Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 220
August 9, 2015
More of OT chapter 1...
This continues from what I posted, yesterday...
-------------------------
That made me realize I hadn't heard from Uncle Owen in at least three months. I hadn't been worried because he was pretty casual when it came to maintaining contact. He'd been steady while I was in prison and on probation, but once I'd been exonerated and my record expunged, he'd reverted to an e-mail every few months and a phone call...well, never; I'd always called him. The last time he'd e-mailed me was to vent about getting busted at a grocery store --
You will not believe what happened to me, last night. I drove down to Page’s convenience store for some milk, butter, eggs and bread, and was arrested. By a police officer in plain clothes. Who claims I asked him to have sex with me. Right there! In the parking lot!! Talk about ridiculous.
First of all, the man was not the least bit attractive. He looks like one of those puffy body-builders who give off the air of greasiness and psychosis. I seriously believe he would have exploded if he’d taken in too deep of a breath, that’s how tight his skin was over his face and body. Probably on triple doses of steroids.
Second of all, he followed me all over the store and was doing everything he could to make me notice him and think he was available for some fun. It didn’t matter where I went along those long narrow aisles of overpriced goods, the moment I stopped, he’d appear next to me to “look at something for himself.” Then he’d cast me a glance and all but lick his lips to send out that age-old signal of “blow-job.” It actually spooked me, so when I went up to pay for my things and he appeared behind me, before the clerk could begin ringing me up, I said, “I forgot something,” and scurried to the very back of the store to check in the coolers for...whatever. I just wanted him to leave.
When he finally did, I took my time paying for my things, but he was waiting outside as I exited. He approached me and asked me if I wanted to have some fun. He said that he was really horny.
I told him, “That’s not where my head is, right now, thanks.”
He frowned and said, “C’mon, I know you’re gay.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” I asked, more than a little peeved. Because I’m queer I’ll jump on anything that has a dick, whether I’m in the mood or not? What a stupid thing to say.
He followed me to my car, saying, “C’mon, man, I really need to fuck with somebody, tonight. I’m so fuckin’ horny.”
I began to get nervous. His insistence was beginning to seem more pathological than needy. A number of gay men have been beaten and robbed, recently. One’s still in the hospital. So I put my groceries in the car and said, “Dammit, I left my cell phone on the sales counter. Tell you what -- let me get it, first, then we can talk some more.”
"Get some beer, too. And maybe something to eat. I'm kinda hungry, too."
That made me think he might be panhandling, in his own awkward way, so I said, "Wouldn't it be better if I give you some money to use for that?"
I started back to the store, but he grabbed me and said, “No need, faggot. You’re under arrest.”
“For what?” I asked.
“Public indecency.” The words leapt from his mouth as if they were just waiting for release.
I pulled away from him, angry, telling him, “You’re no police officer!”
That is when he held up his badge, saying, “And that’s resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.”
He slammed me against the side of the store, handcuffed me from behind and yanked me over to a new red Camaro, handing me the Miranda saying the whole way, even as I protested. I was taken to the county jail way the hell down in Indio, booked, fingerprinted, dressed in prison attire, glanced over by a nurse, and put in a cell. Thank God no one else was around.
I’d never been arrested before, so I can’t say for certain all jail cells are like this one -- but it was vile. A toilet in a corner of the room with nothing in the way of privacy. A sink was beside it but the water came out in a trickle. A pair of bunk beds jutted from a wall. A heavy lucite door whooshing shut. Hardly “Architectural Digest.” If this is what you had to deal with when you were in stir, you’re a far better man than I am, Gunga Din. Thank God I was alone in there, too.
I was given nothing to eat or drink until seven a-m the next morning, and it was nearly forty-eight hours before I was taken before a judge for a bail hearing. The Assistant District Attorney handling the arraignment was a Ms. Ginty, this huffy little blond thing who looks like she would blow away if the breeze is too strong. Though it actually may be Mrs. Ginty; she wore a wedding ring. The moment the bailiff finished reading the complaint aloud, she said, “People ask for one-hundred thousand dollars bail, your honor.”
“What?!” shot out of me.
“The defendant accosted a decorated police office, exposed himself and attempted to have the officer follow his lead on a public thoroughfare. When he learned he was talking to a policeman, he became irate, attacked the officer and tried to escape. Indications are he would be a flight risk.”
“That’s nonsense you honor!” I snapped. “The officer approached me and asked me for sex, and when I said no he -- .”
“This is preposterous on the face of it, your honor. The arresting officer actually told the defendant to leave him alone in hopes he could just drive away.”
“You want to talk preposterous?” I cried. “That I’d risk being beaten, robbed, or killed for someone who looks like him!”
The judge told us to be quiet and asked me, “Do you have a lawyer, Mr. Taylor?”
“I do.”
“Where is he?”
“He's out of town, your honor, so I called another lawyer I know, but she's not answering her phone; all I got was her voicemail. But your honor, I own property in this town. I have no criminal history. No arrest record. I don’t even have an unpaid parking ticket.”
“Is this true, Ms. Ginty?” the judge asked.
“We haven’t fully vetted his background, sir.”
"Why not? I've been here two days."
“Is that a yes or no, Ms. Ginty?”
“So far as we can tell -- .”
“That’s the same as a yes.” He tuned to me and asked, “I assume your plea is Not Guilty?”
“Absolutely,” I shot back.
“I’m setting bail at five-thousand dollars, cash or bond.” Then he slammed his gavel down.
I paid a bondsman to handle the bail and I was released just a little while ago. And who should I meet as I leave the jail but this twerp of a priest, who’s beautiful but going out of his way to tell me I’ll go to hell if I don’t change my ways, and he wants to help me get right with God and enter ex-gay therapy and on and on until I found a cab. I almost wonder if he’s the rear guard for this cop’s nonsense.
The first thing I did was get my car from Page’s. Of course, the food was ruined and the interior stank. Then as soon as I arrived home I took a shower and fed myself something decent. What they foist upon the inmates appear to be more like microwaveable dinners than real food. I despise nuked meals, and do not even begin to trust anything that is gray-brown but claims to be edible. The car is going to be detailed, shortly.
I called Preston -- Niemscyck, that trial attorney I know, but he's in New York, right now. Well, I want this stopped, at once, so I spoke with Lorinda, yesterday -- she’s my real estate attorney. She referred me to Baskin, Baskin and Reed, of all people. I've had dealings with the first Mr. B. and was not impressed, but I sucked it up and met with Scott Baskin; he’s the one Lorinda suggested. I think she has a crush on him, and while he is adorable, he didn't believe me when told him I'd done nothing wrong or illegal. His mantra was, “I can get you down to public nuisance or disturbing the peace.” That I'm innocent makes no difference. I’d rather have someone who believes me defending me, not some pretty fool going through the motions, so I'll wait until Preston's back in town to fire back. Him, I'll have no problem with.
-------------------------
That made me realize I hadn't heard from Uncle Owen in at least three months. I hadn't been worried because he was pretty casual when it came to maintaining contact. He'd been steady while I was in prison and on probation, but once I'd been exonerated and my record expunged, he'd reverted to an e-mail every few months and a phone call...well, never; I'd always called him. The last time he'd e-mailed me was to vent about getting busted at a grocery store --
You will not believe what happened to me, last night. I drove down to Page’s convenience store for some milk, butter, eggs and bread, and was arrested. By a police officer in plain clothes. Who claims I asked him to have sex with me. Right there! In the parking lot!! Talk about ridiculous.
First of all, the man was not the least bit attractive. He looks like one of those puffy body-builders who give off the air of greasiness and psychosis. I seriously believe he would have exploded if he’d taken in too deep of a breath, that’s how tight his skin was over his face and body. Probably on triple doses of steroids.
Second of all, he followed me all over the store and was doing everything he could to make me notice him and think he was available for some fun. It didn’t matter where I went along those long narrow aisles of overpriced goods, the moment I stopped, he’d appear next to me to “look at something for himself.” Then he’d cast me a glance and all but lick his lips to send out that age-old signal of “blow-job.” It actually spooked me, so when I went up to pay for my things and he appeared behind me, before the clerk could begin ringing me up, I said, “I forgot something,” and scurried to the very back of the store to check in the coolers for...whatever. I just wanted him to leave.
When he finally did, I took my time paying for my things, but he was waiting outside as I exited. He approached me and asked me if I wanted to have some fun. He said that he was really horny.
I told him, “That’s not where my head is, right now, thanks.”
He frowned and said, “C’mon, I know you’re gay.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” I asked, more than a little peeved. Because I’m queer I’ll jump on anything that has a dick, whether I’m in the mood or not? What a stupid thing to say.
He followed me to my car, saying, “C’mon, man, I really need to fuck with somebody, tonight. I’m so fuckin’ horny.”
I began to get nervous. His insistence was beginning to seem more pathological than needy. A number of gay men have been beaten and robbed, recently. One’s still in the hospital. So I put my groceries in the car and said, “Dammit, I left my cell phone on the sales counter. Tell you what -- let me get it, first, then we can talk some more.”
"Get some beer, too. And maybe something to eat. I'm kinda hungry, too."
That made me think he might be panhandling, in his own awkward way, so I said, "Wouldn't it be better if I give you some money to use for that?"
I started back to the store, but he grabbed me and said, “No need, faggot. You’re under arrest.”
“For what?” I asked.
“Public indecency.” The words leapt from his mouth as if they were just waiting for release.
I pulled away from him, angry, telling him, “You’re no police officer!”
That is when he held up his badge, saying, “And that’s resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.”
He slammed me against the side of the store, handcuffed me from behind and yanked me over to a new red Camaro, handing me the Miranda saying the whole way, even as I protested. I was taken to the county jail way the hell down in Indio, booked, fingerprinted, dressed in prison attire, glanced over by a nurse, and put in a cell. Thank God no one else was around.
I’d never been arrested before, so I can’t say for certain all jail cells are like this one -- but it was vile. A toilet in a corner of the room with nothing in the way of privacy. A sink was beside it but the water came out in a trickle. A pair of bunk beds jutted from a wall. A heavy lucite door whooshing shut. Hardly “Architectural Digest.” If this is what you had to deal with when you were in stir, you’re a far better man than I am, Gunga Din. Thank God I was alone in there, too.
I was given nothing to eat or drink until seven a-m the next morning, and it was nearly forty-eight hours before I was taken before a judge for a bail hearing. The Assistant District Attorney handling the arraignment was a Ms. Ginty, this huffy little blond thing who looks like she would blow away if the breeze is too strong. Though it actually may be Mrs. Ginty; she wore a wedding ring. The moment the bailiff finished reading the complaint aloud, she said, “People ask for one-hundred thousand dollars bail, your honor.”
“What?!” shot out of me.
“The defendant accosted a decorated police office, exposed himself and attempted to have the officer follow his lead on a public thoroughfare. When he learned he was talking to a policeman, he became irate, attacked the officer and tried to escape. Indications are he would be a flight risk.”
“That’s nonsense you honor!” I snapped. “The officer approached me and asked me for sex, and when I said no he -- .”
“This is preposterous on the face of it, your honor. The arresting officer actually told the defendant to leave him alone in hopes he could just drive away.”
“You want to talk preposterous?” I cried. “That I’d risk being beaten, robbed, or killed for someone who looks like him!”
The judge told us to be quiet and asked me, “Do you have a lawyer, Mr. Taylor?”
“I do.”
“Where is he?”
“He's out of town, your honor, so I called another lawyer I know, but she's not answering her phone; all I got was her voicemail. But your honor, I own property in this town. I have no criminal history. No arrest record. I don’t even have an unpaid parking ticket.”
“Is this true, Ms. Ginty?” the judge asked.
“We haven’t fully vetted his background, sir.”
"Why not? I've been here two days."
“Is that a yes or no, Ms. Ginty?”
“So far as we can tell -- .”
“That’s the same as a yes.” He tuned to me and asked, “I assume your plea is Not Guilty?”
“Absolutely,” I shot back.
“I’m setting bail at five-thousand dollars, cash or bond.” Then he slammed his gavel down.
I paid a bondsman to handle the bail and I was released just a little while ago. And who should I meet as I leave the jail but this twerp of a priest, who’s beautiful but going out of his way to tell me I’ll go to hell if I don’t change my ways, and he wants to help me get right with God and enter ex-gay therapy and on and on until I found a cab. I almost wonder if he’s the rear guard for this cop’s nonsense.
The first thing I did was get my car from Page’s. Of course, the food was ruined and the interior stank. Then as soon as I arrived home I took a shower and fed myself something decent. What they foist upon the inmates appear to be more like microwaveable dinners than real food. I despise nuked meals, and do not even begin to trust anything that is gray-brown but claims to be edible. The car is going to be detailed, shortly.
I called Preston -- Niemscyck, that trial attorney I know, but he's in New York, right now. Well, I want this stopped, at once, so I spoke with Lorinda, yesterday -- she’s my real estate attorney. She referred me to Baskin, Baskin and Reed, of all people. I've had dealings with the first Mr. B. and was not impressed, but I sucked it up and met with Scott Baskin; he’s the one Lorinda suggested. I think she has a crush on him, and while he is adorable, he didn't believe me when told him I'd done nothing wrong or illegal. His mantra was, “I can get you down to public nuisance or disturbing the peace.” That I'm innocent makes no difference. I’d rather have someone who believes me defending me, not some pretty fool going through the motions, so I'll wait until Preston's back in town to fire back. Him, I'll have no problem with.
August 8, 2015
New opening for OT
I've redone the opening chapter and cut 18 pages. It gets going much faster...
-----------------------
-- A Question --
“Jake, why do you stick with Tone?”
It was my stepmother, Mira, asking. In English instead of French or Farsi and coming at me at the worst possible time. I was en route to Copenhagen for work and had routed through Paris so she and I could meet up...at her request, I might add. On top of that was the legal trouble Tone and I were going through in Texas, and then the second I'd started up my European cell phone I'd gotten a weird text from my Uncle Owen, in Palm Springs.
Jacob, why haven't you come? I need your help.
It was four weeks old, but I'd heard nothing else from him. That made me nervous. The moment I was done with Customs, I'd tried to call him but his voice mail was too full to accept any more messages and an e-mail I sent bounced back, making me nervous-er. All I could do was send a text and hope he'd get back to me once he woke up. So Mira's question was not what I needed, right then.
She and I were having lunch at an Indian café near Le Blanc-Mesnil. It's in one of those thousand year-old homes where everything creaks, even the whitewashed walls thanks to an early winter storm. Of course, when she'd asked that question, what she'd really said was, “Iacob, what is your loyalty with this Antony?” She always calls me by my Persian name when she's leading up to something. I loaded some Aloo Matar into my mouth to give me a chance to think.
Since I didn’t answer, straight off, she continued, “Do you remain with him because you are stubborn, Iacob? Because others say you should not?"
"Mira...I love him," I said, still half-chewing.
"It is not love to remain with someone when it is to your own detriment; it is self-loathing."
Good ol' Mira, blunt as usual. I swallowed and snarled, “Psycho-lady, q’est-çe que c’est?” Joking...but not.
She deliberately did not look at me. “Did you know Antony requested that his therapist share his notes with me?"
"Yeah. He...uh, he told me at the airport."
That made her look at me. "Just before your journey to here?" I gave her an American shrug. She looked at me like I was a lab rat that'd screwed up the maze leading to the cheese. "Has he told you everything he has done?”
I gave her another shrug. I knew more about Tone than anybody, but even I didn't know it all; I doubt anybody will.
“Then let me rephrase my question," Mira continued. "Even if you do love him, is it wise to remain with him?”
"Why're you askin’ me this?"
"I have been talking with your Uncle Ari.”
That made me chuckle. “Nobody talks to Ari; you listen, 'cause he talks enough for both of you."
She smiled back, but almost sadly. "True. He likes your work. His clients now ask for you. He wants you to partner in his business. It is an excellent idea, and as you are now a citizen of Denmark, you may do this. But you must return there to live. Antony cannot leave America until next year, at the earliest. He could join you, then.”
What a load of crap. Ari and my dad may be brothers, but guess who couldn't keep a secret to save his life? And he hadn’t even hinted about anything more than meeting a new client this trip and sending more graphics assignments my way.
She munched on another load of salad, pretending not to watch me. That made me growl. “Mira...what's really going on, here?”
She stopped in mid-chew and nodded and swallowed and took a sip of her wine. Burgundy with a salad; there’s something wrong about that.
"I apologize," she said. "I am too used to being careful with my patients."
"Now you saying I'm nuts?"
She looked straight at me. “Your mother has contacted your father. Twice.”
Slam-bam, blindside me, ma’am. I took a deep breath. “So?”
“I know the first telephone call was about your uncle. Nothing more. But when your father becomes this secretive, it worries me."
My appetite vanished. I knew who she meant, but I still had to ask, "Which uncle? Ari? Bert?"
"No, the one who lives in California."
Owen Taylor. Mom's half-brother by Nana's second marriage. She blamed him for me choosing to be of the devil. She'd actually screamed that at me before she and my father kicked me out of the house. But now she was calling her ex about her hated brother, for some reason? Not what I'd call an unimportant development.
-----------------------
-- A Question --
“Jake, why do you stick with Tone?”
It was my stepmother, Mira, asking. In English instead of French or Farsi and coming at me at the worst possible time. I was en route to Copenhagen for work and had routed through Paris so she and I could meet up...at her request, I might add. On top of that was the legal trouble Tone and I were going through in Texas, and then the second I'd started up my European cell phone I'd gotten a weird text from my Uncle Owen, in Palm Springs.
Jacob, why haven't you come? I need your help.
It was four weeks old, but I'd heard nothing else from him. That made me nervous. The moment I was done with Customs, I'd tried to call him but his voice mail was too full to accept any more messages and an e-mail I sent bounced back, making me nervous-er. All I could do was send a text and hope he'd get back to me once he woke up. So Mira's question was not what I needed, right then.
She and I were having lunch at an Indian café near Le Blanc-Mesnil. It's in one of those thousand year-old homes where everything creaks, even the whitewashed walls thanks to an early winter storm. Of course, when she'd asked that question, what she'd really said was, “Iacob, what is your loyalty with this Antony?” She always calls me by my Persian name when she's leading up to something. I loaded some Aloo Matar into my mouth to give me a chance to think.
Since I didn’t answer, straight off, she continued, “Do you remain with him because you are stubborn, Iacob? Because others say you should not?"
"Mira...I love him," I said, still half-chewing.
"It is not love to remain with someone when it is to your own detriment; it is self-loathing."
Good ol' Mira, blunt as usual. I swallowed and snarled, “Psycho-lady, q’est-çe que c’est?” Joking...but not.
She deliberately did not look at me. “Did you know Antony requested that his therapist share his notes with me?"
"Yeah. He...uh, he told me at the airport."
That made her look at me. "Just before your journey to here?" I gave her an American shrug. She looked at me like I was a lab rat that'd screwed up the maze leading to the cheese. "Has he told you everything he has done?”
I gave her another shrug. I knew more about Tone than anybody, but even I didn't know it all; I doubt anybody will.
“Then let me rephrase my question," Mira continued. "Even if you do love him, is it wise to remain with him?”
"Why're you askin’ me this?"
"I have been talking with your Uncle Ari.”
That made me chuckle. “Nobody talks to Ari; you listen, 'cause he talks enough for both of you."
She smiled back, but almost sadly. "True. He likes your work. His clients now ask for you. He wants you to partner in his business. It is an excellent idea, and as you are now a citizen of Denmark, you may do this. But you must return there to live. Antony cannot leave America until next year, at the earliest. He could join you, then.”
What a load of crap. Ari and my dad may be brothers, but guess who couldn't keep a secret to save his life? And he hadn’t even hinted about anything more than meeting a new client this trip and sending more graphics assignments my way.
She munched on another load of salad, pretending not to watch me. That made me growl. “Mira...what's really going on, here?”
She stopped in mid-chew and nodded and swallowed and took a sip of her wine. Burgundy with a salad; there’s something wrong about that.
"I apologize," she said. "I am too used to being careful with my patients."
"Now you saying I'm nuts?"
She looked straight at me. “Your mother has contacted your father. Twice.”
Slam-bam, blindside me, ma’am. I took a deep breath. “So?”
“I know the first telephone call was about your uncle. Nothing more. But when your father becomes this secretive, it worries me."
My appetite vanished. I knew who she meant, but I still had to ask, "Which uncle? Ari? Bert?"
"No, the one who lives in California."
Owen Taylor. Mom's half-brother by Nana's second marriage. She blamed him for me choosing to be of the devil. She'd actually screamed that at me before she and my father kicked me out of the house. But now she was calling her ex about her hated brother, for some reason? Not what I'd call an unimportant development.
August 7, 2015
Another round of road trip...
Doing the New Haven, NYC, Washington DC tango, this time. Leaving Tuesday, back on Friday. I think on this trip I'm not going to listen to any radio. I want to start formulating the new structure for The Vanishing of Owen Taylor. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of beginning with the last e-mails Jake got from his uncle and how that leads into him having vanished. Then I can slop in some of the other information.
The only thing that bugs me about it is the symmetry of opening the story with a question -- "Jake, why do you stick with Antony?" and ending it with the answer. If I do that particular restructuring, I lose this. I haven't figured out a way around it, yet, but I'm still trying. Something else I lose is the set-up; what happens in the first chapter informs on the last one...
God, this makes my head spin. I want this book to work...but the opening is just too much info piled into too few pages. Maybe if I already have Jake worried because he can't contact Owen...hmm...
I wonder if this story would work better as a mini-series for Logo or Bravo? That'd be fun. More like funny. Imagine Chris Salvatore as Jake...he's the right age. So who'd be good for Antony? Got no idea. He needs to be younger than Jake, and I know Charlie David's older. I'm too out of the scene to know who'd be a good gay actor, now...and I would want real gay actors to play the roles.
Dammit, here I go again...
The only thing that bugs me about it is the symmetry of opening the story with a question -- "Jake, why do you stick with Antony?" and ending it with the answer. If I do that particular restructuring, I lose this. I haven't figured out a way around it, yet, but I'm still trying. Something else I lose is the set-up; what happens in the first chapter informs on the last one...
God, this makes my head spin. I want this book to work...but the opening is just too much info piled into too few pages. Maybe if I already have Jake worried because he can't contact Owen...hmm...
I wonder if this story would work better as a mini-series for Logo or Bravo? That'd be fun. More like funny. Imagine Chris Salvatore as Jake...he's the right age. So who'd be good for Antony? Got no idea. He needs to be younger than Jake, and I know Charlie David's older. I'm too out of the scene to know who'd be a good gay actor, now...and I would want real gay actors to play the roles.Dammit, here I go again...
August 6, 2015
Keeps promising to be enjoyable...
...but ti's only fun...
August 5, 2015
Almost home...
I'm in Jet Blue's JFK Terminal 5 waiting on a flight that's been delayed by an hour, so far. I've caught up on e-mails for work and had a decent meal; now it's time to read more of the feedback on OT. It's proving to be illuminating.
Not all of what people are saying is consistent. By that I mean I get different opinions and suggestions for everything. One person says don't change a thing; one says this part is confusing while another part is excellent; another says the same part is perfect while the other is weird. Those who point out typos (for which I an VERY grateful) find different ones and miss others. The only thing that everyone basically agrees on is the opening -- it's a bit too slow.
That was deliberate, but also a mistake. I already had an idea I'd padded the first 3 chapters with too much information, so I've saved a new copy and cut them out of the text of the rewrite, then I'll see how to make the new first chapter over so it jumps into the story faster. Maybe I'll start with the last e-mail Owen sent to Jake, and the text that followed. Something to consider.
The best part of this is how all these differing opinions have prevented any particular one from taking over, completely. Yeah, there's a lot to process, but I don't feel as if I failed on the writing of it. For once, I think I did the story right and just need to fine-tune it.
I'm also thinking of a new sort of cover for the book -- one using the painting Owen did of Jake and Dion. Meaning I'll need to do one up for it. This one is photoshopped from a picture I liked.
While on this job in San Francisco, I met another gay author -- Kevin Killian...at least, I think he's gay. He's married but I never dug into what that meant. He's got some books out, mainly short stories and what looks like some biographies. He's going to read The Lyons' Den; I'm ordering one of his books once I get home. It'll be interesting to compare notes.
Final point being, I'm not wrecked by this...and that feels good.
Not all of what people are saying is consistent. By that I mean I get different opinions and suggestions for everything. One person says don't change a thing; one says this part is confusing while another part is excellent; another says the same part is perfect while the other is weird. Those who point out typos (for which I an VERY grateful) find different ones and miss others. The only thing that everyone basically agrees on is the opening -- it's a bit too slow.
That was deliberate, but also a mistake. I already had an idea I'd padded the first 3 chapters with too much information, so I've saved a new copy and cut them out of the text of the rewrite, then I'll see how to make the new first chapter over so it jumps into the story faster. Maybe I'll start with the last e-mail Owen sent to Jake, and the text that followed. Something to consider.
The best part of this is how all these differing opinions have prevented any particular one from taking over, completely. Yeah, there's a lot to process, but I don't feel as if I failed on the writing of it. For once, I think I did the story right and just need to fine-tune it.
I'm also thinking of a new sort of cover for the book -- one using the painting Owen did of Jake and Dion. Meaning I'll need to do one up for it. This one is photoshopped from a picture I liked.While on this job in San Francisco, I met another gay author -- Kevin Killian...at least, I think he's gay. He's married but I never dug into what that meant. He's got some books out, mainly short stories and what looks like some biographies. He's going to read The Lyons' Den; I'm ordering one of his books once I get home. It'll be interesting to compare notes.
Final point being, I'm not wrecked by this...and that feels good.
August 4, 2015
Making plans is counter-productive...
I had it all laid out, today. I was overseeing a pick up from a storage facility and it looked really easy. 55 file storage boxes in decent shape, all to be built to a couple of pallets, wrapped in stretch film and taken back to the warehouse to be banded before being shipped across country. I called the freight company and told them the driver could come early if he wanted because I'd be ready. Then I figured I'd go back to the hotel and start work on transcribing corrections to OT.
So the driver showed up at noon...but with no pallets. We loaded the boxes onto his truck, loose, and I said I'd meet him at the warehouse in a couple hours to oversee the build. He had one stop left to make and I was hungry. I figured, fine, I can still work on OT afterwards.
I got to the warehouse a bit later than I intended...and he hadn't returned, yet. Didn't show for another 45 minutes. Then it took half an hour to get them to even assign someone to help me put the boxes on pallets. I got passed off to three people, and the last guy had no earthly idea what to do.
It took another hour and a half to build two pallets (which I did as my helper brought me the boxes), wrap them and band them, then label them and get the weights and dims. I wasn't done till nearly 5:30. I'd walked to the warehouse from the hotel so had to walk back. I didn't arrive till nearly 6:30 and I was exhausted.
Meaning...nothing got done on OT. Nothing at all. I brought my printout for no reason except to mock myself.
That's what I get for making plans.
So the driver showed up at noon...but with no pallets. We loaded the boxes onto his truck, loose, and I said I'd meet him at the warehouse in a couple hours to oversee the build. He had one stop left to make and I was hungry. I figured, fine, I can still work on OT afterwards.
I got to the warehouse a bit later than I intended...and he hadn't returned, yet. Didn't show for another 45 minutes. Then it took half an hour to get them to even assign someone to help me put the boxes on pallets. I got passed off to three people, and the last guy had no earthly idea what to do.
It took another hour and a half to build two pallets (which I did as my helper brought me the boxes), wrap them and band them, then label them and get the weights and dims. I wasn't done till nearly 5:30. I'd walked to the warehouse from the hotel so had to walk back. I didn't arrive till nearly 6:30 and I was exhausted.
Meaning...nothing got done on OT. Nothing at all. I brought my printout for no reason except to mock myself.
That's what I get for making plans.
August 3, 2015
Better than expected...
I've been going through the feedback on The Vanishing Of Owen Taylor that I've received, so far, and it's not so bad. Consensus seems to be the opening chapters are too packed with detail so are confusing. Which I can see. I'm trying to provide information enough about Rape In Holding Cell 6 so this one will stand better on its own, but I may have gotten carried away on that. I'm going to try cutting the first 4 sections down to 2 and sprinkling the info throughout the rest of the story and see if that works.
I'm also considering cutting one semi-important character's plot. It adds a bit of depth to everything that's going on, but it may also be adding too much confusion. We'll have to see if that actually happens. Normally when my characters are set, they stay set no matter what I do.
As for the revelation of what happened...that could be better explained. And sometimes Jake winds up preaching instead of telling the story, something that is really unnecessary. I got one "dropped jaw" over who the killer is and one "Change nothing." All good stuff, so far. The only thing I've taken issue with is one suggestion I capitalize the word god. I don't do that so will ignore it.
Of course I have the usual missing words and typos sprinkled throughout, and will adjust those as I can. I think they're getting worse in my old age. Seems like I can't make it through a sentence without having to correct a mistake.
I'm currently in Phoenix en route to a two-day job in San Francisco and have another hour before my next flight. It's not a very comfortable airport, but it's not the worst I've been in. I make reference to it in Bobby Carapisi, when Eric's coming back from doing research in Texas and Pavel boards for the second leg of his journey back to LA. It's the quiet beginning of a new journey for them.
I'm still very proud of BC. I'm proud of all my work, but with that one...it's the first one where I had to make myself write things I fought having to write...because they hurt. But they were necessary. So I found I can do it when I let myself. Or make myself.
Yeah, like there's a difference between letting myself and making myself...
I'm also considering cutting one semi-important character's plot. It adds a bit of depth to everything that's going on, but it may also be adding too much confusion. We'll have to see if that actually happens. Normally when my characters are set, they stay set no matter what I do.
As for the revelation of what happened...that could be better explained. And sometimes Jake winds up preaching instead of telling the story, something that is really unnecessary. I got one "dropped jaw" over who the killer is and one "Change nothing." All good stuff, so far. The only thing I've taken issue with is one suggestion I capitalize the word god. I don't do that so will ignore it.
Of course I have the usual missing words and typos sprinkled throughout, and will adjust those as I can. I think they're getting worse in my old age. Seems like I can't make it through a sentence without having to correct a mistake.
I'm currently in Phoenix en route to a two-day job in San Francisco and have another hour before my next flight. It's not a very comfortable airport, but it's not the worst I've been in. I make reference to it in Bobby Carapisi, when Eric's coming back from doing research in Texas and Pavel boards for the second leg of his journey back to LA. It's the quiet beginning of a new journey for them.
I'm still very proud of BC. I'm proud of all my work, but with that one...it's the first one where I had to make myself write things I fought having to write...because they hurt. But they were necessary. So I found I can do it when I let myself. Or make myself.
Yeah, like there's a difference between letting myself and making myself...
July 31, 2015
BTW...
I'm putting in an order for next year's birthday present. Hook me up with Rodiney Santiago.
Better start savin' them pennies...and if you want to go in together, I'm fine with that, 'cause he won't be cheap. But he's worth any price...
Better start savin' them pennies...and if you want to go in together, I'm fine with that, 'cause he won't be cheap. But he's worth any price...
Ah, driving in New York...
Don't do it unless you have to. It's hell on earth. Literally. Especially during a Houston level rainstorm.
This is Park Avenue looking south, at 77th. You should be able to see Grand Central Station and The Met Life Building at the end of it. No way. It was coming down so hard...and within 2 blocks, traffic was nearly at a standstill. I only had to get to 60th and Park, but it took me half an hour and then there was zero parking.
This was the second phase of the storm; I'd spent the first phase picking up items from a building that has no parking around it, either. Not even underground; just a canopy from the door to the curb. I already knew this so had parked a couple blocks away then moved the things I was picking up down to the doorman and gone to get my van. It was only sprinkling. But when I was a block from the entrance...that's when it let loose.
I was going to park by a nearby hydrant and run in. Instead, I did what any good New Yorker does (and which pisses me off) -- I double-parked, put on my blinkers and jumped into the lobby to get them...then used a flat box to keep them from getting wet as I tossed them inside my minivan. I got drenched but the boxes of books were fine.
It had stopped by the time I got to my next spot, so I parked and paid the meter and went in to get the book I needed...and made it out just in time to get a ticket for being in there too long and just before it came down, again. I spent enough time driving around looking for parking at my last stop to where it stopped, again...so I made a delivery and as I got back to my van, it started yet again. This time it kept up till I was almost to the George Washington Bridge.
I got drenched three times in four hours. Didn't get fully dry till I was in Parsippany, New Jersey en route home. That's only 28 miles down the 80 from NYC, but it took me two hours in traffic that would make LA proud.
Love the rain, just hate driving in NYC.
This is Park Avenue looking south, at 77th. You should be able to see Grand Central Station and The Met Life Building at the end of it. No way. It was coming down so hard...and within 2 blocks, traffic was nearly at a standstill. I only had to get to 60th and Park, but it took me half an hour and then there was zero parking.This was the second phase of the storm; I'd spent the first phase picking up items from a building that has no parking around it, either. Not even underground; just a canopy from the door to the curb. I already knew this so had parked a couple blocks away then moved the things I was picking up down to the doorman and gone to get my van. It was only sprinkling. But when I was a block from the entrance...that's when it let loose.
I was going to park by a nearby hydrant and run in. Instead, I did what any good New Yorker does (and which pisses me off) -- I double-parked, put on my blinkers and jumped into the lobby to get them...then used a flat box to keep them from getting wet as I tossed them inside my minivan. I got drenched but the boxes of books were fine.
It had stopped by the time I got to my next spot, so I parked and paid the meter and went in to get the book I needed...and made it out just in time to get a ticket for being in there too long and just before it came down, again. I spent enough time driving around looking for parking at my last stop to where it stopped, again...so I made a delivery and as I got back to my van, it started yet again. This time it kept up till I was almost to the George Washington Bridge.
I got drenched three times in four hours. Didn't get fully dry till I was in Parsippany, New Jersey en route home. That's only 28 miles down the 80 from NYC, but it took me two hours in traffic that would make LA proud.
Love the rain, just hate driving in NYC.
July 26, 2015
Another road trip...
Off to Boston, New Haven, and New York City, tomorrow. A total of 5 jobs, though a couple are just picking up things to ship. I got some writing done today while I did laundry, but not much else. It's going to be a very full trip so I'll be lucky if I get anything more done. Then on saturday I start back on The Vanishing of Owen Taylor.
Despite my best intentions, I still read a little of what people are saying in their feedback, and it seems the consensus is the opening 2-3 chapters are too busy and I preach too much. Which I can see. I can't wait to dig into this and tear my heart out. Spew blood all over my laptop and pound my head against my brick wall until it crushes in. Typical writer stuff.
I did have an interesting thought...as a form of avoidance -- rewriting a horror/aliens script set in the desert. We Come. I've come up with some very freaky things to do with it by carrying some aspects of the story to the logical end. Too much of it's been too coincidental and easy...and a bit repetitious. I want to get rid of the crap and make it worse than Alien...if possible. Of course, I can't do that on my laptop since I don't have Final Draft...but I do have Movie Outline 3 and may use this time to find out what that is, exactly.
Guess I've found a way to keep moving forward even as I'm off on my adventures...sort of...
Despite my best intentions, I still read a little of what people are saying in their feedback, and it seems the consensus is the opening 2-3 chapters are too busy and I preach too much. Which I can see. I can't wait to dig into this and tear my heart out. Spew blood all over my laptop and pound my head against my brick wall until it crushes in. Typical writer stuff.
I did have an interesting thought...as a form of avoidance -- rewriting a horror/aliens script set in the desert. We Come. I've come up with some very freaky things to do with it by carrying some aspects of the story to the logical end. Too much of it's been too coincidental and easy...and a bit repetitious. I want to get rid of the crap and make it worse than Alien...if possible. Of course, I can't do that on my laptop since I don't have Final Draft...but I do have Movie Outline 3 and may use this time to find out what that is, exactly.
Guess I've found a way to keep moving forward even as I'm off on my adventures...sort of...
