make me relaxed.
Four hours later I was so depressed I could barely move. I was in the airport, already, since I wasn't checking a bag (my flight's not till just after 9) and I had my laptop open to catch up on emails. And I couldn't handle it. I'd zone and think of the fuck ups I made and get worse and worse.
I finally forced myself to get up, put my laptop away and go to the bathroom...then I wandered from Terminal B to Terminal A to see if they had a juice bar or someplace I could get a smoothie. I was sort of hungry but not enough for a real meal. No such luck. Plenty of Starbucks; no Jamba Juice or even an Orange Julius.
BUT...I found a fruit and cheese meal and some tropical fruit juice and had that with some water and feel a lot better. I also found Terminal A has an area of tables and counters to sit in instead of just chairs, like in Terminal B. That made me even happier.
Now I'm remembering how I felt when I used to drink serious liquor -- I would always get depressed. Not suicidal, just a good serious does of "So fucking what?" and "What an idiot you've been." That kind of shit. I do not like that feeling, so I guess I'll never be a drunk. Dammit.
I don't get this way from drinking beer. I mean, if I have 2-3 I sort of begin to, so I guess it's the percentage of the alcohol in the drink. Besides, beer's almost like food. But even so, I don't drink a lot of it, and then only with a meal. I think the last time I drank a beer by itself was when I went to the Guinness brewery three years ago.
Anyway, now I'm back on track and digging into APoS. Once again, I'm reminding myself that the first thing I need to get down in this story is a rough first draft. Once I have that I can start bringing in the details required and change those that are wrong or not sharp enough. As I'm already doing with Brendan's and Joanna's encounter at the Celebration Fleadh.
Aw, man...I'd feel even better without the jazzy Musak and flight announcements every three minutes.
Four hours later I was so depressed I could barely move. I was in the airport, already, since I wasn't checking a bag (my flight's not till just after 9) and I had my laptop open to catch up on emails. And I couldn't handle it. I'd zone and think of the fuck ups I made and get worse and worse.
I finally forced myself to get up, put my laptop away and go to the bathroom...then I wandered from Terminal B to Terminal A to see if they had a juice bar or someplace I could get a smoothie. I was sort of hungry but not enough for a real meal. No such luck. Plenty of Starbucks; no Jamba Juice or even an Orange Julius.
BUT...I found a fruit and cheese meal and some tropical fruit juice and had that with some water and feel a lot better. I also found Terminal A has an area of tables and counters to sit in instead of just chairs, like in Terminal B. That made me even happier.
Now I'm remembering how I felt when I used to drink serious liquor -- I would always get depressed. Not suicidal, just a good serious does of "So fucking what?" and "What an idiot you've been." That kind of shit. I do not like that feeling, so I guess I'll never be a drunk. Dammit.
I don't get this way from drinking beer. I mean, if I have 2-3 I sort of begin to, so I guess it's the percentage of the alcohol in the drink. Besides, beer's almost like food. But even so, I don't drink a lot of it, and then only with a meal. I think the last time I drank a beer by itself was when I went to the Guinness brewery three years ago.
Anyway, now I'm back on track and digging into APoS. Once again, I'm reminding myself that the first thing I need to get down in this story is a rough first draft. Once I have that I can start bringing in the details required and change those that are wrong or not sharp enough. As I'm already doing with Brendan's and Joanna's encounter at the Celebration Fleadh.
Aw, man...I'd feel even better without the jazzy Musak and flight announcements every three minutes.
February 3, 2019
Clive Barker's a good writer...
I'm partway into Damnation Game and I like Barker's elegant style...and how he takes his time to do the setup. It's a big book -- more than 400 pages in a mass-market paperback -- and I've only hit page 100, but I'm engrossed enough to keep reading.
The Miami Map Fair is done. Prepping for the move-out got finished nice and quick. Tomorrow is the collection and then building for shipping. Then it's home.
I don't really like Miami. For all the skyscrapers and attitude, it's just another resort town. The only difference between it and Honolulu is mountains and Hawaii being an island instead of a peninsula. One fun aspect is how many people speak Cuban Spanish instead of English, and how so much of downtown Miami is just like Havana. Funny how the GOP isn't trying to deport that ethnic group.
I did a first pass on Brendan and Joanna meeting at the Celebration Fleadh. It happens after the Battle of Bogside, when she and a couple of friends sneak in to have fun. They connect with Brendan and are almost caught out by a group of guys who've taken over policing the area. Brendan protects her with a few quick lies then escorts them home, feeling very manly.
Joanna's mother invites him in for tea, thinking him a Protestant, but her brother works it out and he and some friends chase Brendan down after he leaves, planning to beat him up. He gets away but now knows he's marked if he tries to see her, again.
Naturally, he does.
The Miami Map Fair is done. Prepping for the move-out got finished nice and quick. Tomorrow is the collection and then building for shipping. Then it's home.
I don't really like Miami. For all the skyscrapers and attitude, it's just another resort town. The only difference between it and Honolulu is mountains and Hawaii being an island instead of a peninsula. One fun aspect is how many people speak Cuban Spanish instead of English, and how so much of downtown Miami is just like Havana. Funny how the GOP isn't trying to deport that ethnic group.
I did a first pass on Brendan and Joanna meeting at the Celebration Fleadh. It happens after the Battle of Bogside, when she and a couple of friends sneak in to have fun. They connect with Brendan and are almost caught out by a group of guys who've taken over policing the area. Brendan protects her with a few quick lies then escorts them home, feeling very manly.
Joanna's mother invites him in for tea, thinking him a Protestant, but her brother works it out and he and some friends chase Brendan down after he leaves, planning to beat him up. He gets away but now knows he's marked if he tries to see her, again.
Naturally, he does.
February 2, 2019
Miami Map Fair, again....
I'm up early, tomorrow, to catch a flight down to Miami and move out the map fair. Only reading done, today. It's not as cold as it has been but I felt no need to leave the apartment.
I contacted the Novel Writing Festival and let them know I'm open to having a reading done of the first 2000 words of A65's first chapter. I want to see how it turns out.
I watched a couple they did and their videos are a series of images to reflect the book while someone reads it in an audio book style. If they'll let me, I'll post it on YouTube and use it for a sales tool. If not...I may make my own, but with sketches instead of generic photos.
I did a bit of other promotion for my books, as well, on a couple of FaceBook groups I joined. And I posted a section of Bobby Carapisi on my adult site. That blog is turning into something very dark, so I have it posted as being for over 18 only. I don't want just anyone able to access it, even by accident.
My plan is to use it to blow off steam on aspects of my life I don't want to really share on this blog. I have secrets...many secrets...and choose to keep them separate from my public face. There are things about me not even members of my family know...and I plan to keep it that way. But they can't stay bottled up inside. I used my Tumblr blog for that, but I've deleted it so need a new outlet. It's not free like Tumblr was, but I think it's worth my investment.
I'm taking a copy of Clive Barker's Damnation Game on the plane with me. I'm thinking more and more about reworking Darian's Point and Return to Darian's Point into a book with the opening explaining what really happened to get the O'Brien family's curse started, 3000 years earlier. Time to get back to reading what the horror masters are doing, including Steven King. I'm also thinking of making Blood Angel, my vampire script, into a horror novel...but that's still on the back burner.
Right now, it's finish at least a first draft of APoS...and that's slowly coming together...
I contacted the Novel Writing Festival and let them know I'm open to having a reading done of the first 2000 words of A65's first chapter. I want to see how it turns out.
I watched a couple they did and their videos are a series of images to reflect the book while someone reads it in an audio book style. If they'll let me, I'll post it on YouTube and use it for a sales tool. If not...I may make my own, but with sketches instead of generic photos.
I did a bit of other promotion for my books, as well, on a couple of FaceBook groups I joined. And I posted a section of Bobby Carapisi on my adult site. That blog is turning into something very dark, so I have it posted as being for over 18 only. I don't want just anyone able to access it, even by accident.
My plan is to use it to blow off steam on aspects of my life I don't want to really share on this blog. I have secrets...many secrets...and choose to keep them separate from my public face. There are things about me not even members of my family know...and I plan to keep it that way. But they can't stay bottled up inside. I used my Tumblr blog for that, but I've deleted it so need a new outlet. It's not free like Tumblr was, but I think it's worth my investment.
I'm taking a copy of Clive Barker's Damnation Game on the plane with me. I'm thinking more and more about reworking Darian's Point and Return to Darian's Point into a book with the opening explaining what really happened to get the O'Brien family's curse started, 3000 years earlier. Time to get back to reading what the horror masters are doing, including Steven King. I'm also thinking of making Blood Angel, my vampire script, into a horror novel...but that's still on the back burner.
Right now, it's finish at least a first draft of APoS...and that's slowly coming together...
February 1, 2019
Roaring back...
It took me about 24 hours to get over my shock and hurt at the criticisms leveled at The Alice '65 to reread the comments and realize whoever did the feedback did not read the book. They skimmed it. When you do that, you don't catch a lot of things the writer was aiming for. Things that are there.
Sure, there were the stupid little things they said about the title and whining about the book being dialogue heavy, and that helped me step back and understand one of the issues. This book may be in third person, but it's totally Adam's viewpoint. It's not omniscient; it's one person's POV.
There is nothing in the book that happens that doesn't directly involve Adam in some way. The only way he knows what's going on with Casey and Lando and others is through dialogue and observation. We only have his memories and past experiences, only delve into his mind. To shift into Casey's mind and memories, or Lando's or anyone else's would have broken that focus and made it a totally different book.
So the complaint that I don't explore the other characters is made by ignoring what I'm actually doing -- telling one person's story, not several. If that reader couldn't get into the book and give me feedback based on the book's reality, then they weren't doing their job; they were telling me how they would have written the story...and that's not what this was supposed to be about.
I've had that happen with screenplays. I used to post scripts on Triggerstreet to test them and get feedback, and I found there were occasions someone would come along and tear a script apart because it wasn't written in the way they think it ought to be written...meaning like they would have written it. I ran into that when I uploaded Find Ray T.
I got good response to it. Became one of the Top 5 scripts in ranking. Then a guy did feedback that totally tore the script apart, line by line. I checked out other scripts he'd given feedback on and he'd done the same thing to them...every one. And did he have a script available to read to see why he thought his way was so perfect? No.
I have to be reminded, now and then, that people have different tastes. And while there are people out there who just like to trash other people's work, no matter how good it is, it's also possible the reader had bad enchiladas for lunch or had a fight with their significant other and just wasn't happy about anything. And sometimes the reader just isn't ready in their life to read your work so should hand it off to someone else.
Hell, I didn't like War & Peace the first time I tried to read it, but 10 years later read it and it's one of my favorite books. So I should put a sign over my writing table, reading, So what if they don't like it? What matters is, do you?
And with A65, I do.
Sure, there were the stupid little things they said about the title and whining about the book being dialogue heavy, and that helped me step back and understand one of the issues. This book may be in third person, but it's totally Adam's viewpoint. It's not omniscient; it's one person's POV.
There is nothing in the book that happens that doesn't directly involve Adam in some way. The only way he knows what's going on with Casey and Lando and others is through dialogue and observation. We only have his memories and past experiences, only delve into his mind. To shift into Casey's mind and memories, or Lando's or anyone else's would have broken that focus and made it a totally different book.
So the complaint that I don't explore the other characters is made by ignoring what I'm actually doing -- telling one person's story, not several. If that reader couldn't get into the book and give me feedback based on the book's reality, then they weren't doing their job; they were telling me how they would have written the story...and that's not what this was supposed to be about.
I've had that happen with screenplays. I used to post scripts on Triggerstreet to test them and get feedback, and I found there were occasions someone would come along and tear a script apart because it wasn't written in the way they think it ought to be written...meaning like they would have written it. I ran into that when I uploaded Find Ray T.
I got good response to it. Became one of the Top 5 scripts in ranking. Then a guy did feedback that totally tore the script apart, line by line. I checked out other scripts he'd given feedback on and he'd done the same thing to them...every one. And did he have a script available to read to see why he thought his way was so perfect? No.
I have to be reminded, now and then, that people have different tastes. And while there are people out there who just like to trash other people's work, no matter how good it is, it's also possible the reader had bad enchiladas for lunch or had a fight with their significant other and just wasn't happy about anything. And sometimes the reader just isn't ready in their life to read your work so should hand it off to someone else.
Hell, I didn't like War & Peace the first time I tried to read it, but 10 years later read it and it's one of my favorite books. So I should put a sign over my writing table, reading, So what if they don't like it? What matters is, do you?
And with A65, I do.
January 31, 2019
I got nuked...
This is the feedback I got from a "professional editor" today. It was deliberately destructive and hurtful without one positive thing to say, but after initially being crushed by it, I'm now pissed as shit. Because my brain finally caught up to my heart and pointed out the person trying to destroy my work don't know jack about anything, as is shown from the first comment.
The title has an apostrophe in it, not a quotation mark.
The following is a cut and paste, including all of their typos.
-------------
THE ALICE '65
By Kyle Michel Sullivan
TITLE
The first thing that bothers me is the title. Is it supposed to contain a singular quotation mark? Rather than spark your readers' interests about the significance of the title, they are going to assume that the cover page contains a typo. And this is the type of discovery that will likely cause them to wonder about other mistakes in your manuscript.
FORMAT/MECHANICS
Using the same logic, I would suggest you scratch that comma clause “that Monday” in the first sentence. I understand that you incorporate into the text to specify the significance of events happening to Adam “that Monday”. But the commas guarding those two words throw your reader off. Is it necessary for your readers to break from their accelerating rate of reading in order to reflect that the story begins “that Monday”?
Regarding the overall application of commas in your narrative, there are a few inconsistencies that may bother most publishers. Because of the loquacious (and very British) narrative tone, there are many commas inserted into the text. While this does help the reader ease into this narrative style, it can be easy to put commas where they are not even needed. For instance, the narrator refers to an incidental detail regarding Adam's rugby injury: “as he rubbed a scrape on his chin, evidence of a rough rugby match with his mates, on Saturday” (pg. 5). That final comma bothers me because it is signifying incidental information within an incidental cause, which affects the tone and rhythm of narration. Another example of tone that is disrupted because of comma intrusion is Hakim's threatening remark: “The provenance better be right, this time” (pg. 10). Because of that punctuated hesitation, his demeanor instantly becomes less direct and more timid. Other stray observations regarding the overuse of commas:
• “he said, in German” (pg. 10).
• “and now the book had arrived, for consideration” (pg. 11).
• “for her to see what was blantantly obvious, to him” (pg. 12).
• “if a copy of the book had been offered, that year” (pg. 16).
• “to change it would be prohibitive, in cost” (pg. 26).
And so forth. As you can see, this is a frequent and pervalent characteristic of your storytelling that continuously affects the rhythm of your narrative.
Be sure to avoid run-on sentences as well. Not only are they grammatically incorrect, but they also personify your narrator as a rambling storyteller. For example: “Still, if the book he needed was down there he'd have no trouble proving his concerns about the Schedel, now he'd look inside her, so he yanked the lift's door and gate open and -” (pg. 13). In addition to be a grammatical nightmare, run-on sentences clutter the overall text with too many incidental phrases and misdirected thoughts. Be careful about them or else your narrator will start sounding like someone who has a problematic manner of telling stories.
A good editing technique that is particularly hard on novelists is reading the script aloud, ideally with an objective friend who has never read the story. This is a good way to check for overlong sentences and awkward phrasing. It also causes writers to check for misplaced or forgotten words such as “the Marshe-Crotons had done carry-on so (they) lent him . . .” (pg. 33). An example of a sentence that simply reads too long occurs at the end of page 88. It may not technically be a run-on sentence since there is only one subject and verb. But it does read so long that it becomes somewhat exhausting by the time the reader reaches the end of it. Awkward phrasing and faulty syntax are also easier to spot when read aloud: “He looked around to find there did used to be a phone, outside, but now the apparatus to hold it was empty” (pg. 138). It may not seem like bad syntax but consider how much clearer it reads as: “He looked around to find that there once was a phone outside, but now the space was vacant.” Again, it is usually best to avoid repetitive use of commas if it can be avoided.
Ironically, there are several instances when commas should be implemented, but are strangely absent: “Naturally(,) a maniac waiting on the inside lane . . .” (pg. 149).
COMPOSITION
The first reference of David, Adam's “snarly punk” older brother” is a bit messy and fumbled. It makes its way to the narration because of a punk couple sitting next to Adam on the flight to LA, which turns David into a passive and indirect character. If his personality and history are meant to have a lasting impression on your main character, then it feels as if he should have a more dynamic introduction.
Casey's explanation that her motivation for Adam's arrival to Los Angeles is hard to believe from the very start. She explains that he needs an escort for her big Hollywood premiere, even though her previous adaptation made “a billion bucks”. This premise is further complicated that Casey, a purported rising and established star in Hollywood, resorts to her own mother as her sole adviser and business manager. But there are so many improbable ironies that are presented once Casey reveals her true reason for requiring Adam's presence in LA. Why him? Why go all the way to England to provide an escort for a famous Hollywood actress? Why all the secrecy? Why didn't Vincent tell Adam? If this scenario was not the main motivator for Casey, then the readers may be willing to overlook this premise as fairy-tale fiction. But they will probably not be able to relate to the Cinderalla-based format in which a nebbish book collector is randomly selected to attend a Hollywood ball. The fact that Lando and Tito exist in the story as threats to Casey make it seem even more implausible that she doesn't have bodyguards or security detail.
The instant romantic connection between Casey and Adam seemingly becomes more improbable as the story progresses. It's problematic because it's a fish-out-of-water character study where the readers get to know more and more about Adam, but Casey remains a mystery. There is no explanation for her improbable infatuation with Adam partly because she is an established thrill seeker; and he is introduced to the readers as the complete opposite. True, he undergoes an almost instantaneous metamorphosis, accelerated by the drugs, alcohol, and thrill of fame. But, their union is too brief to believe her when she says, “He's unlike anyone I've ever been with.” The longer the readers get to Casey, the less likely it seems that she would choose someone like Adam to fan the flames of jealousy in Lando's direction.
The story tries very hard to get the readers to empathize with Adam, especially when he discovers that Casey still has feelings for Lando. But the drama in this sequence is damaged by the incessant bickering between Adam, Lando, and Veronica. Instead of betrayal, the readers are once again annoyed at Lando's simple-minded candor and mystified by Casey's ambivalence. If we are meant to empathize with Adam, then he should act as we would in such circumstances. Why doesn't he accuse Casey of her manipulation? Why does he even care about Lando's moral insensitivity? Adam's backstory is also in need of considerable development. The narration briefly references his family members from time to time, but you should not expect the readers to absorb any of this information unless it can be significantly developed. They are not going to remember that Nora dismissed him from her life, or that Connor nicknamed him “hobbit”, or the aftermath of his father's death. Those stories are not illustrated as significant plot events because they are only casually mentioned in the narration. In order for the readers to feel the pain and alienation of such incidents, it would help if the readers could experience them firsthand. For example, we all know how bad it hurts when someone else enables our affection and kisses somebody else. Therefore, we can actually empathize with Adam when he witnesses Casey and Lando making out. However, that sentiment is vanquished when he starts criticizing Lando's name and literacy. Who would resort to such trivial matters when there are matters of heartache and betrayal at hand?
DIALOGUE
“The Alice 65” is a dialogue-heavy concept. There is very little physical action moving the plot forward, so the composition relies heavily on character exposition and dialogue. As any fan of Woody Allen can tell you, the characters become much more interesting when they have interesting things to say. And if they don't have interesting things to say, then at least they should have an interesting way to say it. In order to make Casey, Adam, and Lando (as well as any other speaking character) more colorful, then you should resist conversation that features small talk (“So how long you known Case?”). Pleasant conversation in general tends to lead to awfully banal dialogue (“I'm so happy you're happy”) that fails to develop or evolve the speaking character.
Perhaps the most dreaded expression to cross a publisher's eyes is the acronym “OMG”. It's become a staple in English language thanks to its frequent usage in text conversations and social media. But are the readers supposed to imagine the characters actually saying, “O-M-G”? Or is it just meant to be an abbreviaiton for “Oh My God” (which seems the much more likely spoken sentiment)? In either case, “OMG” confuses the hell out of publishers, scriptreaders, and producers alike. I'd recommend picking a different exclamatory remark.
SUMMARY
Regarding the plotline and overall story structure, my best recommendation is to revise your premise so that it is not so hard to imagine or conceive. Since this book is formatted as a romantic comedy, it is very important that the readers believe in these characters and premise. Action-oriented stories exist on the strength of the drama and action residing within the conflict. But character-centered stories require a more intimate relationship between the characters and readers. If the readers doubt Casey's personality or reasons for entrapping Adam as her premiere date, then they will have trouble accepting her dialogue and actions throughout the entire novel. And since she is supposed to be an A-list celebrity, there are several conventions regarding her background that need to be explained. Why doesn't she have a publicist or agent forcing her to date another movie star? She briefly mentions that her date had to be a low-key personality, but that doesn't explain why she picked a nebbish British bookworm like Adam. Why does Orisi, who certainly revels in dressing his celebrities, seem to be okay with this? If he was truly a professional costume designer, he would be aghast at dressing people who cannot afford the cleaning bills. It may seem like a tedious complaint, but it becomes increasingly important as the plot progresses and the characters become more developed. The readers may be getting to know them better, but without a plausible premise, the story immensely suffers.
One idea is to incorporate some information into Casey's backstory so the readers can understand her reasons for choosing Adam, whom she never even met before coming to America. Her backstory could maybe include a horrific accident with the paparazzi. She was mentally scarred by the incident and refuses to let anything happen to anyone who might attract attention. This would explain why she chose an unknown like Adam instead of the next Bradley Cooper to escort her. It would also explain her virtual absence of a publicity staff. If this idea seems too far-fetched, then try to think of something to explain this highly unusual circumstance.
In summary, this is a feel-good, romantic comedy that could feel a lot better if the main charactes were provided with more developed background to make them more believable. This is especially true for Casey, who exists more as a teasing motivator than any sort of romantic interest. The first half of the novel is especially perplexing because the readers simply will not understand her situation: she is at the zenith of her career, yet she resorts to importing an English book collector to make her former lover and co-star jealous. Since she doesn't know much about her version of “Alice”, the readers are not likely to believe that she really wants to get the book back either. Adam, on the other hand, is presented with much clearer motivation. However, it is hard to take his character seriously since he mostly acts as Comedic Relief, which is typical for most fish-out-of-water comedies. As a result, the reader feels sorry for him rather than admire or respect him.
I think a big reason why it is so hard to relate to the principle characters is that their life events and histories are presented to the readers by way of spoken dialogue rather than a character-building plot event. There is an old saying for scriptwriters: it is much more interesting to watch something happen than it is to hear about it. The same is somewhat true for novelists. If Adam spills his lifestory to Casey, who seems to be the only character able to illicit personal information from him, it is unlikely that the readers retain or absorb much of this material because of its indirect exposition.
Thankfully, there is some long-awaited development awaiting in the second half of the novel. After Adam and Casey are able to expose their personal feelings and histories to eachother, their characters become much more realistic and believable. (However, I still have a problem with the fact that Adam plays rugby but has a fear of swimming. But let's consider that a singular complaint.) The final chapter reveals everything that the readers have been waiting for regarding the subject material. Unfortunately, there is a good chance that you will have lost too many readers by then. In terms of narrative composition, I would suggest revising your story structure so that the readers have a better grasp of Adam's relationship with Nora. For instance, you could play with the story structure so that he dreams about Nora and his Da within the first half of the novel. And if I were you, I would consider finding a way to expose more about the Alice in an earlier chapter. The final chapter exists as a “payoff” chapter in that Adam unveils all of these secrets about her history. Unfortunately, the narrative tone of this informative chapter does not really match the absurdist comedy and romantic ideology of the main storyline. As a result, the material exposed in this concluding chapter is fairly random compared to the rest of the book, which is more about Adam's improbable pairing with the famous Casey than it is about the Alice 65.
---------
This is what creative people have to deal with every day -- assholes who think that since you didn't create in the way they would have, you didn't do it right. I've had others pull this crap on me, in the past, and I've just blown it off. This one? It's like I got spit on.
Well fuck that shit.
The title has an apostrophe in it, not a quotation mark.
The following is a cut and paste, including all of their typos.
-------------
THE ALICE '65
By Kyle Michel Sullivan
TITLE
The first thing that bothers me is the title. Is it supposed to contain a singular quotation mark? Rather than spark your readers' interests about the significance of the title, they are going to assume that the cover page contains a typo. And this is the type of discovery that will likely cause them to wonder about other mistakes in your manuscript.
FORMAT/MECHANICS
Using the same logic, I would suggest you scratch that comma clause “that Monday” in the first sentence. I understand that you incorporate into the text to specify the significance of events happening to Adam “that Monday”. But the commas guarding those two words throw your reader off. Is it necessary for your readers to break from their accelerating rate of reading in order to reflect that the story begins “that Monday”?
Regarding the overall application of commas in your narrative, there are a few inconsistencies that may bother most publishers. Because of the loquacious (and very British) narrative tone, there are many commas inserted into the text. While this does help the reader ease into this narrative style, it can be easy to put commas where they are not even needed. For instance, the narrator refers to an incidental detail regarding Adam's rugby injury: “as he rubbed a scrape on his chin, evidence of a rough rugby match with his mates, on Saturday” (pg. 5). That final comma bothers me because it is signifying incidental information within an incidental cause, which affects the tone and rhythm of narration. Another example of tone that is disrupted because of comma intrusion is Hakim's threatening remark: “The provenance better be right, this time” (pg. 10). Because of that punctuated hesitation, his demeanor instantly becomes less direct and more timid. Other stray observations regarding the overuse of commas:
• “he said, in German” (pg. 10).
• “and now the book had arrived, for consideration” (pg. 11).
• “for her to see what was blantantly obvious, to him” (pg. 12).
• “if a copy of the book had been offered, that year” (pg. 16).
• “to change it would be prohibitive, in cost” (pg. 26).
And so forth. As you can see, this is a frequent and pervalent characteristic of your storytelling that continuously affects the rhythm of your narrative.
Be sure to avoid run-on sentences as well. Not only are they grammatically incorrect, but they also personify your narrator as a rambling storyteller. For example: “Still, if the book he needed was down there he'd have no trouble proving his concerns about the Schedel, now he'd look inside her, so he yanked the lift's door and gate open and -” (pg. 13). In addition to be a grammatical nightmare, run-on sentences clutter the overall text with too many incidental phrases and misdirected thoughts. Be careful about them or else your narrator will start sounding like someone who has a problematic manner of telling stories.
A good editing technique that is particularly hard on novelists is reading the script aloud, ideally with an objective friend who has never read the story. This is a good way to check for overlong sentences and awkward phrasing. It also causes writers to check for misplaced or forgotten words such as “the Marshe-Crotons had done carry-on so (they) lent him . . .” (pg. 33). An example of a sentence that simply reads too long occurs at the end of page 88. It may not technically be a run-on sentence since there is only one subject and verb. But it does read so long that it becomes somewhat exhausting by the time the reader reaches the end of it. Awkward phrasing and faulty syntax are also easier to spot when read aloud: “He looked around to find there did used to be a phone, outside, but now the apparatus to hold it was empty” (pg. 138). It may not seem like bad syntax but consider how much clearer it reads as: “He looked around to find that there once was a phone outside, but now the space was vacant.” Again, it is usually best to avoid repetitive use of commas if it can be avoided.
Ironically, there are several instances when commas should be implemented, but are strangely absent: “Naturally(,) a maniac waiting on the inside lane . . .” (pg. 149).
COMPOSITION
The first reference of David, Adam's “snarly punk” older brother” is a bit messy and fumbled. It makes its way to the narration because of a punk couple sitting next to Adam on the flight to LA, which turns David into a passive and indirect character. If his personality and history are meant to have a lasting impression on your main character, then it feels as if he should have a more dynamic introduction.
Casey's explanation that her motivation for Adam's arrival to Los Angeles is hard to believe from the very start. She explains that he needs an escort for her big Hollywood premiere, even though her previous adaptation made “a billion bucks”. This premise is further complicated that Casey, a purported rising and established star in Hollywood, resorts to her own mother as her sole adviser and business manager. But there are so many improbable ironies that are presented once Casey reveals her true reason for requiring Adam's presence in LA. Why him? Why go all the way to England to provide an escort for a famous Hollywood actress? Why all the secrecy? Why didn't Vincent tell Adam? If this scenario was not the main motivator for Casey, then the readers may be willing to overlook this premise as fairy-tale fiction. But they will probably not be able to relate to the Cinderalla-based format in which a nebbish book collector is randomly selected to attend a Hollywood ball. The fact that Lando and Tito exist in the story as threats to Casey make it seem even more implausible that she doesn't have bodyguards or security detail.
The instant romantic connection between Casey and Adam seemingly becomes more improbable as the story progresses. It's problematic because it's a fish-out-of-water character study where the readers get to know more and more about Adam, but Casey remains a mystery. There is no explanation for her improbable infatuation with Adam partly because she is an established thrill seeker; and he is introduced to the readers as the complete opposite. True, he undergoes an almost instantaneous metamorphosis, accelerated by the drugs, alcohol, and thrill of fame. But, their union is too brief to believe her when she says, “He's unlike anyone I've ever been with.” The longer the readers get to Casey, the less likely it seems that she would choose someone like Adam to fan the flames of jealousy in Lando's direction.
The story tries very hard to get the readers to empathize with Adam, especially when he discovers that Casey still has feelings for Lando. But the drama in this sequence is damaged by the incessant bickering between Adam, Lando, and Veronica. Instead of betrayal, the readers are once again annoyed at Lando's simple-minded candor and mystified by Casey's ambivalence. If we are meant to empathize with Adam, then he should act as we would in such circumstances. Why doesn't he accuse Casey of her manipulation? Why does he even care about Lando's moral insensitivity? Adam's backstory is also in need of considerable development. The narration briefly references his family members from time to time, but you should not expect the readers to absorb any of this information unless it can be significantly developed. They are not going to remember that Nora dismissed him from her life, or that Connor nicknamed him “hobbit”, or the aftermath of his father's death. Those stories are not illustrated as significant plot events because they are only casually mentioned in the narration. In order for the readers to feel the pain and alienation of such incidents, it would help if the readers could experience them firsthand. For example, we all know how bad it hurts when someone else enables our affection and kisses somebody else. Therefore, we can actually empathize with Adam when he witnesses Casey and Lando making out. However, that sentiment is vanquished when he starts criticizing Lando's name and literacy. Who would resort to such trivial matters when there are matters of heartache and betrayal at hand?
DIALOGUE
“The Alice 65” is a dialogue-heavy concept. There is very little physical action moving the plot forward, so the composition relies heavily on character exposition and dialogue. As any fan of Woody Allen can tell you, the characters become much more interesting when they have interesting things to say. And if they don't have interesting things to say, then at least they should have an interesting way to say it. In order to make Casey, Adam, and Lando (as well as any other speaking character) more colorful, then you should resist conversation that features small talk (“So how long you known Case?”). Pleasant conversation in general tends to lead to awfully banal dialogue (“I'm so happy you're happy”) that fails to develop or evolve the speaking character.
Perhaps the most dreaded expression to cross a publisher's eyes is the acronym “OMG”. It's become a staple in English language thanks to its frequent usage in text conversations and social media. But are the readers supposed to imagine the characters actually saying, “O-M-G”? Or is it just meant to be an abbreviaiton for “Oh My God” (which seems the much more likely spoken sentiment)? In either case, “OMG” confuses the hell out of publishers, scriptreaders, and producers alike. I'd recommend picking a different exclamatory remark.
SUMMARY
Regarding the plotline and overall story structure, my best recommendation is to revise your premise so that it is not so hard to imagine or conceive. Since this book is formatted as a romantic comedy, it is very important that the readers believe in these characters and premise. Action-oriented stories exist on the strength of the drama and action residing within the conflict. But character-centered stories require a more intimate relationship between the characters and readers. If the readers doubt Casey's personality or reasons for entrapping Adam as her premiere date, then they will have trouble accepting her dialogue and actions throughout the entire novel. And since she is supposed to be an A-list celebrity, there are several conventions regarding her background that need to be explained. Why doesn't she have a publicist or agent forcing her to date another movie star? She briefly mentions that her date had to be a low-key personality, but that doesn't explain why she picked a nebbish British bookworm like Adam. Why does Orisi, who certainly revels in dressing his celebrities, seem to be okay with this? If he was truly a professional costume designer, he would be aghast at dressing people who cannot afford the cleaning bills. It may seem like a tedious complaint, but it becomes increasingly important as the plot progresses and the characters become more developed. The readers may be getting to know them better, but without a plausible premise, the story immensely suffers.
One idea is to incorporate some information into Casey's backstory so the readers can understand her reasons for choosing Adam, whom she never even met before coming to America. Her backstory could maybe include a horrific accident with the paparazzi. She was mentally scarred by the incident and refuses to let anything happen to anyone who might attract attention. This would explain why she chose an unknown like Adam instead of the next Bradley Cooper to escort her. It would also explain her virtual absence of a publicity staff. If this idea seems too far-fetched, then try to think of something to explain this highly unusual circumstance.
In summary, this is a feel-good, romantic comedy that could feel a lot better if the main charactes were provided with more developed background to make them more believable. This is especially true for Casey, who exists more as a teasing motivator than any sort of romantic interest. The first half of the novel is especially perplexing because the readers simply will not understand her situation: she is at the zenith of her career, yet she resorts to importing an English book collector to make her former lover and co-star jealous. Since she doesn't know much about her version of “Alice”, the readers are not likely to believe that she really wants to get the book back either. Adam, on the other hand, is presented with much clearer motivation. However, it is hard to take his character seriously since he mostly acts as Comedic Relief, which is typical for most fish-out-of-water comedies. As a result, the reader feels sorry for him rather than admire or respect him.
I think a big reason why it is so hard to relate to the principle characters is that their life events and histories are presented to the readers by way of spoken dialogue rather than a character-building plot event. There is an old saying for scriptwriters: it is much more interesting to watch something happen than it is to hear about it. The same is somewhat true for novelists. If Adam spills his lifestory to Casey, who seems to be the only character able to illicit personal information from him, it is unlikely that the readers retain or absorb much of this material because of its indirect exposition.
Thankfully, there is some long-awaited development awaiting in the second half of the novel. After Adam and Casey are able to expose their personal feelings and histories to eachother, their characters become much more realistic and believable. (However, I still have a problem with the fact that Adam plays rugby but has a fear of swimming. But let's consider that a singular complaint.) The final chapter reveals everything that the readers have been waiting for regarding the subject material. Unfortunately, there is a good chance that you will have lost too many readers by then. In terms of narrative composition, I would suggest revising your story structure so that the readers have a better grasp of Adam's relationship with Nora. For instance, you could play with the story structure so that he dreams about Nora and his Da within the first half of the novel. And if I were you, I would consider finding a way to expose more about the Alice in an earlier chapter. The final chapter exists as a “payoff” chapter in that Adam unveils all of these secrets about her history. Unfortunately, the narrative tone of this informative chapter does not really match the absurdist comedy and romantic ideology of the main storyline. As a result, the material exposed in this concluding chapter is fairly random compared to the rest of the book, which is more about Adam's improbable pairing with the famous Casey than it is about the Alice 65.
---------
This is what creative people have to deal with every day -- assholes who think that since you didn't create in the way they would have, you didn't do it right. I've had others pull this crap on me, in the past, and I've just blown it off. This one? It's like I got spit on.
Well fuck that shit.
