Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 16

One more done...

Everything picked up and gone. I drove straight back home, with my back aching and feeling like dirt. The back, I understand. I shifted around a lot of heavy boxes, yesterday, but everything else? Stomach. Sides. Neck. Old man complaints.

I was also dead tired so wound up taking a nap about halfway. Just pulled into a rest stop on the tollway...kicked the seat back and slept for about ten minutes. It's not comfortable enough for anything more than that. But it helped the weariness.

I didn't stop to eat. I had a Hillshire Farm meal so ate that and had some DPZ as I drove, and just kept going. I told myself I'd get some Mexican food when I got home...but didn't. Just nuked a cafe steamer and ate that...and got the worst gas off the fucking broccoli.

The one good part about this drive was that as I was passing along the Mohawk River, I glanced across it and saw an Amtrak train heading for Buffalo, on the other side. Five cars. Scooting right along. And it paced me for a good fifteen minutes. 

I was going 70mph in a 65 zone, using cruise control to keep it at that. Lots of troopers out looking for tickets to give, so didn't want to get too fast...which I can do. And that train was right there with me.

This is the route Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint took in Alfred Hitchcock's North by Northwest. Heading for Chicago. I've ridden it, myself, many times and it still entrances me. Takes 8-9 hours and there's a layover in Albany, but it's still a lovely time.

One more bit of the prologue...

The job I'm on turned into a full-scale repack of every damned box when I was supposed to just verify were okay for transport. So I wound up condensing 56 boxes down to 41. And I'm exhausted. But it had to be set for pickup, tomorrow. Then I drive home, and I'll need a week to recover from this.

I've been posting bits of DP's prologue to keep myself going on the story, reworking it as I go along. Here's another bit:

------

Morriggan positioned herself behind Caoimhín and said, "Repeat after me." Her voice sharp and angry. "Thiocfaidh mé a thabhairt duit." 

He hesitated then whispered, "Thiocfaidh mé a thabhairt duit." 

"Tá mé an Ui Briúin anseo de réir rian Dé." 

"Tá mé an Ui Briúin anseo de réir rian Dé." 

"Táim ag fannacht leis." 

"Táim ag fannacht leis." 

"Tar chugam." 

He hesitated, could barely say the last..."Tar chugam." 

The wind exploded in sudden fury, snapping and whipping like the worst of storms. Clouds boiled across the sky in madness, bringing near darkness with them. The sea, so calm and easy when they'd crossed, now churned and crashed against the rocks below, as angry as it had ever been. 

Only the straps bound around his wrists kept Caoimhín in place. He tried to gain a hold on the posts to lessen the pain of them cutting into his skin, but could not. 

Then at the base of the black rocks across the water he saw the mist grow thicker.And thicker.It seemed to climb the towering Cliffs...then pause...then change direction to whisper towards the island. 

In the very face of the wind. 

Unnatural. 

Unyielding. 

Growing closer. 

Closer. 

He forced himself to remain calm. He knew his men could also see it coming and each knew what it meant. The thick boiling mist had hidden much of what happened within it, so they had only the idea of what monsters it hid.

But Caoimhín knew. He had seen them, and knew he had to remain strong for his men, so he did not dare glance at them. If he broke, now, they would as well. In answer to his growing fear, he pulled back at the straps...

Then he saw his brother’s face, unyielding. They cast each other the slightest of smiles before Caoimhín turned back to watch the mist approach. Refusing to let his eyes shift away. Forcing himself to stand solid, immovable, ready.

"I am Fedlimid," he murmured. "My roots dig far into the good earth. My branches give shelter for all. Nothing shall move me." 

Suddenly the mist parted. Whispered to circle around the finger of land. 

Caoimhín jolted. It only did this to surround his men before they were slaughtered. Why was it happening now? Was the oath not to be honored? Would Mícheál know to hold? To wait? Not to panic?His breath grew sharper. Shakier.

He filled his mind with one thought, Hold, please hold in place. This has to end, please hold. 

Mícheál saw what was happening. He glanced at Morrigan. She was like stone.He looked to The Dagda. His face was hard, unmoving.They expected this, he told himself. 

He stood straighter and tied Caoimhín's sword next to his own. "Stand firm," he said, his voice much calmer than he felt. "Those things want to trick us into breaking our oath. Stand firm." 

He heard the men murmur but also did not hear a single sword being withdrawn from its sheath. They trusted him, now, and he would sooner die than break that trust. 

A moment later, the mist whipped over them. Blotted out all light and sound. Everything. Mícheál could not even see his hand before his face. He had to shuffle his feet to remind himself he was standing on solid ground. The silence was so complete. So cold. So much like death...

Until the first laughter came...

The prologue continues...

Mícheál understood and stepped up to beside him, his eyes sharp on The Dagda as he said, "We have agreed to honor our side of this pact, and have presented our choice..."

"I...I cannot allow it,” Morrigan snapped, backing away. “I will not!"

Mícheál looked at her. "You would break your oath? Violate the very agreement you demanded?"

She hissed, drew herself up and cast him a glare of purest contempt before snarling, "You dare question my honor?"

He was unmoved. "We know what we ask you to do, Caoimhín and I." He turned to The Dagda. "You know, as well. Are the Tuatha De Danann truly this weak? Is the clan Ui Briúin superior to you all? You are willing to do as you choose, when it suits you." And his voice dripped with contempt. 

The Dagda drew near to Mícheál, growling, his anger close to exploding. "Watch your tone, boy." 

Mícheál did not even grow tense. "Have I earned none of your respect?" His eyes were unyielding. 

The Dagda hesitated then spun away from him with a howl.

Morrigan glared at the man, disdainful.

Caoimhín finally raised his gaze to her. "So what is it to be? Do you keep to your oath, or do we continue as we have? We will not back down nor stop until we have finished it." 

She turned to him, now cold and in control. “No matter the cost?” 

He drew in a deep breath. “No matter the cost.” 

"Then...step forward." 

"I will," he responded. 

He turned to Mícheál, removing his sword. "Here. You must lead our clan, now. I know you will do better than would I." 

"I cannot agree with that." 

"And you will...you will care for everyone and..." 

Mícheál nodded, his eyes suddenly filling with tears. "To my dying breath." He accepted the gleaming blade and whispered, "Give Caera a kiss for me."

Caoimhín looked to the other men. "I am proud to have been at your side, through these times, and I know you will do well by my brother. But for now, you must keep your swords in their sheaths, as per our oath." Then he cast a sharp glance at Morrigan. "So long as it is honored."

"It will be," she spit. 

With a pat on Mícheál's back, he strode up to Morrigan to look her straight in the eye. "Let's be done with it, witch."

Anger filled her face. "I give you runes to hold, one in each hand. To lead you to the next world." She offered them to him. Each had a runic symbol, one for strength, one for peace. She motioned to the post. "There are two thongs, again, one for each hand. Slip them around your wrists." 

He saw the thongs were positioned through holes in each post, with loops. He stepped to between the two posts and thrust his hands up into each one, still holding the stones. Then Morrigan twisted the outer loops, binding his wrists tight against the posts before jamming a peg into the hole to hold them in place. Now Caoimhín's arms were stretched wide. He could not easily move. 

The Dagda kept himself turned away, his eyes locked on the far cliffs. His cloak barely moved by the gentle breeze. His stance tight and still angry. 

Caoimhín sneered at him, saying, "Have you no stomach to face this? Are you nothing but your looks?"

The man turned to glare at him. Hurt colored his eyes but he stood strong and straight and focused on Caoimhín. 

The younger man looked across the water at the black towering Cliffs. A mist had begun to build at their base. He grew tense, a hint of fear now in his eyes. His breath was sharp and shallow.Above him, the white birds screamed in fear and fury.

With a flick of one wrist, Morrigan silenced them, saying, "Bheith imithe."

In moments, they were gone.

The sudden silence screamed around them all.

The prologue continues...----Mícheál understood and stepp...

The prologue continues...

----

Mícheál understood and stepped up to beside him, his eyes sharp on The Dagda as he said, "We have agreed to honor our side of this pact, and have presented our choice..."

"I...I cannot allow it,” Morrigan snapped, backing away. “I will not!"

Mícheál looked at her. "You would break your oath? Violate the very agreement you demanded?"

She hissed, drew herself up and cast him a glare of purest contempt before snarling, "You dare question my honor?"

He was unmoved. "We know what we ask you to do, Caoimhín and I." He turned to The Dagda. "You know, as well. Are the Tuatha De Danann truly this weak? Is the clan Ui Briúin superior to you all? You are willing to do as you choose, when it suits you." And his voice dripped with contempt. 

The Dagda drew near to Mícheál, growling, his anger close to exploding. "Watch your tone, boy." 

Mícheál did not even grow tense. "Have I earned none of your respect?" His eyes were unyielding. 

The Dagda hesitated then spun away from him with a howl.

Morrigan glared at the man, disdainful.

Caoimhín finally raised his gaze to her. "So what is it to be? Do you keep to your oath, or do we continue as we have? We will not back down nor stop until we have finished it." 

She turned to him, now cold and in control. “No matter the cost?” 

He drew in a deep breath. “No matter the cost.” 

"Then...step forward." 

"I will," he responded. 

He turned to Mícheál, removing his sword. "Here. You must lead our clan, now. I know you will do better than would I." 

"I cannot agree with that." 

"And you will...you will care for everyone and..." 

Mícheál nodded, his eyes suddenly filling with tears. "To my dying breath." He accepted the gleaming blade and whispered, "Give Caera a kiss for me."

Caoimhín looked to the other men. "I am proud to have been at your side, through these times, and I know you will do well by my brother. But for now, you must keep your swords in their sheaths, as per our oath." Then he cast a sharp glance at Morrigan. "So long as it is honored."

"It will be," she spit. 

With a pat on Mícheál's back, he strode up to Morrigan to look her straight in the eye. "Let's be done with it, witch."

Anger filled her face. "I give you runes to hold, one in each hand. To lead you to the next world." She offered them to him. Each had a runic symbol, one for strength, one for peace. She motioned to the post. "There are two thongs, again, one for each hand. Slip them around your wrists." 

He saw the thongs were positioned through holes in each post, with loops. He stepped to between the two posts and thrust his hands up into each one, still holding the stones. Then Morrigan twisted the outer loops, binding his wrists tight against the posts before jamming a peg into the hole to hold them in place. Now Caoimhín's arms were stretched wide. He could not easily move. 

The Dagda kept himself turned away, his eyes locked on the far cliffs. His cloak barely moved by the gentle breeze. His stance tight and still angry. 

Caoimhín sneered at him, saying, "Have you no stomach to face this? Are you nothing but your looks?"

The man turned to glare at him. Hurt colored his eyes but he stood strong and straight and focused on Caoimhín. 

The younger man looked across the water at the black towering Cliffs. A mist had begun to build at their base. He grew tense, a hint of fear now in his eyes. His breath was sharp and shallow.Above him, the white birds screamed in fear and fury.

With a flick of one wrist, Morrigan silenced them, saying, "Bheith imithe."

In moments, they were gone.

The sudden silence screamed around them all.

Decided

The two prior posts and this one have shown me this works best as the opening, and the harpies reviewing it from the air is better at the end. May change my mind, again, but as of now...that's how it will go.

-----

The Dagda hid nothing. His face was so filled with rage, it was a fight to keep himself under control. But he had promised to remain silent about the agreement...and was being good to his word. Still, it unnerved Caoimhín to see the man's anger. It helped that he knew it was aimed at Morriggan, and not him.

He stopped his men on the side of the grassy finger, slightly down the slope. This part was wider than he'd thought. Had room enough for a settlement to be built. It also rose higher above the water than he'd estimated, so would be quite secure.But then he realized...

This sharp bit of land pointed directly to those black, towering rocks, beyond...as if to say, There...there lies your destiny. 

Of course. That was why this spot had been chosen. It brought a sneer to Caoimhín's lips.

He turned back to eye two thick wooden posts that were planted in crevices of the rocks. They were perhaps two arms-length apart, both very solid, and taller than even The Dagda. Leather straps hung from each and runes had been carved into them, adding to their ceremonious feel.

Caoimhín hesitated, glancing from them to The Dagda to Morrigan, then drew in his deepest breath and snarled, "We've come, witch. Let this be done."

Morrigan drew haughtier, her expression now cold and nearly cruel."Do you agree to the conditions of the oath?" she asked.

Caoimhín nodded. "These horrors must be ended in some way, and if this is how, so be it."

The Dagda glanced between them, almost ready to argue...but then he decided against it. The agreement had been difficult enough to forge without him adding his last-minute reservations.

Morrigan all but smiled, her voice like a purr. "So be it. Which of you is the offering?"

"Myself," said Caoimhín.

That word jolted Morrigan, as if she had been slapped.

The Dagda jumped forward. "No, Caoimhín, I cannot allow..."

"It is not your decision," Caoimhín snarled. "It is our choice. And it is to be me."

"Caoimhín," Morrigan whispered in a voice so soft and alluring, it could break the heart of a stone. "It is not you we expected to...I mean...this is not what we wanted. This not what we...what we..."

"Why not?" And he cast her a glare filled with such hate and anger, she took a step back. "You think I would allow some other man to take my place when I am the one who brought this horror upon us? Should I not be the one to finish it?"

“You were not the one who...”

“Had I not been such a child in mind and spirit, we could have avoided everything, so I accept blame and call for...” 

"That is abject nonsense!" The Dagda snapped. "I refuse to allow this travesty to..." 

"Keep your fancy words to yourself!” Caoimhín growled, shifting his glare to the man. “My brother tried to counsel me in my anger. My father attempted to instruct me. But I would not listen, so it is I who brought...who caused...I who..." 

His voice trailed off. He did not trust himself to speak further.

Reconsidering...

I'm thinking I may shift this to the beginning of the story and shift from the harpies' POV to this and back. Could that be too confusing? Perhaps theirs should be at the end...

---

Caoimhín sighed and looked ahead. Saw a tiny strip of land that barely crested above the water. Inish Ciúin, he was told. Tiny Island. The name was right. It was low and mostly flat, its rocks the color of darkness. Very little green showed there was very little earth. If his thoughts were correct, a man such as himself could circle the damned thing in less than half a day. Not a fit place for anyone to live.

"The witch chose the best spot," he muttered.

He caught a glimpse of a small strip of sand slightly to their right and pointed to it. Mícheál looked and nodded and shifted the helm, hoisting a banner above his head to signal for the other boats to follow. He did not bother to make certain they saw him; he knew they would be right behind.

Now Caoimhín could see a finger of land jutting from the side of the island, to his left. It rose a bit higher than the rest of the soft hills and pointed in the direction of the sun.

And it was covered in green. 

Why is that so? he wondered. Why does this one area look so rich? Is it more of her magic?

A closer look showed the hint of two figures atop the tallest part of that bit of land. One male, one female, both gleaming and golden in the midday sun, even from this distance. Standing still. Watching them. Waiting. 

Mícheál saw them, as well, and drew in a sharp breath of anger. "I see no boat on the sand," he called to his brother. 

"Did you expect to?" was his response. 

"I would like to think, for a moment, that they were at least a little human." 

"They are nothing like us." Spoken with a soft chuckle. 

"I know. But I still hoped..." 

You would, Caoimhín thought. You would. 

Their boat slipped up to the sand and he jumped into the water to stride ashore. The oarsmen followed him and pulled the boat the rest of the way up on the beach, then Mícheál joined his brother.

The other boats followed them, and soon two-dozen men were gathered together, all of them strong and proud. Each had a tunic freshly made, similar to Caoimhín's and to be worn only for this occasion, and each held a gleaming sword and shield. Their heads were protected by thick leather straps detailed with runes to ward off the worst of horrors, while pelts surrounded their feet and calves. Their eyes were dark and dangerous, and all were focused on Caoimhín. 

I have to say something, he told himself. I have to let them know...

"If any wish to back away," he said, his voice strong, "there is no dishonor in it. Not this time."

None of the men even drew so much as a breath of concern.

He smiled and nodded to them, then pointed to the green sliver of land to his right and said, "So to the witch, we go."

He turned and led them straight across the rocks. It was not an easy patch to cross. Untold eons had scarred the stones to where they were uneven and small crevices cut between them. Many areas were slippery and wet. But there was no other way that was better, and even if there had been, Caoimhín had no wish to delay this final confrontation.

Soon the two who were waiting for them were in full view, watching them approach. Both tall. Both regal. More like brother and sister than husband and wife.

The male? The Dagda. A god to Caoimhín's clan; an evil jokester, to Caoimhín. A thick cloak of a deep rich blue hung from his shoulders, and his ornate helmet was of silver, as were his sword and spear. He was the only person any of them had known who could make Caoimhín look weak and simple, in comparison.For that, alone, he would have hated the creature. 

However, Morriggan was a hundred times worse, for Caoimhín knew her too damned well. Her clothing was also in white and embroidered in gold. Her cloak the same as The Dagda's. Her manner just as haughty.

From a distance.

Once Caoimhín was close enough to look into her expression, he noticed an odd sense of...wariness? Unhappiness? Sorrow? He could not tell. He thought she would have been glad for this day to come, not fighting to hide her true feelings. She had fought for it hard enough.

Possibly the ending...

Jumping around I got this done...

The water was too still. Too quiet. No wind. The face of The Dagda’s vessel cut across the surface with little trouble, so oars pulling it at a surprising speed. Above, the sky boiled in grays soft and cruel. Not unusual for it was not yet time to planting the grain. Yet still it mocked the meaning of this day. Mocked Caoimhín with its joyous dancing so far above, and he was not one to be mocked. Not after the last five harvests. 

He wore a tunic specially woven for this moment, its rough cloth colored in a mixture of the darkest earth and the shining deep red of blood. Skins were wrapped around his feet and lower legs, bound tight and painted with protective runes. He wore a pelt to hold back the chill and occasional spray from the ocean, and was glad for this. It would not do for his body to be covered with water on such a day; it might give the wrong impression to his enemies.To those he despised. 

His boat was the lead of three. Simple crafts built from carved wood, their interior wrapped tightly with the black, gleaming skins of large creatures from the sea. What had he been told they were? Seals? An odd name for a fish. The boat was barely large enough for him and six oarsmen, three to each side. They carried the same basic look as Caoimhín and had initially wrapped themselves in skins against the chill. But now all those lay on the floor, for the simple act of thrusting their oars into the water provided heat enough for them. 

Caoimhín's brother, Mícheál, was at the helm.Their passage was swifter than expected, due to the silence of the wind and the ease of the sea. Behind them, the crafts kept pace carrying men Caoimhín had known since boyhood. Again, all of them with the same dark hair and strong feel, and not one of them unscarred. Not one of them willing to back away from what they knew was to come. He was proud to have them with him. 

Caoimhín looked to his left at the endless ocean. It could carry a man to the edge of the world, and he thought for a moment it might be better to aim for that...but what would he then find? Another life to live? Anything? Nothing? Would he even be allowed to make the journey? He could see hints of anger in the water beyond a certain point. The Dagda’s fine boats would not easily cross there. 

No. 

No, that way was for cowards, and Caoimhín refused to number himself with the likes of them. He had seen too many in recent times. What good was a life lived without honor? Without self-respect? He had learned this lesson in ways hard and brutal. Vicious and cruel. He could not toss it aside on a whim. 

He sighed and looked to his right at the black rocks that towered above them. Taller than a hundred men. Brutal and unyielding, slashed here and there by hints of green, with more grass on top. The edge of his past domain. He had once been to the top of those rocks and thought that was the end of the world, but then had looked down to see, so far below, creatures of the air, white birds with wide wings whispering above the water as it thundered up with white foam to shatter itself against them. Small wonder he had thought this was the end of the earth, and beyond nothing but angry water.It was not hard to believe. The wind had pulled at him in ways inhuman, back then. Almost trying to carry him over the edge. But now?Now the silence was there, as well, and the water barely touched the base of the rocks. 

No winged creatures danced amongst the crevices and caves it held, today. It seemed all of them were above him. A flock of white birds on the wing, thick in number and so silent it was as if they did not truly exist. They paced his boats, hovering above them, easy and steady, like a soft shield of protection. No cries from them. No mewing. No diving into the water for a fish to feast upon, not like they would do when his men drew in their nets from the water, near home. Then, they would steal anything they could, like rats. But today? 

Today, they were his honor guard.Caoimhín chuckled. What a silly thing to believe. Something a child would think. Something Mícheál might still think, him being the sensitive one. The one still connected to the earth. The one who had warned them it would come to this. Who had all but begged Caoimhín to follow his head and not his heart. Who had been labeled coward by many, but who also bore the honorable marks of battle. 

Caoimhín cast a gentle look back at his brother. Received a near smile in answer. Younger by two summers, his face was even more open and honest. His hair like the rich earth that brought forth grains. His eyes soft and the color of slate. One could see how their features lightly shadowed each other, but where Caoimhín was like the trunk of Fedlimid, Mícheál was the branches of Aoibhinn, the gentle willow, who stood with her sisters by the narrow stream passing their settlement. The younger man was just as powerful as they in his willingness to bend and not break. It was with no hesitation Caoimhín now thought of him as the bravest of them all. For he had foretold what would happen and had refused to be set aside, not even from the ordeal to come.Not even from today.

I may have found it...

I'm doing the opening as a prologue...and here is how it's turning out. Nowhere near perfect, yet, but getting there:

The sky is pure in its beauty and grace. And there is no wind to fight us. On such a day as this. A day of ending. Of pain. Of anger placed aside. This day should be dark and sad but instead claims joy in every way.

Manannán holds back his storms. Calms the sea. Lets the world seem whole and alive and filled with promise as he stands on the distant waters. Watching. Waiting to see if all is fulfilled. It would seem our mother’s plea to him was successful.

Our mother.

Morriggan. 

Calling us forth to seal a pact no one wished for. But which was needed to end the battles between us and the clans of Hibernia before the land became barren of life.

We float high above in a space three times the height of the sharp, dark cliffs below. The angry white creatures of the air swirl between us and the still, still sea. So quiet and easy, even as it rushes up to the rocks at the foot of that black wall of land. They silently hover over three fine vessels cutting through the water, so far below. They offer the illusion of protection to them.

Protection.

Those vile, shrieking, biting beasts can protect nothing. They could give only a warning as we approached to do battle. Could only cause us a moment of hesitation in our attack.However, that was hesitation enough to give the clans time to hide our prey from us in ways we could not counter.

Now? They were worthless, even unto themselves. Only hiding a clear view of those small, sleek crafts carrying our enemy to our point of destiny. A tiny bit of land they call Inish Ciuin.

As a triangle, they whisper across the tender waves. No sails unfurled but oars dipping down and pulling in quick crisp motions. Worked by men strong and burdened with memories, whose scars from battle match ours, in number and meaning. All have seen death in its worst phases, yet still they follow he who led them there.

He whom we most despise.

At the fore of the lead vessel, he stands. Full of himself and his abilities against us. Certain it was only by his hand our defeat grew close. Believing without question his cleverness is what made us agree to this pact. Our derision swells against his bold arrogance. Had he not received help from the gods, soon he and all his men would have been sent to the world below.

Such stupid beings, men. They decide what is and is not, and nothing shall sway them from their belief. It would be laughable, but this is no time for laughter.This is only the time of sorrow...and ending.

They called us the Cailleach Bhéara, for wont of a better understanding, even as our mother told them differently. She did not form us to be such childish things. We are Harpyiai, Robbers From the Air. And her mission to us was simple, if unkind.To end a prophecy. 

Instead, it shall be fulfilled. 

That understanding has become key to this moment.

Reading...

I'm reading a Dover edition of The Tale of Genji to give me an idea of how to figure out the language I need for the opening of Darian's Point. I knew of it but I had not read it. I happened upon it when I stopped at a book shop while out and about on errands, this afternoon, almost on a whim...and there it was with a row of other Dovers.

They tend to be cheap but decently bound copies of books that are in public domain. That way, they don't have to pay royalties, and they have a nice deep library of them. They also used to be exclusively paperback, but seems they've expanded into hardcovers that are relatively inexpensive.

Lady Murasaki has a nice, arch style that's giving me ideas. This translation by Arthur Whaley is quite readable. That can a make a huge difference. When I first tried to read Anna Karenina, by Tolstoy, it was a very literal translation into English...which made it hard to get into. But I found one that was much smoother and it became my favorite book. Their translation of War and Peace was a close second.

Unfortunately, Russia's actions in Ukraine and the brutality of her invasion have led me away from Russian literature. It's revealed too much about the true nature of the Russian people, and I can't look at the books in the same way, anymore. I feel like the humanity and beauty of Tolstoy's writing...and Chekov's and Dostoyevsky's and Turgenev's...is a false portrait of the Russian people. Almost like a lie.

I can't really explain why I feel so strongly about that, I just do...and it really pisses me off.

The struggle is real...

I can't find the voice I want to use to tell the beginning of Darian's Point. I like verse for the harpies' comments; it has a greater heft when relating their actions and feelings and pain. But I can't do that all the way through; it would be unreadable. Yet when I write something in a narrative style, the verse makes those words seem childish and hollow.

I know it's still early and it did take me a while to find Brendan's voice for APoS. But I also remember how much work it was to get there...and that much of what I'd written I had to chuck because it no longer worked. Some of which I'd really liked.

I'm also wondering if I need the same voice and style to use throughout the three portions of the story. Should I go for a more ancient manner of speech in a Gaelic form for the first part? Or maintain the verbal style of Brendan's father, when he's telling the myth? Use a straightforward narrative style in the second part? And do first person in the last part, from the viewpoint of D'Arcy? She's a young Irish woman manipulating Perry O'Brien, the last descendent of Caoimhín's, into confronting the horror cursing his family.

I don't want to go first person with Perry. I don't want readers to know if he lives at the end or sacrifices himself to end the curse. If he's telling the story, that pretty much establishes what happens.

But seriously, what I've worked up so far is on the level of bad Danielle Steele gothic romance nonsense. What someone once told me was a modern bodice-ripper. I'd like to think I'm better than that.

I'd like to...