Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 156

Amazon sucks...

That fucking bully of a company has always been a pain in the ass -- I speak from experience, having been banned by them, once, and semi-banned a second time. Now they've gone one venal step farther into the hell of avariciousness. Apparently third party book sellers can now buy the right to show up first when you want to buy a new book from Amazon...before Amazon's own page listing that book. Seriously. Here's what the little shits told me when I asked to have the Amazon listing appear first when someone links to my hardback book --

...(T)his is an automated process and cannot be manually updated based on your request. Though seller Prepbooks is coming up first in the search, potential customers still have the option to purchase the book directly from Amazon. Amazon has allowed third-party sellers to compete for the Buy Box across categories for many years. We’ve now extended this policy to books. In some instances, the winning merchant will be a third-party seller instead of Amazon as in this case.
In other words, Fuck off. We'll do what we fucking want and if you don't like it, too bad. And then they make it damn near impossible to find the link to their actual listing so you can buy.
I'd tell them to do the fucking to themselves, but I do want The Alice '65 to get read, and it is set up with Kindle, so...it is what it is. The book's also available on Barnes & Noble and I'm going to make an ebook available in Smashwords, too. If they don't like it, too bad. Not everyone has a Kindle or a Reader, and this'll make it available to all sorts of venues.
I'm trying to see the up side of this -- that maybe it will make the book more noticed and easier to get...but I'm pretty sure I'm bullshitting myself. It's just a tacky, vile move by a money-grubbing asshole's company to increase their monetary gain all while paying their employees starvation wages. The fact that Czar Snowflake is attacking them (with lies and stupidity, as is usual from him) is raising conflicts within me...however since that asshole in the White House is a danger to the world and not just my book, he gets my disdain and Amazon my vague support.
But very vague...

Wedding photos from Austin...

My niece, Krista, married her long-time boyfriend, Micah, on March 10th in Leander, in the scrub of the Texas Hill Country on a day that hit 90.
The Wedding begins...


And it's done...
This is Micah and his two moms, with Krista...
The parents of the groom. My photos of the Bride's family had too much sun flair to be of any use.

My nephew, Daniel, youngest brother, Kelly, and sister, Jeri, mother of the bride.

Micah and Jeri dance, with Krista in the background.

It was a nice wedding under a hot sky and lots of damn good brisket out in the middle of nowhere along a rutted road surrounded by mesquite and brush. Very down-home.

I wish them both a long and happy life together.

BritBox v. Acorn...

I treated myself to a binge-watch of season 8 of Vera, on BritBox, which was good...except they kept in the commercial break titles in all 4 episodes. Acorn doesn't do that. But...BritBox has a good selection of BBC and ITV programs, including the Hetty Wainthropp series and all the Prime Suspects while Acorn doesn't. And I only had one glitch happen with BritBox -- in the middle of episode 2 of Vera, the streaming stopped cold and to get past it I had to push the cursor ahead a bit -- but when I watched the Rupert Everett version of Sherlock Holmes, the sound was completely in sync and no interruptions. Had a bit of trouble on that with Acorn, on some shows. However, I couldn't pause the Holmes. Not cool when you want to make a cup of tea.

Brenda Blethyn is still in top form, on Vera, but I  cannot seem to warm to Aidan in the place of Joe. Kenny Doughty is a cool, jokey actor as opposed to David Leon's warmth. They've tried to humanize him in this section by having him cook for his wife, whom we never see; what's funny is, that scene got me to thinking they were setting him up to be revealed as gay and lying about having a missus. That might have been interesting. But no...at least, not yet.

I'm letting myself kick back a bit before diving into P/S. After all the push and pull within myself over A65, I'm kind of worn out. Maybe a little burnt out. Of course, I'm also a bit itchy to get back to writing, so I'm beginning to see that as me having nothing else to do. Could that mean I'm a writer-holic?

I think I have everything set up that I can to get A65 going in sales. I've got promotions started -- free ebooks via Kindle for 5 days, 4-9 April -- and asked PW for a review and a few other possibilities. I won't know how it's doing till later next week, after the official release of the hardcover. I'm going to wait to do the paperback till I get everything finalized with the LoC on the details for my listing data. I'll want it correct...and if that means updating everything...well, that's what it means. They won't verify anything till they have a copy of the hardcover book.

Jeez...I just hope the information I put on the copyright page, already is correct.

"The Alice '65" - Chapter 1

Had Adam Verlain known what was in store for him, that Monday, he would have stayed home the entire week. But since one never can tell what the day will bring, he dressed in his usual suit and tie, made certain his Oxfords were bright and polished, slipped into his Mackintosh to ward off the morning chill and headed for the train at his normal time of 7:35. His russet hair had been neatened by the monthly visit to his barber, his pleasant face was clean-shaven, his brown-frame glasses were freshly washed, and his black rucksack held a notebook, sandwich, apple, bottle of water and a new copy of Sigrid Undset's Kristin Lavransdatter to read on the Underground. On top of this, his stride was so brisk and focused it added to the impression that he was still at university and not someone approaching thirty.

He caught the 7:46 at Epping Station, changed for St. Pancras at Liverpool Street, then headed straight for Merryton College, where he was a cataloguer of antiquarian books. His specialty was incunabula and manuscripts in German, Latin and Greek, and while Merryton was neither the oldest nor the best-known university in England, he saw it as the perfect fit for himself. To begin with, it had a good reputation in the liberal arts and sciences. Secondly, their library of rare volumes was in the process of being expanded, thanks to the recent addition of one Sir Robert Butterworth to the Board of Governors, who brought with him a tradition of valuing things based on how well they reflected on one’s public image...or, in this case, the university’s. Third and foremost, Merryton had one of the best libraries of research materials on the subject of antiquarian books, anywhere, half of which had yet to be digitized for Internet access. Adam could track down when a particular volume had been written or printed, by whom or for whom, who had first owned it, who its binder was, who its later owners were, when and how often it had sold at auction — everything one might ask for, all without leaving the comfort of his department’s building. So far as he was concerned, this was heaven.

Of course, there was one downside to the research library — it allowed him to become so engrossed in his investigations that were someone to ask him a question...well, first they would have to ask it twice, then he would take a moment, look at them with the expression of a curious kitten, remove his glasses, look at them a moment longer and finally say, “Sorry? What was that?” It was as if he had been in a separate world and had to go through a twelve-step process to rejoin this one.

His desk was situated in what was once the school’s chapel, a shadow-riven room whose flagstone floor was partially covered by a well-worn Persian carpet and whose wooden ceiling was held in place by four-hundred year-old beams and braces. A wrought-iron candelabrum hung in the center, its electric bulbs twisted into the shapes of little flames that offered the barest illumination. Another fraction of light passed through tall slim windows of colorful leaded glass along two walls. It made more for darkness, true, but Adam loved how it bestowed upon the room a gentle aura of mystery, a feeling marred only by the set of four bland chrome and grey cubicles in the center of it all.

Adam’s was number three.

On that Monday he entered at 8:54, as usual, to fire up his computer. He planned an easy start for the day — completing the provenance on a copy of Ludovico Ariosto’s Orlando furioso. It was a special edition that had been translated into Latin, for some reason, and presented to King Victor Emmanuel in 1866. Adam’s research had led him to believe it might actually have been transcribed for Pope Pius IX, who then passed on to the king. If true, that would greatly enhance its historical value, despite the last quire missing a leaf.

Adam had worked on nothing else for three days, spending more time in the basement, where the research materials were located, than at his desk. When Vincent, the department head, a man with the age and appearance of a Victorian ghost, had learned of this, he had stormed up to Adam, his face almost filled with color.

“We've a dozen books to catalogue, with more on the way,” the old man had snapped in his harshest headmaster tone, “yet you're still working on this one inconsequential volume?”

Adam had huffed. Granted, the book’s red morocco binding was rather ostentatious in its use of gilt and design, but the possibility of a pope having presented it to a king at a time of major political upheaval was more than worth the effort. So he had responded with a simple, “Sir, I have never believed any book to be inconsequential.”

Causing Vincent to jolt ramrod straight and snarl down at him, “Nor is this one more consequential than any other waiting to be cataloged. Be done with it.” Then he had stormed off.

That was on Friday, last. Adam had already decided he’d dug as deep as he could into the book’s history, finding nothing but hints and suggestions about its transfer from pope to king, so if Vincent thought he was ending his research due to his order it was of no consequence. Still he felt he was letting the Ariosto down. He picked her up and sighed, “You'd be just the right item for a pope to give a king before a war, so don't think I'm giving up on you; I'll unlock the last of your mysteries, eventually.”

He set the book back on his desk and saw his computer was still thinking about waking up, so swiveled in his chair to look around as he rubbed a scrape on his chin, evidence of a rough rugby match with his mates, on Saturday. The opposing team had been most emphatic about winning; Adam was happy to say they almost had not.

He stopped turning when he noticed a nearby beam of colorful sunlight illuminating some sparkling dust dancing on the edge of a shadow. This was such a gentle, elegant room, so full of history and wonder; it should have tables and cases of books and manuscripts to boast of, not these hideous blocks of walls in its center. Removing them and putting in a simple row of desks would provide it much more respect.

He was about to make a note for Vincent to suggest as much when Elizabeth, the lovely young woman in cubicle four, swirled in. She removed her coat and slung it over the top of her half-wall, every movement brisk, controlled and beautiful in a slim, blonde, London sort of way. Off came her high heels, which brought her down to Adam’s height, and on went a pair of slippers as she said, “Bloody Eurostar; never runs on time when you need it.”

“Were you in Paris?”

She held up a Chanel bag. “Weekend. Has Vincent been in, yet?” Then she pulled her hair into a ponytail.

Adam took a deep breath, catching the hint of a garden from her perfume, and shook his head. “You're safe. It's just gone nine.”

“Thanks.” Then she vanished behind her wall. A moment later he heard her cry, “Bloody hell, my computer won't wake up.”

That is when Adam's computer flashed that it would now allow him access to the database.

“Mine just has,” he said. “Took its time.”

“But you shut yours down; I let mine sleep.”

“Best do a restart.”

“Well, Vincent can't say anything if I don't have access to the server.” Then she headed for the kitchenette.

Adam smiled, shook his head, and turned to his computer to finish with the Ariosto. After that, he dove into a copy of Erasmus' Morias Enkomion, which had been sitting on the incoming shelf for several days. He broke for tea at 10:55, had his lunch at one, and completed the provenance by three, just as his mobile phone chirped a thirty-minute warning of a meeting Vincent had scheduled with him.

He stood and stretched, still a bit sore from Saturday’s scrums, then neatened his tie and carried the Erasmus to a short side hall while singing to her, in Greek —

I see a book
Who's going to be took
For Jeremy to photograph and put with all the rest.
She's a lovely little book
Who soon will find her nook,
And she will be considered to be one of our best.”

He’d sung the same song to the Ariosto, in Latin. It helped make the book feel welcome to her new home.

He took the Erasmus into a room they called The Dark Chamber, a smallish square with thick shelves on the walls and two freestanding units in its center. Its bare illumination came from sconces fixed high above and a single oval window of colorful glass up near the ceiling. Here, newly arrived books waited to be archived or photographed, after which they were set on the center shelves for their journey to a climate-controlled vault.

The photography room was down a short hall from The Dark Chamber where a half-punk, half-Eastenders, much-tattooed lad named Jeremy had jammed his computer, table, camera, tripod and light kit into a space little larger than Adam's cubicle. He consistently whined about being cramped — which was no surprise, considering he was also four inches taller than Adam — and more than once he’d suggested swapping with The Dark Chamber. But Vincent always refused, making Adam very happy; he loved the room’s tender play of dust and light and darkness, like it was wrapping the antiquarian volumes in the safety of shadows and silence. Jeremy would have destroyed that.

He placed the Erasmus on the To Be Photographed shelf then checked his phone to make sure of the time — and that his alarm was still set to remind him of his appointment; he had done it wrong more than once. But it looked all right. In fact he had time for an early cup of tea, so he popped across the hall to a kitchenette. After all, who knew how long this meeting would last?

He set the kettle to going and pulled down his mug — a black one with A room without books is like a body without a soul (Cicero) wrapped around it in white lettering. As he filled it, he caught a glimpse of Elizabeth slipping into The Dark Chamber with a neat drop-back box that contained a set of handwritten letters from Henry James to someone in the south of France. He thought it funny she was cataloging them since she had read none of his books.

“I tried Washington Square,” she’d told him, “but his style is so arch. I prefer Virginia Woolf.”

Adam was shocked. “But how could you not have read him?”

“Have you read every book in German?” she’d snapped. “Or Greek? Or Latin? Or made prior to 1501?”

“That's not the point, Elizabeth.”

“Don't patronize me, Adam. I know Henry James well enough to make even himself sound ill-informed.” Then she had worked on the letters all day without another word to him.

He had let it pass because it was now obvious that, while her specialty might be eighteenth through twentieth century literature, she was not a book person. He doubted she ever would be...though he was open to helping her learn, if she were interested.

He pulled down her mug and plopped a bag into it, calling, “Cup of tea, Elizabeth?”

“Tea?” she called back.

“Water's hot. Set in a flash,” he said, pouring in hot water.

“Quarter milk, no sugar?”

“Just the way you like it,” he said, dolloping milk into both mugs.

“Mmmm...no, thanks,” she called back.

Adam froze. He now had two mugs of tea and only time enough to finish one. And they had to be drunk in the kitchenette; to take any sort of food or liquid back to your cubicle raised too great a risk of an irreplaceable book being damaged.

That is when Jeremy popped his head around the door and growled in his happy-puppy way, “Tea? You never make me any.”

Adam blinked and responded, “Didn't know you drank it.”

“So what about that bloody Erasmus? Been on the shelf a week and you're the Greek-meister and — ”

“She's set to photograph.”

That is when Hakim, their unctuous, fastidious, self-proclaimed office manager, popped in to snap, “The provenance better be right, this time.”

Adam huffed. Once, when researching a manuscript copy of Richard Wagner's Die Nibelungen for The Arts Council, he'd neglected to put an umlaut over a “U” in his transcription from the German. Never mind it was he who realized it and informed Hakim before the provenance was sent over, the man now acted as if Adam's work was constantly riddled with errors.

Adam meant to respond with an off-hand, Of course. Instead he shot Hakim a glare — and noticed Elizabeth passing with a thick volume bound in vellum. He bolted over.

“Wait, that is Die Schedelsche Weltchronik,” he said, in German. “The one found in Romania.”

The book had caused quite a stir around the department — an original Nuremberg Chronicle by Hartmann Schedel, created at the end of the fifteenth century and considered the first and most exquisite example of how illustrations could be integrated into printed books. This copy had been discovered in some attic in Bucharest and was being offered to Merryton for sale. Photos had been sent and most of the staff thought it was a legitimate copy, Vincent included.

This had been good enough for Sir Robert, who was more than a little perturbed when Adam insisted the binding did not look original and the photographs were of leafs too easily reproduced. Sir Robert had overruled him and now the book had arrived, for consideration.

“I planned to work on this, tomorrow,” Adam continued, still in German.

“Adam — English,” Elizabeth sighed.

He was so used to being reminded he was speaking another language, he merely asked, “Why're you taking her? She’s outside your area of expertise while mine is perfectly suited — ”

“Vincent asked me to,” she replied.

“Why would he do that?”

Hakim snorted. “You disagreed with him.”

To which Elizabeth added, with acidic sweetness, “And Sir Robert, neither of whom likes being contradicted.”

Adam huffed. Sir Robert had also put down a substantial deposit to guarantee the purchase because he felt it was too good an opportunity to pass up. He would not like being made to look foolish, but if the book did turn out to be a later facsimile and not a first impression, she would be worth a fraction of the owner's asking price.

“Elizabeth,” Adam said, taking the Schedel from her, “you must already see the binding is not contemporary to the book. More like eighteenth-Century, at earliest, and — ”

He looked inside and huffed, again.

She had put her initials EB on the front endpaper, in soft graphite. It was meant to show by whom the book was catalogued so Jeremy could note it in his log before he shot photos of it; then it was to be carefully erased. But it was not supposed to be done until the book had been catalogued.

Adam cast her a glance of reproach then tenderly shifted to the title page...and saw that he was right; it had been slipped into the volume with such expert care only one tiny crinkle barely showed in the paper. “Here you go; her title page is affixed — ”

“Adam,” Elizabeth moaned, “it's a thing, not a person.”

He cradled the book in one arm and carefully held the page up for her to see what was blatantly obvious, to him. “But look at the base of — ”

“Oh, give it here!” she snarled, whipping the Schedel closed, clipping his nose with a corner of the front board and making him yelp. She yanked the book away as she snapped, “Hakim's right. Half the time you've got no idea what you're talking about.” Then she stormed off.

Jeremy snickered as Hakim glared at Adam, obviously thinking him fully incompetent. This was not to be borne. When he was right about a book, he was right, and he knew a massive mistake was being made.

He strode into The Dark Chamber, aiming for an ancient lift situated in a back corner...and rubbing his nose to keep from sneezing. While the lift was brutally slow and barely large enough for a man and a book cart, it was still the best way down to the research library. But its door and gate were manual and loved to catch your fingers, so one had to take extra care when getting in and out. Still, if the book he needed was down there he’d have no trouble proving his concerns about the Schedel, now that he’d looked inside her, so he yanked the lift’s door and gate open and —

“Now, Jere, one of those is mine.”

He turned to look past the shelving to see Jeremy framed in the doorway with both mugs of tea in hand. His expression was as innocent as the angels on high as he said, “Sorry, duchess. Last I heard, no means no.”

“And I'm sure you heard it just last night,” Elizabeth sneered, appearing in the doorway with him. “Here, it's my cup.”

“Come and take it,” he cooed.

Before he could even think to try and stop it, Adam sneezed, causing Jeremy to cast him a sly glance...and a wink...as he backed down to his room. She followed him.

Adam sighed and absently closed the lift’s outer door. He was not surprised a woman like Elizabeth would fancy Jeremy. She could look him straight in the eye, when in heels. Plus, you never knew what he might do from one moment to the next, while the track of Adam's future was straight and obvious till the age of death. Deviation not allowed.

Adam shook his head and closed the inner gate — and it pinched into his left thumb. He yelped and saw he was bleeding, so he pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wrapped it around his finger. He had clean bandages in his rucksack, so he would get one when he came back up. Then he set the lever to basement and started down.

Oh, well, he told himself, at least the day couldn’t get any worse.

Done...for now...

I got the pdf proof of The Alice '65 and it looks good, so I have a hardcover proof coming, rush. If it looks okay, the book will be available in hardback as of Wednesday, the 4th. Hard to believe this long road is near its end and a new one about to start up, again...wait, the one for Place of Safety isn't new, it's old. Way old. But it's the next fork in the path, so...

Anyway, tonight was spent updating the copyright on the story and on various sites where I want to show the book off. Book Daily and Book Life, for example, as well as my website...tho' I'll need to re-update that when the hardcover is up and running on Amazon. I probably won't hear back from Publisher's Weekly for another 6-8 weeks on whether or not they will review it, but Book Life's review is great, for now.

Still undecided on the paperback. Amazon is back to its bitchy phase so I'm not so sure I want to deal with them more than necessary, and they are Create Space. They've begun reassigning books with sexual content to a different category from erotica and making access to them even more difficult. How To Rape A Straight Guy, Porno Manifesto and Rape in Holding Cell 6 are now, officially, not ranked in sales, and when I contacted them about it I got blown off by Kindle saying everything was fine. I don't offer those three in Kindle, just paperback through Ingram, so I have no idea why they're the ones responding to me.

It's just more two-faced bullshit from that company. Soon as I'm contracturally able to offer A65 through Smashwords, I'm gonna. So I guess I'll offer the paperback through Ingram, too, which makes it available to Barnes & Noble, as well. Just makes me feel better, not being beholden to a company that's so fucking immature.

Like most, these days.

And away we go...

Rather than take 72 hours to put The Alice '65 up as an ebook, Kindle's got it going, already. Surprised me...but makes me happy. I want Adam's and Casey's story read. Now I just need to make it known and renown.

To the opposite extreme, Ingram is being pissy about the cover, for some reason. I used their template to build the artwork and even set guides to make sure I stayed within the spaces they required for text and images. Double checked it, too. But they're saying I'm outside the fold lines and I don't know what they're talking about. The red diagonal lines cross the face of the cover?

I can't do anything about it till I get home...which I don't do till after midnight, tomorrow...well, Thursday. meaning nothing done till Thursday night or Friday, since we're shut down that day...which I was hoping to use as a day off from everything...

Right now I'm in a Hilton overlooking Times Square. The job I had today worked out nicely. Picked it up in DC, packed it up in Baltimore, and was even able to catch an earlier train from Baltimore's airport to Penn Station. Tomorrow's got 2 jobs to do and I'm leery about getting them done, but I have till 10:45pm; that's when my flight back to Buffalo is...and is usually late.

I prepped a paperback copy of the book's text, on the train ride. 280 pages. I also had to go through and make sure there were no awkward bits...like a single period and quotation mark that end a sentence shifting to the top of the next page...or an em-dash being alone on the last line of a paragraph.

Next I'll need to rework the cover to fit a paperback format, which I can do after I deal with Ingram and their idiotic system that works against you.

Almost...almost...

A65 is done...

After nearly 2 weeks of trying to save my Word doc into a PDF without an ICC Color Profile, including buying into Adobe Acrobat Pro, I find out it can't be done with a Mac. At least, not through them. I finally got it down to where I was able to get rid of the color profile, but the program wouldn't embed the fonts and the file was so degraded, it was useless.

What angers me is, I told the Acrobat IT people what kind of computer I had, what I was making my file in and what I wanted to do and they kept having me try all kinds of shit till they finally acknowledged reality. Meaning I had to. If I take my Word file to a PC and open it up, all the pagination is off. And when I save it through a PC-connected printer to a PDF, it splits the sections into separate files, then I have to remerge them...and some of the Word commands disappear, meaning I have to allow for that.

So...I went back through the story, checked to make sure everything was still in order, and saved it then uploaded it and my dust jacket art to Ingram. Now I'm waiting to see how it turns out. When I get the PDF proof, I'll know if everything came together, format-wise. Then I'll order a printed proof to make sure...and hopefully the book will print okay.

I don't remember having this much trouble when I redid The Lyons' Den or did The Vanishing of Owen Taylor, but I worked those up on my old laptop and did run them through my PC at work. And I had a bitch of a time getting everything in order, shifting from Mac to PC. But we've upgraded some of our programs and this time, when I tried to do it, the color profile was still embeded.

Oh, well...I also set up the ebook with Kindle, which was a lot easier to do. That should be available by the end of the week. And if this doesn't work for the print book, in hardback, I'll go with Create Space to do a paperback. I can work that off my ebook. I'm not crazy about using Amazon but if the others won't fix it so you can do your thing with them, without this kind of crap, then what else can I do? It's time for the story to be out there and available to read.

Now I guess I'll find out if it makes any sense...

I am so hating technology, right now...

I've spent hours trying to use Adobe Acrobat to remove the ICC Color Profile from my PDF of The Alice '65, and all I get back from Ingram is -- it's till there. I worked with Adobe Tech Support -- who was the slowest MoFo in the world and who finally dumped me on the Color Conversion link in the program...which doesn't do what I want it to. Didn't help he was in India or something so was using generic phrases to respond.

This comes as Word was messing with me on margins and spacing. I got the text as exact as I can then found the even and odd pages weren't lining up right. After a lot of checking and rechecking my paragraphs and spacing, it turned out a space in the header was in a 12 point font instead of an 8 point, thus throwing everything off. One friggin' space!

Needless to say, I've missed my publishing date. But I'm not putting the book up till it's right...and if that takes another week, so be it.

It's still 206 pages long -- 190 of it actual text and the rest title and such. And going through it, again, I found more typos...but also came up with a couple more spots where I was able to tell the circumstances better. And near the end I found a sort-of inconsistency that no one else mentioned and probably wasn't all that important, but which I went ahead and reworked to make clearer and give two other characters a sort of closure.

Something I've grown to understand about myself is, I'm not that good a writer. I rewrite and rewrite and rewrite until it starts to work, and I use all kinds of excuses as to why I have to and want to and need to do it that way...but the reality is, I suck. All I'm achieving in this method of work is the slow excising of superfluous parts that I put into the story and which I finally get sick of and recognize as needing to be edited out.

If I was any good, I wouldn't have to go through a couple dozen rewrites to get to the story. I can't think of another writer out there who works this way. I've heard of writers who will agonize over a single word for days...but this isn't like that. I slam words in and then agonize over removing them in little bits at a time.

Why do I even think I can do this shit?

When writing, be patient...

Especially with yourself. When I get a story or artwork started, I want to get it done so I can figure out what it  is I'm doing. Which can cause me to rush too damn hard to find completion when holding back and allowing the project to breathe on its own terms would be a lot better. I've been able to get around that hurry-up aspect of my creativity by writing down words in first person as being spouted by angry, talkative characters...but that kind of push doesn't work in third person.

I've found that for all my angst and anger and irritation at how The Alice '65 kept needing work and more work and reworking...by going over it and  over it and over it, the story has become better and more than coherent. I think I've finally reached the level where a somewhat fantastical plot makes actual sense in the real world. I'm still pulling some crap that's not really possible...but by that point in the story it's my hope it won't matter, except to the shit-nit-pickers.

Because by going through the book so many times, I'm finding typos I would not normally have seen -- like missing a period at the end of dialogue even though I have the ending quotation mark, or using then for than and vise versa. I read it faster so I catch little hiccups in the rhythm of the read and pay attention to those.

I'm also reading it aloud, even though I suck at that, but it helps me keep focused on the progression of the words in a sentence and paragraph. This is all good to do, for taking care like this is not avoidance or just correcting incompetence on my part; it's letting the parts of the story that may need to be addressed shift from my unconscious and sub-conscious mind into my somewhat conscious one.

Writing so fast is monumentally bad for a book like The Alice '65, because it has such a delicate balance between fantasy and reality...and something in me was taking hold and keeping me from just saying, "It's done, now print." Even when I was trying to before it was really set, the fates refused to let me, thanks to the damned ICC Color Profiles not being maneuverable with my Mac. It's my hope that once I'm done with A65, it will be as perfect and professional as anything put out by Random House or Simon & Schuster.

I don't think I'm not going to make that goal.

Push and pull...

Made it back to Buffalo by catching a northbound flight instead of an eastbound one. Went from Louisville, in the middle of a snowstorm, to Detroit, where there is no snow then from there to Buffalo, which is cold but still not as bad as Louisville. My SUV, there, had 4 inches of snow on it and all I had to scrape it off with was a piece of cardboard. Fortunately, it was wet snow, not icy.

So now the two jobs I was going to do in New York, tomorrow, are set for Tuesday of next week, after one in DC. Fly down, do the DC job, hop a train from BWI to NYC, stay overnight, do two more jobs and do the late flight home. Zoom zoom...not; we sat on the tarmac for an hour, in Louisville, waiting to take off. So I broke protocol and pulled out my laptop to do some work.

I've done another check on A65 and something in me is saying do one more, THEN upload it to Ingram. I only found 6 mistakes in this pass, but I also made some more changes to help clarity...and consistency of characters. And to be less obvious, in a couple of spots. I had one moment near the end with Patricia that was just too much, but changing it to a quiet comment while acknowledging she did something rotten made a later bit involving her work a lot better.

I also let Adam reveal earlier that Connor nicknamed him hobbit, because he's short in stature. It ties in better to a moment between him and Julie, and prepares the reader for the animosity Adam reveals between him and his older brother.

Anyway, it now looks like my upload date will be the 24th, if everything goes right. Then I'll order a physical proof, once I've checked over the PDF one. If that works out well, then it will be time to order copies to hand out.

God...I can't imagine how long it will take me to get P/S into shape...it being 3 times longer....