Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 187

Waitin' on a plane, again...

I'm at JFK waiting on a flight that's been delayed by 1.5 hours, going to London. And my chosen train has decided to let its engineers go on strike, after all, so I had to change routes from Gatwick. Wrecks my plans for tomorrow, that's fer dang sure. I can see this spilling over into Wednesday and that is not right.

I am also seriously disliking Terminal 1. It does not offer anywhere near enough outlets for people to plug their phones and laptops into, and you only get 1/2 hour wifi use for free. Period. Terminal 5 gives you free WiFi all the time.

Anyway, some of today went slow but some went very fast, and since I'm flying Business class I got to use the lounge, soooo...I'll live.

And here's that damned brick wall...

I was doing so well. Working right along. I've probably got 50% of the book rewritten. Adding in fun little bits and BAM! Dead stop, today. Nothing. Not one word. Aside from Facebook-and-Twitter-following, I can't think of what the hell else I did to make the day vanish, aside from just sit at my laptop.

Of course, it started early. My car was driving weird, yesterday, so I took it into the shop and found out the parking brake's return spring had broken so it was rubbing against my wheel and my clutch was leaking so it was almost out of fluid -- costing me nearly $700. I was at the mechanic's 4.5 hours...and have to go back when I return from London to get the clutch finished since they had to order some parts.

BUT...the car runs a lot better, and I can cover the repairs with a credit card...it's just, I want to pay the damn things down. I'm up to my nose in debt. Well, no such luck. Once again, the minute I start getting ahead, something comes along to screw me over. I should stop trying; maybe that way they'd pay themselves off.

On top of that, I worked out an itinerary on the Underground for what I want to check out for my stories, and won't be able to cover everything even if there is no more strike. Going from Swiss Cottage, where I'm staying, to Epping to Canary Wharf to Gallion Place to Kensington to Hounslow East to Hatton Cross to Tower Bridge...the journeys, alone, would take me till after dark. And I really wanted to take a river taxi along The Thames under the bridge.

I dunno...maybe I just didn't get enough sleep and have been pushing too hard, lately, to make the book readable and interesting and literate...this last bit being my main failing. My prose reads like it's straight out of High School, to me. At least I did get my copy of Simplicius Simplicissimus, today, and can dig into that once I've got my brain out of Weirdnessville.

And remind myself that this crap usually happens when something is wrong withing the story. So I need to go back through it and try to figure out what. Is it adding in the billionaire? That does take focus away from Adam, and I'm not sure how to keep the man in throughout; he doesn't actually need to reappear till the end. Maybe he should stay a shadowy figure.

Hmm...that felt right...

Long day but gonna be fun...

Monday I'm off to London, arriving Tuesday morning...just in time for some transit strikes. What joy this will be. But I'm not going to worry about it. Just walking around the city is fine with me; I love London. I only get to stay till Thursday, but it's on the company dime so I ain't complaining.

I'm going to try and check out some of the sites I'm referencing in A65 and MFD and UG -- Canary Wharf, Knightsbridge, Epping, Hounslow East, City Airport and marina. Not much. I'm also going to cross Tower Bridge, this time. I haven't since I was a child. I think it's time.

As I work through A65, ideas come up to make the story interesting as I go along...at least, for me. I'm settling into the third person voice and am using it to bring in the billionaire who's after the book, too, as well as the chaotic world surrounding Casey. Chaos she knows how to live with. The telling still seems a bit on the lightweight side, but I hope to work that out as I go through the next draft.

I was in Toronto on Wednesday. It was nice going up but then a front blew in and DAMN, it got cold. One of those cutting winds. But I got everything done ahead of schedule and got back to Buffalo before the traffic hit and it got dark. Which would have been great except I'd left my car under a spot where there was a drip and it took me a while to get the door open; it was frozen over.

Toronto's a fairly straight drive up the Queen's Expressway through an area that reminds me of northwest Houston, and it has been a while since I was in the downtown area. Wow, that city gives Manhattan a run for its money when it comes to skyscrapers. I thought about stopping to take a photo but for some reason they don't like you to do that on the freeway. Dammit.

So now I've had a nice hot cup of cocoa and feeling sleepy, so tomorrow will bring new info...maybe...

Madness begins and wins...

I've added henna body painting and a new way for Adam to keep busy during Casey's movie that fits neatly with the Mad Hatter's tea party and still nearly gets him killed.

Here's the last of Chapter one, BTW --
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The path they took back to the lift was along a side hall that was really quite narrow, with ceiling pipes so low, one had to walk almost like a duck to avoid them.

Vincent did not look at Adam as he asked, "Is your passport in order?"

"I suppose," Adam said.

"When did you last use it?"

Adam had to think, for a moment. "Three years ago." When Vincent made him travel to New York's Public Library to review a collection they had received as a gift and the two local dealers they had engaged to evaluate it were undecided over its merit. Adam had found a copy of Mark Twain's The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County mixed in with the other books, the advertisements still intact and the boards and spine in excellent condition, making the book worth the entire collection. The library had been very pleased. Adam continued with, "I had to get an emergency renewal because I'd let mine lapse and -- "

Vincent cut him off. "Then it's valid and you've been to the states. Care to go, again?"

Adam huffed. "I'd rather not. New York is madness. I was almost struck by two cabs, a lorry and four bike messengers ... just as I was crossing Fifth Avenue. With the light."

"You'd be going to Los Angeles, this time."

Adam was aware enough to know Los Angeles was big and wide and open, but still had to ask, "Is it saner than Manhattan?"

"Doubtful. But we've acquired a book and -- "

Adam jolted up and slammed his head against a pipe and yelped. Stars flashed around in his eyes, for a moment.

"Careful, there," said Vincent, more perturbed than concerned.

Adam nodded. Before he could even think to silence himself, he blurted out, "Sir, is -- is it The Alice Sixty-five?"

Near color exploded across Vincent's face, he grew so angry. He stormed back to Adam. "Who told you about that!?"

Adam had to take a step back, regain his breath, and rub his head a bit. Of course, he had heard the rumors, but he'd dared not believe them. Now he knew it was true.

"I ... I just heard ... you know, heard," he said. "Around ... " From Jeremy whispering the possibility to Elizabeth, a fortnight back. Just after he'd taken a photo of Adam working on Blake's Albion. He'd taken one of Bill, as well, holding a cup of soup ... which was not surprising; Bill loved his soups.

Vincent carefully calmed himself and said, "I wanted it kept quiet till the book was here. There's a bloody Australian after it, too, and he's been more than adamant."

"Christian Meillon," Adam murmured.

Vincent gave him a tight glare, saying, "Gossip has been pervasive."

Adam blinked and gave him a slight shrug. "Not really. I read a few years ago that he was seeking one for collection. Not because it's a book but because it's rare. I thought, at the time, it would be a travesty if he got one."

"On that, we agree. Did you know he contacted Sir Robert and offered to pay us not to accept it?"

"No sir, but I'm not surprised."

"Fortunately, Sir Robert is completely on our side, so the paperwork's been signed and it's ours, now. Done and dusted."

"Oh." It took Adam a moment to continue. "Sir, are we certain about this?"

"Adam ... " And Vincent's voice carried a warning.

"It's just that I'm always leery when some person discovers a book worth a million pounds in their attic -- "

"Casey Blanchard is not some person," Vincent shot back. Adam's confusion about her was obvious in his expression, prompting Vincent to ask, "Haven't you seen Ilithium Four?"

Adam bolted upright and banged his head, again. Tears filled his eyes.

Vincent rolled his eyes and said, "Adam, please, we're still trying to get funding to have the pipes replaced."

Which had not been replaced since 1910, if not earlier. As for the film, Adam knew of it and had studiously avoided the foul thing. The four-volume book was a lovely reworking of von Grimmelshausen's Simplicius Simplicissimus into a world of the future, keeping surprisingly close to the Lower Baroque style of German, so he bore no interest in witnessing the desecration of a classic work of Science-Fiction.

His dislike of the film colored his expression, so Vincent smiled in his very arch manner and said, "Purist, are we? Of course. I'll lend you my DVD to watch on the plane."

"Must I?"

"Some of us would consider it good manners," Vincent said, "and as you're en route to meet a young lady who was heavily involved with it, I think it only polite to be able to discuss a creative work with one who helped in its creation." He turned to continue walking. "Will your laptop play it?"

"Yes, sir," Adam muttered. His head still smarted, and he could already feel the beginnings of a knot at the very top, but he'd been done far worse to in one of his Saturday football games so just followed.

"Very well. Miss Blanchard's the lead, and the book you are to collect was bequeathed to her by her grandfather, not found in an attic. I've seen the photos of it, inside and out, so I am certain it's a true 1865 edition. Is that acceptable?"

No, but after the back and forth about the Schedel, Adam knew it did no good to argue with Vincent when he is as prickly as this. Instead, he said, "Sir, wouldn't it be better to send Elizabeth to collect the book? It's her area, and I'm sure she's already seen the film."

Vincent stopped just before they reached the lift but did not look back at Adam. "She's not really a book person, so I don't believe she would treat this with the gravity it deserves."

"Hakim, then."

That made Vincent look at Adam with incredulity. "Are you mad? It would take him a month to plot out his journey, and that's with the itinerary already settled. And do NOT suggest Jeremy; he would trumpet his journey from the rooftops and we prefer this be done with as little fuss as possible, and at once."

"But, sir ... you know what happened with my father ... "

Vincent's shoulders tightened and he nodded, his tone finally becoming gentle. "Yes. And I'm sorry to force it on you. But you ... Adam, you are the only person who can do this and ... I ... I trust you to handle it appropriately. Just ... go. Get the book. Bring her straight back. Your itinerary's on your desk."

"Vincent, please ... "

"It's already set. Ticket's in your name and we can't change it. That would be ... the cost would be prohibitive." He put on a smile he did not feel. "But once you've turned her over, you're free till Monday."

He opened the lift's doors and they stepped inside. Adam closed the door and the gate, then Vincent shifted the lever to the second floor, saying in a voice that was too cheerful, "Supposed to be a lovely weekend. I hear you're involved with that girl in I-T -- Cora, isn't it?"

Adam had to smile. Vincent was behind the times -- by two years and a month. And three days. "Not anymore sir."

The man's face did not change except to allow himself to blink in surprise. "Oh. Well. Why not invite her to Sheerness? Go bathing on the beach. See if you can rekindle things."

"Oh, not ... not a good idea, sir," Adam replied, head still smarting and mind still caught in the idea of his upcoming journey. "She's married and with child, and I ... um, besides, I can't swim."

That finally removed Vincent's too-cheerful smile. "Oh. Well. Lowers your chances of being drowned, doesn't it?"

"One would think so," was all Adam could say, in response.

Vincent cast him a glance, showing his comment made no sense to him. Of course, he wouldn't know that Adam's brother, Connor, a year older than he and of the decided belief that he was far superior to his entire family, had determined the best way for Adam to get over his panic when in deep water was to push him into a lake. Force him to swim. Adam had nearly drowned before his father got him out. Now his fears were strapped to his DNA. But when you have a sociopathic narcissist for a brother, moments like this are to be expected.

Adam's only comforting thought, at that moment, was that having dealt with Connor and his peculiarities, all his life, he would be prepared for what he might encounter in Los Angeles.

At least ... one would think so.

Continuing with A65

I had a wild idea of something to add to the story at a later point, so got lost doing that, today. However, this part is close enough, for now. It continues from the earlier posted bits:
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Adam exited the lift into The Dungeon and provided Henry with his ritual scratch and stroke -- something he was sure the cat saw as a toll for entry into his domain -- then turned on his phone's light and hunted down an Oxford Auction bibliography from a packed shelf of pre-1960 information. Naturally, it was not where it should have been, and since Jeremy was supposed to re-shelve items he was digitizing, it was not unexpected. Gossip between Elizabeth and Bill, an older archivist, was ... the lad had attended a special school in Tumbridge Wells. Not that Adam listened in, but it is difficult not to hear when the voices are coming in normal tones from a cubicle next to yours. And Adam had to admit, the lad was certainly not the brightest when it came to mundane tasks ... such as re-shelving.

After much searching, Adam found the book he wanted two units down from where it should be. By happenstance, he had seen a reference to an auction when gathering provenance during their discussion of the Shedel. He was certain the year nineteen fifty-eight was significant ... and there it was. Auction in Rome. Cavalieri House. Aisle sixteen for their catalogues.

Of course, the one he needed was on the very top shelf, necessitating the location of a ladder and the use of some keen eyesight, even on his part. He wound up using his mobile phone's light to sort through catalogs as if he were digging for gold.

He vaguely heard the drifting sound of his name, right about then, but he was too lost in the search to pay attention. And too upset at how poorly the catalogues had been handled. Shoved into their magazine holders upside down and backwards and sideways ... and just how difficult was it to count? Sixty-two did not come before sixty-one but was after, while sixty came after fifty-nine, which came after fifty-seven, which came after ... and he stopped. There was no fifty-eight. The very catalogue he needed. Where was fifty-eight?

He shone his phone behind the upright boxes holding the catalogues and could just make out that a catalog was jammed behind the rest. He shifted the boxes to free it, careful and easy. It was badly bent. He did what he could to twist it back closer to its proper shape before he looked inside.

This time he heard someone calling, soft and unsure, "Adam? Adam?"

He paid little attention, because now he had his proof. Not only would he save the university a great deal of money for a fraudulent item, he would save Elizabeth a great deal of time. So he jumped down from the ladder and --

Vincent appeared before him, snapping in his veddy British tone, "There."

Adam yelped and nearly jumped back up on the ladder, but caught his breath, instead, and said, "Oh -- Vincent, we should revisit that Shedel and find out what the seller's trying to -- "

The man cut Adam off with, "Hakim told me everything about that. Have you been down here all this time?"

"Just -- just a bit," Adam said. "Our meeting's not till half-three."

Vincent's expression grew exasperated. "It's now four."

"Don't be absurd. I set my phone's alarm to remind me." Then Adam looked at it ... and it was flashing -- YOU'RE LATE. He had inadvertently flicked it to mute when he turned on its light. "Oh, sorry, sir. I was just locating information on that Romanian Liber Chronicarum and -- "

Vincent shot him a perfect expression of pure irritation. "Elizabeth's doing provenance on that. What about the Orlando?"

"It's all set, and I've done the Erasmus, as well. Jeremy's about to photograph them and -- "

"Then you're free."

Adam frowned. "Free? Sir, we've dozens more -- "

Vincent raised his hand, for silence. "Come on upstairs," he said, his voice as tight as a violin string. "And please leave the catalogue, there's a good lad. Elizabeth can do her own provenance."

Adam hesitated ... but Vincent was ramrod straight, again, so better to climb up and set the catalogue into its correct box. He still couldn't help but put more in order, they were in such disarray.

"Vincent, if Jeremy is going to do re-shelve his items, he should learn the alphabet and numeric sequence."

"Adam! Come!" His tone was more than Oxfordian, now; it was ready to unleash a slew of carefully refined words meant to slice one down to one's knees with gentle contempt, so Adam quickly switched two more catalogs around then jumped down and let Vincent lead him back to the lift, like a well-trained dog.

Starting 2017 right...

Today was spent cleaning my apartment...and boy, did it need it. Washed everything. Dusted. Vacuumed...and had to empty the container twice. And my nose and eyes are shredding me for it, thanks to all the dust I stirred up.

Anyway, while laundry was working, I did some rethinking about A65. I didn't like how simplistic and obvious it was having Casey's big film be a reworking of Virgil's Aeneid. So I went searching for something better. For a few moments, I was thinking Candide by Voltaire would be good...but the story didn't really suit what I wanted; too cynical. Then I found Simplicius Simplicissimus, by Hans Jakob Chrisoffel von Grimmelshausen...a precursor to Candide but in a more satirical style.

It's well-known in Germany; there was even a miniseries of it made in the 70s for German TV and an opera of it worked up in the 40s. And since Adam speaks German (and Latin and Greek on top of being English), it fit. I hope. I've never read it so I ordered a copy from a bookseller in Baltimore. So far, all I've got is the synopsis.

What's nice is, it will be a counterpoint to Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, if I understand what it's about, well enough. So I'll be referencing two books in the book instead of one. That'll be fun to pull off.

Let it never be said I made things easy for myself.

And more of A65

To the end of chapter one...
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The Dungeon.

That is what they called their basement, which had been made over into a research library ... and if Adam could live there, he would. It contained row after row after row of sturdy shelves packed with books on collecting and collectors, bibliographies, auction catalogues and sales records, dealer catalogues, books of letters and correspondences, biographies, encyclopedias ... more than ten thousand volumes which held nearly everything one could possibly need to learn anything one could possibly want to know about a book. Jeremy's other task was to scan and digitize the information, a process that was going so slowly, it probably would not be done till the lad was ninety.

The Dungeon's one drawback was how dark and dreary it could be. Electric lighting had been added on about sixty years ago, when the shelves were much fewer, and had not been expanded, since. That left some sections so in such deep shadows, even Adam had to use a flashlight to see or read the signage. Which was unusual for him; both of his brothers and his sister were certain he had been born with the eyes of a cat and only used glasses to disguise his true abilities ... like Clark Kent hiding Superman. And while he liked the notion of it, the idea was nonsense ... though he did have to admit, as an adolescent, his mother was constantly admonishing him to turn on a light as he wandered through their home in the evenings.

At least they never saw much in the way of vermin, here, be it in shadow or not. They had Henry the Fourteenth to thank for that. He was a ginger tom named after the thirteen preceding him, and who was always happy to greet one as the lift door opened, allow a couple of scratches to his ears and strokes along his back, then wander off to be contented in some dry corner till it was time to hunt for his supper ... which, considering his hefty weight, he was not wanting for.

The Dungeon's lift had been added at the same time as the lighting and was barely large enough for two, with a door and gate that were completely manual. It was accessible in the back of the Dark Chamber, so Adam headed for it, rubbing his nose to keep from sneezing en route. As he stepped into the lift, he heard Elizabeth saying, “Now, Jere ... one of those is mine.”

He turned to see Jeremy backing past the doorway with both cups of tea in hand, his expression holding all the innocence of 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 snapped, appearing in the doorway with him. “Hand it over. It's in my cup.”

“Come and take it,” he cooed, casting Adam a wicked wink as headed on to his room. Elizabeth followed him.

Adam closed the door and then the gate to the lift, set the lever to Basement, and started down. He couldn't blame Elizabeth for preferring a lad who looks dangerous to one with the manners of a librarian. His mother had tried many a time to tell him that it's more fun to live life than read about it.

He still didn't quite believe her.
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Not much, and I guess I could have added part of chapter two...but I think this is the best way to end my posts for this year and ring in the new one...

[image error] That and this. Here's hoping 2017 is nowhere near as horrible as I think it's going to be. To be honest, I don't have great hopes.

But I do have a harder attitude...

Continuation from December 26th post...

I reworked the paragraph leading up to this bit...still in the first chapter...
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But first things first. Adam had a small ritual he practiced as he carried the Erasmus to be photographed. He would jaunt past the other cubicles to a short hall while singing a soft little song ... sometimes in German, sometimes in Latin (as he did with the Orlando...), sometimes in English, and this time in Greek. "I see a book that's going to be took for Jeremy to photograph and put with all the rest. It's a lovely little book which soon will find its nook and she will be considered to be one of our best."

The hallway was short, with three doors -- two on the left and one on the right. The one farthest down was to Jeremy's office, which contained his computer, a table to mount the books on for photographing, his camera and tripod and a small light kit, all jammed into a space that was little larger than Adam's cubicle. He often whined about being cramped, but it was the only space available.

The other door on the left led to a kitchenette that held a sink, small refrigerator, microwave, kettle to heat water, and various teas and coffees and cocoas in cabinets overhead. They also contained cups and mugs, since each employee brought in his or her own. A single drawer held some cutlery.

The door on the right was to The Dark Chamber, where newly archived books were set on thick, solid shelves to await being brought before Jeremy's camera. Adam loved the room's mystical play of dust and light and darkness, as if it were wrapping the antiquarian volumes in the safety of shadows and silence. He knew it so well, he rarely turned on a light to find his way, even when selecting his next volume to archive.

He set the Erasmus on a shelf then checked his phone to make sure of the time ... and that his alarm telling him it was time for his meeting with Vincent really was engaged. He had done it wrong more than once, before, so now was a bit paranoid about it, but it looked all right. In fact, he had time to make a cup of tea and be at Vincent's office right on the dot, so he popped into the kitchenette.

He set the kettle to going and pulled down his cup -- a gleaming black one with the saying A room without books is like a body without a soul (Cicero). He'd found it at a small shop near The British Library, so bought two -- one for home and one for the office.

As he was filling his cup, he caught a glimpse of Elizabeth slipping into the dark room. She flicked on the light and placed a lovely clam-shell box containing a set of handwritten letters from Virginia Woolf to someone in the south of France on another shelf. The letters had been submitted for an export license and she was researching it as an expert for The Arts Council.

Adam pulled down her cup -- one sporting slashes of pink and green and blue and brown in a vaguely cubist design meant to look very modern but which struck him as common -- plopped a bag into it, and started pouring the still-hot water into it, calling, "Cup of tea, Elizabeth?"

"Tea?" she called back.

"Water's hot. Be set in a flash."

"Quarter milk, no sugar?”

"Just the way you like it," he said, dolloping some milk into both cups.

“No, thanks,” she called back.

Adam froze. He now had two cups of tea and only enough time 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 through the door and growled in his happy-puppy way, "Tea? You never make me any."

Since he was one of those half-Scally, half-punk, half-Eastenders sort of lads you would normally see in a pub nursing a pint, Adam had no idea how to respond except to say, “Didn't know you drank it.”

"So what about that bloody Erasmus?” he said. "Been on the shelf a week and you're the expert in it and -- "

Adam cut him off with, “It's all set to photograph.”

Which is when Hakim, their unctuous, self-proclaimed office manager, popped his head around the other side of the door and snapped, “The provenance better be right, this time.”

Adam huffed. Seven years he had worked here, and only once had he made a mistake -- when researching a manuscript copy of Richard Wagner's Die Nibelungen, he neglected to put an umlaut over a "U" in his transcription from the German, and never mind he was the one who realized the mistake and informed Hakim before it was sent to the Arts Council, he now acted as if Adam's work was riddled with errors. As if his own work was perfect.

Adam meant to respond with a gentle, “Of course,” but he shot Hakim a glare, instead ... and noticed Elizabeth was about to pass with a thick tome bound in vellum. He bolted over.

“Is this Die Schedelsche Weltchronik?” he asked. “The one found in Romania?”

It had caused quite a buzz around the department ... the discovery of an unknown copy of The Nuremberg Chronicle, by Hartmann Schedel. It was published at the end of the Fifteenth Century and was considered the first and most exquisite example of early printing combined with artwork. Supposedly, it had been in someone’s attic in Romania for who knew how long, but now was being offered for sale to the University. Photos had been sent and most of the staff had agreed it was a legitimate copy, as did Sir Robert ... Butterworth, a recent addition to the university's regents. He desperately wanted a Shedel for their collection and was upset when Adam insisted the binding looked wrong and the photographs were of pages that were too easily reproduced. He had overruled Adam and now the book was here, under consideration.

"Why are you taking it?" he asked Elizabeth. "This book's well outside your area of expertise while mine is perfectly suited for it."

“Vincent asked me to do the provenance,” Elizabeth said.

“Vincent? Why would he not give it to me?”

Hakim snorted. “Probably because you argued with Sir Robert."

Then Elizabeth added, with an acidic sweetness, "And neither one of them like being contradicted."

Adam huffed, again. Sir Robert had also insisted on putting down a substantial deposit to guarantee the purchase before the book had even been seen. He felt this was too good an opportunity to pass up, and he would not like being made the fool.

“But Elizabeth,” Adam said, taking the book from her, “the binding is not contemporary to the book. It's Eighteenth-Century, at the earliest.” He looked inside ... and huffed. Her initials were already on the front inside board, in soft graphite. While it is easily removed and only serves to show by whom the book was catalogued, until it is photographed, it's not supposed to be done until the book HAS been catalogued, something she had yet to even begin. He cast her a look of reproval. Once again, she was showing that she was not really a book person. He shifted a few pages over it -- and saw that he was right; the first verso page of text showed it had been expertly tipped in. “Here you go, she is a later printing, with a couple of true pages added to -- ”

Elizabeth cut him off with, “Adam, it's not a person; it's a thing.”

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

She snapped the book closed and yanked it away, clipping his nose with a corner of the front board. He yelped.

“Give it here!” she snarled. “Hakim's right. Half the time you've got no idea what you're talking about.” And she stormed off.

Adam growled, because when he was right about something, he was right about it ... and that Shedel was not right. But he caught Jeremy snickering and Hakim glaring at him as if he were a complete incompetent and Elizabeth casting him a roll of her eyes as she entered her cubicle, so it appeared he would have to prove himself, and he knew exactly how.

The Dungeon.

No writing today...

I watched Singin' in the Rain and let Debbie Reynolds go. I've seen her in so many movies -- The Tender Trap, Tammy and the Bachelor, How the West Was Won, The Unsinkable Molly Brown, What's the Matter With Helen, In and Out...and I even saw an episode of Will & Grace where she played Debra Messing's mom (this was before I gave up on the show and its caricatures of characters). I'm glad she was here.

I didn't warm to Carrie Fisher, so much, tho' I did appreciate her wit and resilience. She always hit me as someone who thought they had it rough and couldn't see how great their life was in comparison to others. Especially people trying to break into the business. I got to where I liked her more once she was a tough old broad who did what she wanted and didn't take shit off anybody. She still had a lot left to be interesting about.

I was mainly hit by how they went within a day of each other...like an old married couple. That's not right...and I know the universe don't really have right and wrong coded into it...but it's still not right.

So I did a sketch, afterwards. Nothing great but a mind jabber to get me away from the quicksand of sorrow. Took me about 25 minutes, and I made this one a bit less in-your-face than the first one.

I've been doing one a day since before Christmas to try and regain my balance and it works. I get lost in trying to make them feel alive and interesting, and that helps me stop worrying about the world's bullshit.

My plan is to fill a 100 page blank book...then start on another and keep going as long as I can or want to.

GDMFSOB!!!!!!!

I worked on A65 all evening and did not learn about Debbie Reynolds until just a little bit ago.

Her best comment -- "Singin' in the Rain (1952) and childbirth were the two hardest things I ever had to do in my life."
I'm not writing anymore, tonight.