Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 154
April 25, 2018
A redo of "David Martin"
I got my hardcover copy of David Martin and it looks good. It's overpriced at $16.95, but I couldn't get the price any lower, with Ingram. What I can do, however, is offer it for sale through me at a 40% discount (and 55% through Ingram for dealers). I'm setting it up on ebay, which uses PayPal for payments, and am contacting libraries to see if they're interested in a copy. I'm also pulling the paperback from circulation.
I've set up ebay with The Alice '65 and The Vanishing of Owen Taylor, as well, both at 20% off but signed copies. I want to see if this will help sales of the books. OT hasn't done very well, and I don't want A65 to vanish into the thousands of books published every week, so I'm doing everything I can. Having three positive reviews for A65 is better than I got with OT, at the start.
I'm also pushing for more reviews through BookLife, Book Daily and GoodReads. Since A65 is a very mainstream book, I'm hoping that will work in its favor. OT having a gay protagonist as its detective seems to have caused the mystery-reading crowd to stay away. So...it's more of a niche book than I anticipated. Fine for me, but I was hoping Jake's story would be better read.
Of course, it could also be I'm just a crap writer.
I've set up ebay with The Alice '65 and The Vanishing of Owen Taylor, as well, both at 20% off but signed copies. I want to see if this will help sales of the books. OT hasn't done very well, and I don't want A65 to vanish into the thousands of books published every week, so I'm doing everything I can. Having three positive reviews for A65 is better than I got with OT, at the start.
I'm also pushing for more reviews through BookLife, Book Daily and GoodReads. Since A65 is a very mainstream book, I'm hoping that will work in its favor. OT having a gay protagonist as its detective seems to have caused the mystery-reading crowd to stay away. So...it's more of a niche book than I anticipated. Fine for me, but I was hoping Jake's story would be better read.
Of course, it could also be I'm just a crap writer.
April 24, 2018
Remembering to remember...
Something I keep forgetting is, Place of Safety is a massive undertaking. I'm in the middle of restructuring the outline so I will know what I do and don't need, for now...and I know I'll discard it as I find new ideas and details to add. Plus, I've got dozens of books on The Troubles to dig through for those details, not to mention Derry of the Past's facebook page and NICRA's and CAIN's websites and on and on...so yesterday as I was looking at it, I pictured myself facing this massive wave on the North Shore of Oahu, about to crash down on me...and me unable to swim. Gave me a monster headache.
I have to keep reminding myself, I'm not getting this done by the end of the year. Maybe I'll have a rough draft...very rough...but I need to keep aware enough to know it's only a start and doesn't need to be perfect. That's a bad habit I was in -- trying to make everything fit right in the first go-through then hone it...which doesn't work. At all. And is nothing but a waste of time and effort.
The great thing about doing The Alice '65 was seeing just how many times I'd gone through it and redone it and gotten feedback and redone it, again and again and again, with more feedback, and even as I was putting it to bed, ready for submission, I was still making small changes to improve it. And get rid of as many typos as possible. Something I've found is just plain impossible. It drove me to near insanity...but it also showed me aiming for it to be right from the beginning is a waste of time.
It's going to change as I write, and it will be what it is. I know people have told me that, before, and I've read it in books on writing, but the idea doesn't sink into anyone till it's ready to. And I mean emotionally, not just intellectually. I can understand something in my head, but if it doesn't make instinctive sense to me, I have all kinds of trouble with it, and I won't know why till I'm able to fit both sides together, in some way.
I'm going to have a lot of that turmoil working on this book, I know, because I'm heading into uncharted territory, for me. But at the same time, I'm focusing on the instinctive part of the story more than the intellectual...I think...because that's where Brendan's truth lies. That's why the outline is only the most basic map showing me the path of a very long journey.
So to keep from spinning into a Tasmanian Devil of a writer, that's all I'm going to focus on.
I have to keep reminding myself, I'm not getting this done by the end of the year. Maybe I'll have a rough draft...very rough...but I need to keep aware enough to know it's only a start and doesn't need to be perfect. That's a bad habit I was in -- trying to make everything fit right in the first go-through then hone it...which doesn't work. At all. And is nothing but a waste of time and effort.
The great thing about doing The Alice '65 was seeing just how many times I'd gone through it and redone it and gotten feedback and redone it, again and again and again, with more feedback, and even as I was putting it to bed, ready for submission, I was still making small changes to improve it. And get rid of as many typos as possible. Something I've found is just plain impossible. It drove me to near insanity...but it also showed me aiming for it to be right from the beginning is a waste of time.
It's going to change as I write, and it will be what it is. I know people have told me that, before, and I've read it in books on writing, but the idea doesn't sink into anyone till it's ready to. And I mean emotionally, not just intellectually. I can understand something in my head, but if it doesn't make instinctive sense to me, I have all kinds of trouble with it, and I won't know why till I'm able to fit both sides together, in some way.
I'm going to have a lot of that turmoil working on this book, I know, because I'm heading into uncharted territory, for me. But at the same time, I'm focusing on the instinctive part of the story more than the intellectual...I think...because that's where Brendan's truth lies. That's why the outline is only the most basic map showing me the path of a very long journey.
So to keep from spinning into a Tasmanian Devil of a writer, that's all I'm going to focus on.
April 22, 2018
Changes made...
I have a lot of work to do on Place of Safety, and I'm already honing in on it. First was one character's name -- Father Pat needed changing. Sounds like something out of a 1930s Boys Town movie starring Spencer Tracy and Jimmy Cagney...with a dash of Bing Crosby. He's now Father Jack, cozier than his real name, Father John, a hipster priest sent to Derry to take over for Father Demian, neither of whom Brendan really trusts of believes.
I'm also finding I need to solidify the timeline of the story before I do much more, right now. I had Brendan's brother, Eamonn, talking about the death of Martin Luther King Jr. in a section set in 1967. Not right, since King died in April 1968. I also had Brendan seeing Joanna for the first time on Shipquay Street and that didn't work. I like him seeing her the first time after working on Colm's father's taxi...which leads to all kinds of complications.
Something else I'm doing is updating my grammar. I got into this silly habit of putting a period after a dash, which is nonsensical. I'm also removing spaces around my ellipses; I like how that works a lot better. Plus, Derry of the Past is helping work out the logistics of Brendan's area prior to redevelopment. I have a map of the city from about 1946 or 47, and I know some of the houses on Nailors Row still existed in early 1972, but I think they were empty and there was nothing else around them except the city walls they faced. It's just, numerous roads were done away with during this period and others were redirected, completely, making it hard to work out what was where and when.
It's funny, but by tearing apart whole neighborhoods and resettling people left and right, the Protestants running Derry gave the Catholics pushing for equal rights even more ammunition...not just political but physical. When it came to slinging rocks, plenty were to be had; and the Rossville Flats gave the boys hurling petrol bombs (Molotov Cocktails) the high ground and put them pretty much out of the reach of the RUC and Army until they established an actual base on the top floor.
Talk about the law of unintended consequences...
I'm also finding I need to solidify the timeline of the story before I do much more, right now. I had Brendan's brother, Eamonn, talking about the death of Martin Luther King Jr. in a section set in 1967. Not right, since King died in April 1968. I also had Brendan seeing Joanna for the first time on Shipquay Street and that didn't work. I like him seeing her the first time after working on Colm's father's taxi...which leads to all kinds of complications.
Something else I'm doing is updating my grammar. I got into this silly habit of putting a period after a dash, which is nonsensical. I'm also removing spaces around my ellipses; I like how that works a lot better. Plus, Derry of the Past is helping work out the logistics of Brendan's area prior to redevelopment. I have a map of the city from about 1946 or 47, and I know some of the houses on Nailors Row still existed in early 1972, but I think they were empty and there was nothing else around them except the city walls they faced. It's just, numerous roads were done away with during this period and others were redirected, completely, making it hard to work out what was where and when.
It's funny, but by tearing apart whole neighborhoods and resettling people left and right, the Protestants running Derry gave the Catholics pushing for equal rights even more ammunition...not just political but physical. When it came to slinging rocks, plenty were to be had; and the Rossville Flats gave the boys hurling petrol bombs (Molotov Cocktails) the high ground and put them pretty much out of the reach of the RUC and Army until they established an actual base on the top floor.
Talk about the law of unintended consequences...
April 21, 2018
One last bit of Place of Safety...
I'm currently working through a new direction Brendan wants to take the story...not sure how I feel about it except it makes me nervous, which probably means I should follow it...but I'm still skittish.
Anyway, this is maybe fall, 1967...I haven't set the exact time, yet.
-------
I got started working on cars when Colm’s Da was having trouble with the heater in his black taxi. It was a cold day but not bitter, anymore, and he was parked near the bus landing jumping back and forth from under the bonnet to beneath the fascia to see why it wasn’t warming the ten year old piece of junk when Colm and I raced up. Ma had found my hiding spot for my scratch and taken it all as well as giving me a hiding for not handing it over, so I was bust and Colm thought he could beg a few schillings off him so we could pop over to Woollies for some hot cocoa.
But we found him in a foul temper, cursing and slamming his fist against the front wings of the car ... uh, fenders. Colm was of a mind to just let him be but I got a curiosity up and peeked under the bonnet to see what he’s doing.
“Don’t touch a thing, Brendan,” he snarled at me. “This bloody beast’s already jabbed me twice with shocks.”
“Isn’t it grounded?” I asked, not really knowing much about cars.
“Somewhere a wire’s touching metal, now and again. I think it’s shorted out the heater’s motor.”
That made no sense to me. In a lamp or radio, it’s easy to find a shorted wire. Why not in a car? Being small, I dropped to the ground and was able to slip under it to get a look.
Colm jumped into a rage. “Bloody hell, Bren. We’re not here for this!”
“Give us a minute, Colm.”
“You’ll bloody dirty yourself, and I’ll not be seen with you.”
“Since when are you a Teddy Boy?”
He kicked my shoes, for that. Teddies were notorious for being poofters after lads like Colm. He was already well on to being adult in body if not in brain. Me, I thought it odd him always talking about having to shave when I had little more than soft down about my chin, yet, and us near the same age.
Anyway, I got a look at what I later learned was the back of the core, and it was a holy mess of trash and half the floor rusted away, so I cleaned it away to get a better view and found a wire hanging there but not attached. I noticed a similar wire on the other side had a cover on it so, using my screwdriver, I put it back where I thought it went and pulled out from under the chassis to say, “Mr. Lemass, have you something to put over this wire down here? It’s missing a cover.”
He dropped to his belly to look under the car at me. “What d’you mean? Brendan, if you’ve made a muck of anything, I’ll box your fuckin’ ears.”
“Right here, see? There was a wire loose and caught in some twigs and leaves. It’s missing the cover.”
He looked hard and could just see what I was pointing to. “It’s a glove, the cover’s called,” he said. “Get out from under.”
I did and he started the car up and turned on the heater as I tried to brush off the mud and dirt and oil that’d caught my trousers. Colm looked me over, rolled his eyes and headed on without a word. No patience in that lad.
A bus came up from who knows where and an estate car parked behind us, in the area meant only for taxis. Mr. Lemass said nothing, just focused on the heater ... and in a moment, he almost smiled.
“It’s working, so far,” he said.
“I’d not run it till you put a glove on that,” I answered. “Not if the other wire has one.”
“Right you are.” And he turned off the heater and the motor, then he got a look at me. “Aw, Brendan, your Ma’s about to be right sore at you.”
The grease on my hands had only streaked when I tried to wipe it off on my trousers. Nothing massive, just obvious.
I shrugged. “They’ll wash.” Then I crouched down to dip my hands in some water in the gutter and looked up and saw an older lad lifting some bags into the estate car as a woman of maybe Ma’s age trudged up to the passenger side, both big and looking very much like mother and son.
And caught between them was this girl...silky golden hair drifting down her back to be caught in a chilly breeze, a tam-o-shanter atop her head, form enough to her body to make even the fur-tufted coat and colored stockings seem perfectly female on her. She handed a last parcel to the older lad, and then turned to reveal a perfect face of clean skin and rose-hued cheeks and eyes bright enough to fill a room with light. She caught a good look of me washing my hands in the filthy water, and I jolted to my feet at realizing the sight I must be making to her.
She almost laughed, her eyes dancing with humor and no judgment. Her lips red as cherries without the touch of rouge, without the touch of anything on her face that might hide her elegant complexion. I laughed back, spread my arms and shrugged as if to say, “I’m a slob.”
“Joanna!” The bark came from her mother, whose hard cold blue eyes glared at me. “In the back!”
She got in the estate car and her brother hopped behind the wheel, casting me a frown that seemed to mix both wariness and condescension. As they drove off, I heard her mother say, "It's not right to make fun of little street urchins."
"I wasn't," was all I heard her say back, and my heart went with her.
Then Mr. Lemass gently popped the back of my head, smiling. “You’re aiming high with that one.”
Embarrassed, I said, “I dunno what you mean.”
He just shook his head, still smiling, and tossed me half a crown. “I mean learn to keep yourself clean and smelling good. Drop by Wellworth’s; they’ll have something for that.”
“Birds really go for that?” I asked, using a word for girls that I’d seen in a movie.
“Never hurts. Hop in, I’ll drop you by.”
I looked at my now filthy clothes and for the first time caught the idea that maybe Colm had the right idea in keeping himself tidy. You never know who you’ll run into in Derry, and if I did chance to see her, again, it probably was better if I really was presentable.
“I’d best walk. Don’t want to mess your seats up.”
“You’re a daft one, Kinsella.”
“Well, the next time you need something fixed on your car, this daftie’ll probably handle it well enough.”
He laughed. “No doubt. But it is something you might consider. Looks as if you have the touch for it.”
“You think so?”
He nodded. “Good future in it. Cars’ll always need fixing.”
“What won’t? Thanks.” And I flipped the coin then headed on to Waterloo Place.
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Anyway, this is maybe fall, 1967...I haven't set the exact time, yet.
-------
I got started working on cars when Colm’s Da was having trouble with the heater in his black taxi. It was a cold day but not bitter, anymore, and he was parked near the bus landing jumping back and forth from under the bonnet to beneath the fascia to see why it wasn’t warming the ten year old piece of junk when Colm and I raced up. Ma had found my hiding spot for my scratch and taken it all as well as giving me a hiding for not handing it over, so I was bust and Colm thought he could beg a few schillings off him so we could pop over to Woollies for some hot cocoa.
But we found him in a foul temper, cursing and slamming his fist against the front wings of the car ... uh, fenders. Colm was of a mind to just let him be but I got a curiosity up and peeked under the bonnet to see what he’s doing.
“Don’t touch a thing, Brendan,” he snarled at me. “This bloody beast’s already jabbed me twice with shocks.”
“Isn’t it grounded?” I asked, not really knowing much about cars.
“Somewhere a wire’s touching metal, now and again. I think it’s shorted out the heater’s motor.”
That made no sense to me. In a lamp or radio, it’s easy to find a shorted wire. Why not in a car? Being small, I dropped to the ground and was able to slip under it to get a look.
Colm jumped into a rage. “Bloody hell, Bren. We’re not here for this!”
“Give us a minute, Colm.”
“You’ll bloody dirty yourself, and I’ll not be seen with you.”
“Since when are you a Teddy Boy?”
He kicked my shoes, for that. Teddies were notorious for being poofters after lads like Colm. He was already well on to being adult in body if not in brain. Me, I thought it odd him always talking about having to shave when I had little more than soft down about my chin, yet, and us near the same age.
Anyway, I got a look at what I later learned was the back of the core, and it was a holy mess of trash and half the floor rusted away, so I cleaned it away to get a better view and found a wire hanging there but not attached. I noticed a similar wire on the other side had a cover on it so, using my screwdriver, I put it back where I thought it went and pulled out from under the chassis to say, “Mr. Lemass, have you something to put over this wire down here? It’s missing a cover.”
He dropped to his belly to look under the car at me. “What d’you mean? Brendan, if you’ve made a muck of anything, I’ll box your fuckin’ ears.”
“Right here, see? There was a wire loose and caught in some twigs and leaves. It’s missing the cover.”
He looked hard and could just see what I was pointing to. “It’s a glove, the cover’s called,” he said. “Get out from under.”
I did and he started the car up and turned on the heater as I tried to brush off the mud and dirt and oil that’d caught my trousers. Colm looked me over, rolled his eyes and headed on without a word. No patience in that lad.
A bus came up from who knows where and an estate car parked behind us, in the area meant only for taxis. Mr. Lemass said nothing, just focused on the heater ... and in a moment, he almost smiled.
“It’s working, so far,” he said.
“I’d not run it till you put a glove on that,” I answered. “Not if the other wire has one.”
“Right you are.” And he turned off the heater and the motor, then he got a look at me. “Aw, Brendan, your Ma’s about to be right sore at you.”
The grease on my hands had only streaked when I tried to wipe it off on my trousers. Nothing massive, just obvious.
I shrugged. “They’ll wash.” Then I crouched down to dip my hands in some water in the gutter and looked up and saw an older lad lifting some bags into the estate car as a woman of maybe Ma’s age trudged up to the passenger side, both big and looking very much like mother and son.
And caught between them was this girl...silky golden hair drifting down her back to be caught in a chilly breeze, a tam-o-shanter atop her head, form enough to her body to make even the fur-tufted coat and colored stockings seem perfectly female on her. She handed a last parcel to the older lad, and then turned to reveal a perfect face of clean skin and rose-hued cheeks and eyes bright enough to fill a room with light. She caught a good look of me washing my hands in the filthy water, and I jolted to my feet at realizing the sight I must be making to her.
She almost laughed, her eyes dancing with humor and no judgment. Her lips red as cherries without the touch of rouge, without the touch of anything on her face that might hide her elegant complexion. I laughed back, spread my arms and shrugged as if to say, “I’m a slob.”
“Joanna!” The bark came from her mother, whose hard cold blue eyes glared at me. “In the back!”
She got in the estate car and her brother hopped behind the wheel, casting me a frown that seemed to mix both wariness and condescension. As they drove off, I heard her mother say, "It's not right to make fun of little street urchins."
"I wasn't," was all I heard her say back, and my heart went with her.
Then Mr. Lemass gently popped the back of my head, smiling. “You’re aiming high with that one.”
Embarrassed, I said, “I dunno what you mean.”
He just shook his head, still smiling, and tossed me half a crown. “I mean learn to keep yourself clean and smelling good. Drop by Wellworth’s; they’ll have something for that.”
“Birds really go for that?” I asked, using a word for girls that I’d seen in a movie.
“Never hurts. Hop in, I’ll drop you by.”
I looked at my now filthy clothes and for the first time caught the idea that maybe Colm had the right idea in keeping himself tidy. You never know who you’ll run into in Derry, and if I did chance to see her, again, it probably was better if I really was presentable.
“I’d best walk. Don’t want to mess your seats up.”
“You’re a daft one, Kinsella.”
“Well, the next time you need something fixed on your car, this daftie’ll probably handle it well enough.”
He laughed. “No doubt. But it is something you might consider. Looks as if you have the touch for it.”
“You think so?”
He nodded. “Good future in it. Cars’ll always need fixing.”
“What won’t? Thanks.” And I flipped the coin then headed on to Waterloo Place.
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April 20, 2018
A bit more P/S...
This takes place just before the previous post, just after Brendan's turned 14; Danny and another friend, Colm, came to blows over a stupid comment Colm made...
-----
I managed to catch up to Danny on the Creegan pitch. It was misting and chilled close to cold, but he’d just shoved his hands in his pockets and juggered on through it. His hair shined from the moisture and his skin gleamed, almost softening the hard look on his face. A Saracen was parked in the middle of it all and the field was torn up from its running about, but Danny seemed not to care.
“What the devil’s got into you?” I asked him. “Colm meant nothing by that. He’s just happy there’s something for him to do and — ”
“Then let him do it,” he snapped at me. “And you keep on with working both sides of the fence.”
“Oi! Just because somebody’s Protestant doesn’t mean they’re an arsehole.”
“You say that ‘cause of that little tart you got.”
I shoved him, nearly sent him to the ground. “You’re not to say a word about her! She’s a decent girl!”
He gave me a look so deep with hurt and sadness, I felt the bastard for being angry with him.
“It’s not just Protestants who’re arseholes, Bren. I know that. Christ, do I know it.”
“Danny — what’re you going on about?”
“Nothing. Nothing.”
“Has it something to do with Father Pat?”
“What’s he to do with anything?”
“Father Demian then?” I only asked that as a last chance at getting him to tell me his trouble, but you’d have thought I’d shot him. He gave me the flash of a look, the same kind as I’d seen once in a stray cat that’d been cornered by dogs, wild and terrified and ready to spin into madness if it’d save itself — or at least it would take a couple of the damned growlers with him. And it stabbed into me, deep. And then it was gone and covered with his usual sullen glare.
“And he has less to do with me, now, him being sent to America.”
“I heard he’s in England.” I hate to repeat gossip, but sometimes it’s necessary to get to the base of things.
And sure enough, that wild look flashed over him, again, and this time it caused him to catch his breath. “Says who?”
“Mrs. Dougherty — Father Pat’s housekeeper. She says he’s made a number of trunk calls to Nottingham, just to see how things’re going, as it were.”
He sat on a fence post that’d been pushed half over by a Saracen and lit a fag. And the thousand yards stare filled his eyes. For the first time since I’d known him, I was afraid for him...and a bit of him.
“You and Father Demian were close,” I said, real careful.
“You never liked him, did you?” I shrugged. He looked at me. “I can’t tell if you like Father Pat or not.”
“He’s all right,” I said. Danny kept looking at me, so I shrugged, again. “I just — well, it hits me sometimes that his actions don’t match his words.”
“They don’t, do they?” He offered me the fag. I took a drag off it and handed it back. He smiled. “You ever gonna buy your own ciggies?”
“All I ever want’s a puff, now and again. And it’s you offered.”
“Aye.” He kept smoking and sent a harsh glare the way of the Saracen.
“Careful, lad,” I said. “They’re the only thing standing between Free Derry and the RUC.”
“They won’t, for long.” And I knew he was right. Something about the attitudes of the British Army was hinting that they weren’t happy to be pushing back against their fellow “Englishmen,” as if the Paisley-ites give a damn about them. But there’d been incidents of lads being roughed up while searched and good long chats between British commanders and the upper-level constables. Some lads said it looked too much like they were giving ear to the Unionists whilst ignoring those they’d come to protect, and only a fool wouldn’t see the point as valid. “It’s like they’re waiting for an excuse to show the world a bunch of Paddies can’t shove anybody around.”
“I hope the excuse doesn’t come.”
“You would. You’re willing to trust people, still. Believe them.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as that — ”
“Bren — you know as well as me that Father Pat’s a two-faced bastard, but you’ll coach your opinion to allow him some benefit of the doubt.”
“Are you angry with him for taking over for Father Demian?”
“No, that bastard can rot for all I care. I’m pissed at him for lying about it, and making me the liar for it.”
“Christ, Danny, what happened?”
He give a long terrible sigh and said, “If I told you, you’d not believe me. There’s nights I think, maybe I don’t believe me. Maybe it was all just a bad dream. A child’s fantasy.” He sighed and kept a long silence, then said, “Nottingham, you say?”
“About what?”
“Father Demian.”
“It’s information come to me third hand. I don’t know it for a fact.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. All they’d want to do is move him to another parish and — ” His voice trailed off and he sat in silence. And I had no idea what to say, so I just stood there by him, waiting. He let me have another drag on the ciggie then looked at me, almost sad. “You never were his acolyte.”
“Father Demian’s?” I asked. He nodded. “Never wanted to be.”
“Keep that wariness about you, Bren. Believe me that no one cares for the other, not truly, not when it means something more than words.”
“Danny, what happened between you and Father Demian?”
“Father Devil’s more like it.”
And finally I understood, and could think of nothing to say. Danny saw it in my eyes — shock and disbelief, I’m sure, as well as concern for me China. He wrapped his arms tighter around him and looked away from me. “I didn’t tell ya. You know that — I didn’t tell ya.”
“But didn’t the church — ?”
“They called me a liar. The devil stood there, hand on a bible, and spit in the face of God to swear his innocence. Father Pat backin’ him up.” He glanced at me, and the pain in his face cut me to the core. He almost snarled in a voice filled with tears, “You’re not to tell anyone of this.” All I could do was shake my head in agreement. He nodded and his thousand yards stare shot across the field. “I know I didn’t have to say it. You see things, but you don’t say much. You keep your own counsel. That’s good.”
“Danny...”
He waved a hand to silence me. We stood there in the chill, saying nothing for several minutes. I didn’t look straight at him, not once. I felt he’d have shattered if I had. But it was a horrible silence between us, just then, and it tore into me. The thoughts that must have been going through his head. The ideas in his mind caught in anger and hate, and not just at the priest...no, priests, for if Father Pat had taken sides against Danny, and him knowing how close Danny was to having no control, then he was just as guilty of anything that man had done, just as if he’d done it, himself. And the thought of that made me near ill.
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-----
I managed to catch up to Danny on the Creegan pitch. It was misting and chilled close to cold, but he’d just shoved his hands in his pockets and juggered on through it. His hair shined from the moisture and his skin gleamed, almost softening the hard look on his face. A Saracen was parked in the middle of it all and the field was torn up from its running about, but Danny seemed not to care.
“What the devil’s got into you?” I asked him. “Colm meant nothing by that. He’s just happy there’s something for him to do and — ”
“Then let him do it,” he snapped at me. “And you keep on with working both sides of the fence.”
“Oi! Just because somebody’s Protestant doesn’t mean they’re an arsehole.”
“You say that ‘cause of that little tart you got.”
I shoved him, nearly sent him to the ground. “You’re not to say a word about her! She’s a decent girl!”
He gave me a look so deep with hurt and sadness, I felt the bastard for being angry with him.
“It’s not just Protestants who’re arseholes, Bren. I know that. Christ, do I know it.”
“Danny — what’re you going on about?”
“Nothing. Nothing.”
“Has it something to do with Father Pat?”
“What’s he to do with anything?”
“Father Demian then?” I only asked that as a last chance at getting him to tell me his trouble, but you’d have thought I’d shot him. He gave me the flash of a look, the same kind as I’d seen once in a stray cat that’d been cornered by dogs, wild and terrified and ready to spin into madness if it’d save itself — or at least it would take a couple of the damned growlers with him. And it stabbed into me, deep. And then it was gone and covered with his usual sullen glare.
“And he has less to do with me, now, him being sent to America.”
“I heard he’s in England.” I hate to repeat gossip, but sometimes it’s necessary to get to the base of things.
And sure enough, that wild look flashed over him, again, and this time it caused him to catch his breath. “Says who?”
“Mrs. Dougherty — Father Pat’s housekeeper. She says he’s made a number of trunk calls to Nottingham, just to see how things’re going, as it were.”
He sat on a fence post that’d been pushed half over by a Saracen and lit a fag. And the thousand yards stare filled his eyes. For the first time since I’d known him, I was afraid for him...and a bit of him.
“You and Father Demian were close,” I said, real careful.
“You never liked him, did you?” I shrugged. He looked at me. “I can’t tell if you like Father Pat or not.”
“He’s all right,” I said. Danny kept looking at me, so I shrugged, again. “I just — well, it hits me sometimes that his actions don’t match his words.”
“They don’t, do they?” He offered me the fag. I took a drag off it and handed it back. He smiled. “You ever gonna buy your own ciggies?”
“All I ever want’s a puff, now and again. And it’s you offered.”
“Aye.” He kept smoking and sent a harsh glare the way of the Saracen.
“Careful, lad,” I said. “They’re the only thing standing between Free Derry and the RUC.”
“They won’t, for long.” And I knew he was right. Something about the attitudes of the British Army was hinting that they weren’t happy to be pushing back against their fellow “Englishmen,” as if the Paisley-ites give a damn about them. But there’d been incidents of lads being roughed up while searched and good long chats between British commanders and the upper-level constables. Some lads said it looked too much like they were giving ear to the Unionists whilst ignoring those they’d come to protect, and only a fool wouldn’t see the point as valid. “It’s like they’re waiting for an excuse to show the world a bunch of Paddies can’t shove anybody around.”
“I hope the excuse doesn’t come.”
“You would. You’re willing to trust people, still. Believe them.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as that — ”
“Bren — you know as well as me that Father Pat’s a two-faced bastard, but you’ll coach your opinion to allow him some benefit of the doubt.”
“Are you angry with him for taking over for Father Demian?”
“No, that bastard can rot for all I care. I’m pissed at him for lying about it, and making me the liar for it.”
“Christ, Danny, what happened?”
He give a long terrible sigh and said, “If I told you, you’d not believe me. There’s nights I think, maybe I don’t believe me. Maybe it was all just a bad dream. A child’s fantasy.” He sighed and kept a long silence, then said, “Nottingham, you say?”
“About what?”
“Father Demian.”
“It’s information come to me third hand. I don’t know it for a fact.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. All they’d want to do is move him to another parish and — ” His voice trailed off and he sat in silence. And I had no idea what to say, so I just stood there by him, waiting. He let me have another drag on the ciggie then looked at me, almost sad. “You never were his acolyte.”
“Father Demian’s?” I asked. He nodded. “Never wanted to be.”
“Keep that wariness about you, Bren. Believe me that no one cares for the other, not truly, not when it means something more than words.”
“Danny, what happened between you and Father Demian?”
“Father Devil’s more like it.”
And finally I understood, and could think of nothing to say. Danny saw it in my eyes — shock and disbelief, I’m sure, as well as concern for me China. He wrapped his arms tighter around him and looked away from me. “I didn’t tell ya. You know that — I didn’t tell ya.”
“But didn’t the church — ?”
“They called me a liar. The devil stood there, hand on a bible, and spit in the face of God to swear his innocence. Father Pat backin’ him up.” He glanced at me, and the pain in his face cut me to the core. He almost snarled in a voice filled with tears, “You’re not to tell anyone of this.” All I could do was shake my head in agreement. He nodded and his thousand yards stare shot across the field. “I know I didn’t have to say it. You see things, but you don’t say much. You keep your own counsel. That’s good.”
“Danny...”
He waved a hand to silence me. We stood there in the chill, saying nothing for several minutes. I didn’t look straight at him, not once. I felt he’d have shattered if I had. But it was a horrible silence between us, just then, and it tore into me. The thoughts that must have been going through his head. The ideas in his mind caught in anger and hate, and not just at the priest...no, priests, for if Father Pat had taken sides against Danny, and him knowing how close Danny was to having no control, then he was just as guilty of anything that man had done, just as if he’d done it, himself. And the thought of that made me near ill.
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April 19, 2018
Some of Place of Safety...
This is late Spring, 1970, Brendan is 14:
----
Two months after we'd moved to Clíodhna Place, Eamonn came home from Belfast, his clothes bearing the scent of burned wood and rubber. And he announced he was not returning to Queens.
"Everyone's mad, there," he said, his voice holding a quiver in it I'd never heard before. "It's naught but abuse and anger from all in control, and the Army listens only to them. I can't get to me classes without being rousted five times, each way, and all but spat upon for being Catholic."
Mairead was home from Tilly's and asked, "Could you go on to Trinity?"
"Be run off from my home?" he snapped at her. "I think not."
"True," Ma said. "You've never been the sort to back down or give in to those who hate us." Then she shot me a glance, and it seems I was the only one to see it. I paid no attention. By now, I was used to her disdain.
Rhuari asked him, "Then what're you gonna do?"
"I...I have some possibilities," he said, then ended the discussion by wondering about dinner.
Mairead hopped down to McClosky's for some fish as I peeled some potatoes to boil, and Eamonn marveled over how easy it was to fix meals with the new kitchen. Ma fussed about him and made him sit at the table with a cup of tea as she worked, as if he were man of the house, and finally he noticed I'd yet to say a word to him beyond hello.
"You're quiet, Bren," he murmured to me, smiling.
I gave him a shrug and focused on the spuds. And for some reason, my bloody cough started up. Not major just...just occasional, but enough to irritate me. I finished and set them to cooking, then went back to the parlor to work on an ancient Royal typewriter Mr. Connelly had brought to me. The sticking keys he was having problems with were just him not doing a good job of removing the oil-dabbled dust between the levers, over the years. As a courtesy, I had also checked the teeth on the tab key and now was cleaning the ink tape fibers from the letters. For this, I'd make a pound...and all would go to Ma, since she knew of it from the start.
I had myself set up on a cloth laid over the two bottom steps of the staircase, giving me a level spot to both work and sit. Eamonn brought his tea and another cup in and sat on the floor next to me, his eyes soft and careful. He put the second cup on the step. We could hear Ma jostling about in the kitchen.
"You didn't get any tea," he whispered.
It shrugged then took the second cup, and it was done as I like it. I smiled at him.
He smiled back, and struck me so much as someone much older, I had to focus on the tea to keep from gasping. "Don't you like my decision?" he asked.
"There's more 'n what you're tellin' us," I whispered back.
He nodded and was about to say something, but Mairead returned and nearly knocked him aside when she bolted in.
"Jesus, Eamonn, what're you sitting in the door, for?" she snapped.
"Sharing a cuppa with Bren."
"You could put yourself up three steps to do that and be out of the way, if you gave it a moment's thought!" Then she headed on to the kitchen.
He chuckled, rose, and followed her into the kitchen, saying, "Does Terry know he's getting a girl who's nothing if not always in a rush?"
We didn't speak again till I was in bed and he joined me, freshly washed. "What a joy to have hot water in the tap, eh? And a toilet inside." he murmured as he joined me in the bed. "You mind sharing your bed with me?"
I shook my head and looked out the window, at the back of Mr. Carroway's. "The view was better on Nailors," I said.
"What's the trouble, Bren?"
I looked at him. He was back to seeming like good old Eamonn, again.
"I read the papers," I said, soft and easy so as not to wake Rhuari and Kirean. "Mr. Hennessy -- he's the clerk at the news agent's -- he lets me for having fixed his bicycle. The bloody thing's older than me and..." My voice trailed off. I coughed.
"And?" whispered from Eamonn.
I took a deep breath. "There were fires in the Ardoyne and Short Strand, in Belfast. Catholics burned out. People on both sides shot. Nothing near to Queens. But I can smell it all in your coat. And I hear PIRA's been -- "
He held up his hand to stop me. Did not look at me. His voice was tight as he said, "I have never known you to be one who spreads gossip."
"I only say this, 'cause I'm scared for you." He noticed my words quivered and turned his gaze upon me. I kept on with, "I feel like I did when you were goin' on that long walk and...and I don't want you hurt, again. Seeing you in hospital, like that...like you were that time...I'm scared for you."
He leaned up on one arm. Put his hand on my shoulder. "I've always wondered what you really think about the rest of us. You're so quiet. So focused on what you do. Sometimes it felt as if you were looking down on the rest of the family."
"Eamonn!" It jolted me that he said such a thing.
"I know better, now. I'm sorry for having ever thought it. I can't tell you anything more than...than I did not return to Queens in January. The IRA's cowardice in the face of what's been happening...it had to be remedied. And so...it is."
Oh, Jesus... "Can I help you in some way?"
He looked at me, deep in thought. His face took back the expression of someone far older, then he said, "Do you...have you already built some fresh hiding spaces in this place? For to keep your money?"
I nodded. "It wasn't easy, believe me. Ma kept a sharp eye on me, expecting it."
"Is one big enough for this?"
He shifted off the bed and dug into his bag to pull out a felt wrapper...and inside it was a pistol.
I gulped in air and slapped my hand over my mouth to keep from saying anything. He knelt by the bed and set it on the covers, his eyes locked on me.
I looked at him and whispered, "How'd you get it past the checkpoints?"
A crooked smile crossed his face. "I didn't come home the usual route. And it's not mine; I'm keeping it for a friend."
"It's too big for any of my spaces. Have you a match?"
He pulled a box from his bag. I struck one and looked the pistol over, carefully.
"It can come apart, easy enough," I murmured. "I could spread it about."
"Could you?"
In answer, I slipped off the bed to get my screwdrivers, but Eamonn stopped me and moved the pistol to the window for a bit better light then he proceeded to dismantle it.
First he ejected the bullet clip then pulled the slide to rear to make sure it was empty, cocked it, pushed a tiny button on the right side of it, shifted the sliding part back to release a lever -- a slide-stop. When he removed that, the pistol nearly exploded apart. He grimaced. "Forgot you have to hold it tight for the spring."
Now I knew why he hadn't returned to Queens. I began to cough, again.
He took a section off the main grip then removed the barrel and bushings. In moments, the pistol was in pieces. The grip was still on the large side, so I removed the wood panels on each side, then I snuck them downstairs and used bits of wax paper from a fish and ships takeaway dinner, adding a bit of oil from the larder to wrap the pieces in while leaving the felt bag to hold the barrel and recoil bits. I put the felt bag and recoil bits in a small space behind the frame of the pantry door.
Then I slipped under the sink and pulled away a fake slat by the water pipe to hide the slide and stop. I kept the pistol grip, magazine and sear until the morning, when Ma was downstairs fixing breakfast. I snuck into her room, found a small groove I'd made, and pulled at it. Part of the sill dropped down to reveal a hole in the wall. I hid the last of the pistol in there.
Later in the morning, Eamonn took me aside and asked for me to show him where everything was hidden, and I wouldn't.
"Better if you don't know," I said, my true intention being never to let him near that thing, again.
----
Two months after we'd moved to Clíodhna Place, Eamonn came home from Belfast, his clothes bearing the scent of burned wood and rubber. And he announced he was not returning to Queens.
"Everyone's mad, there," he said, his voice holding a quiver in it I'd never heard before. "It's naught but abuse and anger from all in control, and the Army listens only to them. I can't get to me classes without being rousted five times, each way, and all but spat upon for being Catholic."
Mairead was home from Tilly's and asked, "Could you go on to Trinity?"
"Be run off from my home?" he snapped at her. "I think not."
"True," Ma said. "You've never been the sort to back down or give in to those who hate us." Then she shot me a glance, and it seems I was the only one to see it. I paid no attention. By now, I was used to her disdain.
Rhuari asked him, "Then what're you gonna do?"
"I...I have some possibilities," he said, then ended the discussion by wondering about dinner.
Mairead hopped down to McClosky's for some fish as I peeled some potatoes to boil, and Eamonn marveled over how easy it was to fix meals with the new kitchen. Ma fussed about him and made him sit at the table with a cup of tea as she worked, as if he were man of the house, and finally he noticed I'd yet to say a word to him beyond hello.
"You're quiet, Bren," he murmured to me, smiling.
I gave him a shrug and focused on the spuds. And for some reason, my bloody cough started up. Not major just...just occasional, but enough to irritate me. I finished and set them to cooking, then went back to the parlor to work on an ancient Royal typewriter Mr. Connelly had brought to me. The sticking keys he was having problems with were just him not doing a good job of removing the oil-dabbled dust between the levers, over the years. As a courtesy, I had also checked the teeth on the tab key and now was cleaning the ink tape fibers from the letters. For this, I'd make a pound...and all would go to Ma, since she knew of it from the start.
I had myself set up on a cloth laid over the two bottom steps of the staircase, giving me a level spot to both work and sit. Eamonn brought his tea and another cup in and sat on the floor next to me, his eyes soft and careful. He put the second cup on the step. We could hear Ma jostling about in the kitchen.
"You didn't get any tea," he whispered.
It shrugged then took the second cup, and it was done as I like it. I smiled at him.
He smiled back, and struck me so much as someone much older, I had to focus on the tea to keep from gasping. "Don't you like my decision?" he asked.
"There's more 'n what you're tellin' us," I whispered back.
He nodded and was about to say something, but Mairead returned and nearly knocked him aside when she bolted in.
"Jesus, Eamonn, what're you sitting in the door, for?" she snapped.
"Sharing a cuppa with Bren."
"You could put yourself up three steps to do that and be out of the way, if you gave it a moment's thought!" Then she headed on to the kitchen.
He chuckled, rose, and followed her into the kitchen, saying, "Does Terry know he's getting a girl who's nothing if not always in a rush?"
We didn't speak again till I was in bed and he joined me, freshly washed. "What a joy to have hot water in the tap, eh? And a toilet inside." he murmured as he joined me in the bed. "You mind sharing your bed with me?"
I shook my head and looked out the window, at the back of Mr. Carroway's. "The view was better on Nailors," I said.
"What's the trouble, Bren?"
I looked at him. He was back to seeming like good old Eamonn, again.
"I read the papers," I said, soft and easy so as not to wake Rhuari and Kirean. "Mr. Hennessy -- he's the clerk at the news agent's -- he lets me for having fixed his bicycle. The bloody thing's older than me and..." My voice trailed off. I coughed.
"And?" whispered from Eamonn.
I took a deep breath. "There were fires in the Ardoyne and Short Strand, in Belfast. Catholics burned out. People on both sides shot. Nothing near to Queens. But I can smell it all in your coat. And I hear PIRA's been -- "
He held up his hand to stop me. Did not look at me. His voice was tight as he said, "I have never known you to be one who spreads gossip."
"I only say this, 'cause I'm scared for you." He noticed my words quivered and turned his gaze upon me. I kept on with, "I feel like I did when you were goin' on that long walk and...and I don't want you hurt, again. Seeing you in hospital, like that...like you were that time...I'm scared for you."
He leaned up on one arm. Put his hand on my shoulder. "I've always wondered what you really think about the rest of us. You're so quiet. So focused on what you do. Sometimes it felt as if you were looking down on the rest of the family."
"Eamonn!" It jolted me that he said such a thing.
"I know better, now. I'm sorry for having ever thought it. I can't tell you anything more than...than I did not return to Queens in January. The IRA's cowardice in the face of what's been happening...it had to be remedied. And so...it is."
Oh, Jesus... "Can I help you in some way?"
He looked at me, deep in thought. His face took back the expression of someone far older, then he said, "Do you...have you already built some fresh hiding spaces in this place? For to keep your money?"
I nodded. "It wasn't easy, believe me. Ma kept a sharp eye on me, expecting it."
"Is one big enough for this?"
He shifted off the bed and dug into his bag to pull out a felt wrapper...and inside it was a pistol.
I gulped in air and slapped my hand over my mouth to keep from saying anything. He knelt by the bed and set it on the covers, his eyes locked on me.
I looked at him and whispered, "How'd you get it past the checkpoints?"
A crooked smile crossed his face. "I didn't come home the usual route. And it's not mine; I'm keeping it for a friend."
"It's too big for any of my spaces. Have you a match?"
He pulled a box from his bag. I struck one and looked the pistol over, carefully.
"It can come apart, easy enough," I murmured. "I could spread it about."
"Could you?"
In answer, I slipped off the bed to get my screwdrivers, but Eamonn stopped me and moved the pistol to the window for a bit better light then he proceeded to dismantle it.
First he ejected the bullet clip then pulled the slide to rear to make sure it was empty, cocked it, pushed a tiny button on the right side of it, shifted the sliding part back to release a lever -- a slide-stop. When he removed that, the pistol nearly exploded apart. He grimaced. "Forgot you have to hold it tight for the spring."
Now I knew why he hadn't returned to Queens. I began to cough, again.
He took a section off the main grip then removed the barrel and bushings. In moments, the pistol was in pieces. The grip was still on the large side, so I removed the wood panels on each side, then I snuck them downstairs and used bits of wax paper from a fish and ships takeaway dinner, adding a bit of oil from the larder to wrap the pieces in while leaving the felt bag to hold the barrel and recoil bits. I put the felt bag and recoil bits in a small space behind the frame of the pantry door.
Then I slipped under the sink and pulled away a fake slat by the water pipe to hide the slide and stop. I kept the pistol grip, magazine and sear until the morning, when Ma was downstairs fixing breakfast. I snuck into her room, found a small groove I'd made, and pulled at it. Part of the sill dropped down to reveal a hole in the wall. I hid the last of the pistol in there.
Later in the morning, Eamonn took me aside and asked for me to show him where everything was hidden, and I wouldn't.
"Better if you don't know," I said, my true intention being never to let him near that thing, again.
April 18, 2018
Working my way back into P/S...
I'm reading Philip Cunningham's Reflections of Derry, again, which takes place between 1960 to around the late 80s. It's an easy step back into the period with a man who seemed not to be touched very harshly by the Troubles...a gentle book with soft reminiscences and lots of photos.
I've also reconnected with Derry of the Past on Facebook and am asking questions about things I see in the images posted. There are also videos of the time posted on the site, like one of Derry in 68/69 that shows a glimpse of Nailors Row still being in place.
I'm not sure why that particular street has become part of Brendan's story, but it's been there from the start. Here's an image from about the same time showing the last of the houses, in the background, with Walker's Monument standing above them.
I like the feel of this photo. It fits in with a bit I've already written, in the story, when Brendan's walking alone after having witnessed his older brother, Eamonn, sneaking off to meet up with a married woman.
It's afternoon and foggy, and he hears some boys running up then past him as they're chased by constables...and one is Danny, a friend. He calls Danny over to hide, then they walk to Grianan Aileach to meet up with the other boys. They've found a smuggler's spot so are smoking their cigarettes and pot and drinking their whisky, and getting royally whacked out...until the smugglers show up.
Brendan's just fourteen...and already drifting apart from everyone...until later in the year, when things suddenly heat up.
I've also reconnected with Derry of the Past on Facebook and am asking questions about things I see in the images posted. There are also videos of the time posted on the site, like one of Derry in 68/69 that shows a glimpse of Nailors Row still being in place.
I'm not sure why that particular street has become part of Brendan's story, but it's been there from the start. Here's an image from about the same time showing the last of the houses, in the background, with Walker's Monument standing above them.I like the feel of this photo. It fits in with a bit I've already written, in the story, when Brendan's walking alone after having witnessed his older brother, Eamonn, sneaking off to meet up with a married woman.
It's afternoon and foggy, and he hears some boys running up then past him as they're chased by constables...and one is Danny, a friend. He calls Danny over to hide, then they walk to Grianan Aileach to meet up with the other boys. They've found a smuggler's spot so are smoking their cigarettes and pot and drinking their whisky, and getting royally whacked out...until the smugglers show up.
Brendan's just fourteen...and already drifting apart from everyone...until later in the year, when things suddenly heat up.
April 17, 2018
The Philosophical Research Society...
I stole this from Wikipedia...
The Philosophical Research Society, Inc. (P.R.S.) is an American nonprofit organization founded in 1934, by Manly Palmer Hall, to promote the study of the world's wisdom literature. Hall believed the accumulated wisdom of mankind is the birthright of every individual, and built the facility to serve the general public to this end.
Its current president is Obadiah S. Harris, Ph.D.[1] Under Dr. Harris, in 2000[2] PRS created a subsidiary which is doing business as the University of Philosophical Research. The University offers two nationally accredited Master’s programs (M.A. in Consciousness Studies and M.A. in Transformational Psychology) and a newly approved (as of 2014) Bachelor of Arts program in Liberal Studies. All degree programs are online.[3]
It maintains a research library of over 50,000 volumes, and also sells and publishes metaphysical and spiritual books, mostly those authored by Hall.
Its headquarters are in Los Angeles, California. The building at 3910 Los Feliz Boulevard in the Los Feliz neighborhood was designed by architect Robert Stacy-Judd and designated as a Los Angeles Historic Cultural Monument.[4]-----
...and this from their own page...
As elementary and apparent as it may seem, this one word, this “love of wisdom,” raises two profound questions: what is love, and what is wisdom? With such inquiry, we are instantly confronted with the challenge of two great mysteries.
The Greeks may have often spoken in diverse ways about the meaning of philosophy: greedy for wisdom, lusting after wisdom, pursuing wisdom as the way of personal glory… Yet much more did they insist in the loving of wisdom. In so doing, the term “love” meant giving one’s affectionate attention and unselfconscious care in the pursuit of wisdom.
Wisdom is insight into the nature of things, a fundamental acquaintance with Reality. All of the great insights of humankind left for us to study, which history has managed to preserve, are the priceless inheritance of every person. It is the clear goal of Philosophical Research Society and the University of Philosophical Research to provide global “lovers of wisdom” access to that treasure which is their birthright.
Thus this one word reveals our purpose and shapes our method. From this understanding we carefully draw our principles. They guide the administration of our organization:
Inclusiveness — We look to include wisdom from its every source and to make it accessible to all who value it.Non-Advocacy — We are not partisan nor do we endorse any one particular tradition or person.Freedom — We consider the quiet urgings of each heart to be the proper personal guide in the process of self-discovery. Each person is urged freely to compare and reference their natural knowing with the finest expressions of humanity’s deepest insights. We expect this process to create resonance which best leads each person on his or her unique path of learning and discovery.Quality Resources — To the greatest extent possible, we strive to have all of our resources distinguished by carefully referenced scholarship supported by direct experience and field work. We seek to continually refine and update our offerings as discoveries come to light and errors are uncovered.Community — Stimulating and good spirited interaction reflect the fact that we are a community of discovery, not just isolated individuals. Ours is the path of ecumenism and a journey of shared meanings. We are part of a movement toward World Culture in which all wisdom traditions and the highest expressions of our spiritual heritage are honored. We yearn for a planetary citizenship in which social justice and compassion aim toward a transformation of humankind.Education – PRS is dedicated to being a place for learning and for “drawing out” (as in the original sense of “educate”) the wisdom that lies within all traditions and all human beings.I'm going to hitting them up for Place of Safety, I think. I've decided to try and read that book, Less Than Human, by David Livingstone Smith, and am pretty much able to work with the soft type and spots of lighter ink, for the most part. It's already raising issues about the story I have to consider, contemplate and craft in or out of the book...so I want to dig some more, and this place looks like a good place to start.
You never know what's going to happen till it's done.
April 16, 2018
I must be getting old...
Actually, it's probably just being sick, but this was one rough trip. Not the meeting, itself -- that went very nicely and I got everything I needed to pull together a quote -- but the long drive down in rain 75% of the way, and the even longer driver back in rain and sleet and snow 100% of the way, it wore me out. I had to stop at a number of the travel plazas on the 90 toll road to get out and walk around, to keep awake. I even caught a nap at one, which helped. It wasn't till I was in the middle of a snowstorm driving along at 60, between Rochester and Buffalo, that I fell into the beauty it was bringing.
Seriously, there was a mist with the snow that wrapped itself around the road ahead to reveal it and the surrounding countryside only as you drew near -- thickets of tall trees and bushes dusted in white, creeks tumbling over snow-capped rocks at top speed, and rolling fields in yellows and browns partially layered over by snow held in soft focus by the grey atmosphere. It helped me keep awake far better than anything else had, just watching it whisper past. I'd have stopped to take photos but the trucks and other cars were barreling along as if it were the middle of a bright Spring day and not on icy roads. I could see one plowing into the back of my car...
Part of the issue with my general mood was not sleeping well, last night. I kept coughing, so wound up buying a Pepsi (I do not like Pepsi but it was that or Mountain Dew) because carbonated drinks actually help my throat. But that meant I had to get up to pee, every couple of hours, like an old man. Shit. Tedious.
As for cough drops, those work for 10 minutes and build up a nasty taste, after too many of them. Tea just loosens everything and makes the tickling in your throat worse, as does a hot bath or shower. So...I dealt with it and hoped nobody was in the room next to mine. Now I'm home and the worst of the coughing seems to be over. We'll se how it goes, tonight.
On a good note, I got the PDF proof of David Martin and it looks 1000% better than the previous one, so I've okay'd it. I still ordered a hard copy, to see for sure, but I think it will be okay.
And The Alice '65 got another great review on Amazon...albeit from a Beta reader. But I take 'em any way I can get 'em.
On a negative note, the data recovery guys I sent my dead thumb drive to said it would cost $600 to rebuild the connectors and recover the data. I can't afford that, not to get info I may have on another drive or just get back images I'll never do anything with. So I told them to chuck it. From this point forward anything I save is going to be backed up even more. I guess I should also go through all the thumb drives I have and sort through exactly what files I need and how I can remove too many dupes.
I've been too prone to duplicating my duplicates after duplicating them,...
Seriously, there was a mist with the snow that wrapped itself around the road ahead to reveal it and the surrounding countryside only as you drew near -- thickets of tall trees and bushes dusted in white, creeks tumbling over snow-capped rocks at top speed, and rolling fields in yellows and browns partially layered over by snow held in soft focus by the grey atmosphere. It helped me keep awake far better than anything else had, just watching it whisper past. I'd have stopped to take photos but the trucks and other cars were barreling along as if it were the middle of a bright Spring day and not on icy roads. I could see one plowing into the back of my car...
Part of the issue with my general mood was not sleeping well, last night. I kept coughing, so wound up buying a Pepsi (I do not like Pepsi but it was that or Mountain Dew) because carbonated drinks actually help my throat. But that meant I had to get up to pee, every couple of hours, like an old man. Shit. Tedious.
As for cough drops, those work for 10 minutes and build up a nasty taste, after too many of them. Tea just loosens everything and makes the tickling in your throat worse, as does a hot bath or shower. So...I dealt with it and hoped nobody was in the room next to mine. Now I'm home and the worst of the coughing seems to be over. We'll se how it goes, tonight.
On a good note, I got the PDF proof of David Martin and it looks 1000% better than the previous one, so I've okay'd it. I still ordered a hard copy, to see for sure, but I think it will be okay.
And The Alice '65 got another great review on Amazon...albeit from a Beta reader. But I take 'em any way I can get 'em.
On a negative note, the data recovery guys I sent my dead thumb drive to said it would cost $600 to rebuild the connectors and recover the data. I can't afford that, not to get info I may have on another drive or just get back images I'll never do anything with. So I told them to chuck it. From this point forward anything I save is going to be backed up even more. I guess I should also go through all the thumb drives I have and sort through exactly what files I need and how I can remove too many dupes.
I've been too prone to duplicating my duplicates after duplicating them,...
April 14, 2018
A65 got its first 5-Star reader's review...
I noticed as I was checking my author's page on Amazon so read it...and here's what someone named L. Kortus said --
What? No one has reviewed this book before me?
Well, that IS a shame.
This book’s synopsis caught my eye and I’m so glad it did. A totally enjoyable read, I did not want to put it down and stayed up to the wee hours reading it.
Terrific character development, humor, quirky twists, and not your run-of-the mill, formula plot.
This is a well written, entertaining, romp of a book. I was delighted.
I needed this. I've been getting zero traction on the book and was close to convincing myself I'd screwed it up...so to have a review like this come out of nowhere, unsolicited...very, very nice.
What's interesting is, today I received a book I ordered for research into the mindsets of hateful people...and it's close to unreadable. Not the prose...that's fine, so far...but the print is so soft it's almost blurry. What makes this odd is -- it's put out by a major publisher. St. Martin's.
I thought maybe I just needed to upgrade my glasses, or maybe it's because I'm still fighting off this friggin' cold, but I checked some other books and I could read them, fine. I could read the paperback edition of David Martin without any trouble.
Plus it's not consistent. The words give us at the top of page 164 are softer than the words One significant at the top of page 210. It's just a bad printing. And it might be due to the book being printed on cream-colored fibrous paper instead of white. I don't know. I want the book but I have to wonder if sending it back for a new copy will make any difference. I just know I was straining to read it and had to put it down.
Maybe there's an e-book, available...
What? No one has reviewed this book before me?
Well, that IS a shame.
This book’s synopsis caught my eye and I’m so glad it did. A totally enjoyable read, I did not want to put it down and stayed up to the wee hours reading it.
Terrific character development, humor, quirky twists, and not your run-of-the mill, formula plot.
This is a well written, entertaining, romp of a book. I was delighted.
I needed this. I've been getting zero traction on the book and was close to convincing myself I'd screwed it up...so to have a review like this come out of nowhere, unsolicited...very, very nice.
What's interesting is, today I received a book I ordered for research into the mindsets of hateful people...and it's close to unreadable. Not the prose...that's fine, so far...but the print is so soft it's almost blurry. What makes this odd is -- it's put out by a major publisher. St. Martin's.
I thought maybe I just needed to upgrade my glasses, or maybe it's because I'm still fighting off this friggin' cold, but I checked some other books and I could read them, fine. I could read the paperback edition of David Martin without any trouble.
Plus it's not consistent. The words give us at the top of page 164 are softer than the words One significant at the top of page 210. It's just a bad printing. And it might be due to the book being printed on cream-colored fibrous paper instead of white. I don't know. I want the book but I have to wonder if sending it back for a new copy will make any difference. I just know I was straining to read it and had to put it down.
Maybe there's an e-book, available...
