Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 243
January 9, 2015
Loop-de-loop
I'm caught up in a 16 page section of Owen Taylor that isn't working, just yet. I've rewritten it three times and it's close but still not there. I'd just let it go, but this bit is too important to just toss aside because it sets Jake on the true path. And redoing it also affects aspects of what's already happened.
It's interesting that this happens -- that I come to a spot in the story that needs to be paid more attention to, and I can't go forward till it's done right. Like I've glanced at something deep inside me that is part and parcel of the process and have to figure out how to open that door, again, even though none of it's a conscious process.
A lot of my writing is like that. What was it Michelangelo said when he was asked how he was able to do a statue as beautiful as The David -- something like, "All I did was free it from the stone." I feel a bit like that, at moments like this. I may be seeking one single word to make the whole thing fall into place, and I have to free it from the room in my head that it's hiding in...a bit like Magritte frees heads from bodies...
So...sound crazy enough, yet?
It's interesting that this happens -- that I come to a spot in the story that needs to be paid more attention to, and I can't go forward till it's done right. Like I've glanced at something deep inside me that is part and parcel of the process and have to figure out how to open that door, again, even though none of it's a conscious process.
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A lot of my writing is like that. What was it Michelangelo said when he was asked how he was able to do a statue as beautiful as The David -- something like, "All I did was free it from the stone." I feel a bit like that, at moments like this. I may be seeking one single word to make the whole thing fall into place, and I have to free it from the room in my head that it's hiding in...a bit like Magritte frees heads from bodies...So...sound crazy enough, yet?
January 8, 2015
The joy of fountain pens...
I like how they feel in my hand. The way they glide across the paper. The permanence of their ink. Using a fountain pen is like being a serious writer, to me...or an artist, even. I go a bit slower as I put words on paper, get a bit more thoughtful, contemplative. And its sense of absoluteness gives you pause; I mean, you can't get rid of what you've done with a pen like this except by showing how you tried to.I feel somewhat the same about pencils, when it comes to holding and using one. A #2 is like sketching out thoughts, no matter what you're doing. All preliminary. I'm freer, more open to trying new ideas because if they don't work out, they can be erased. And I prefer the look of a pencil sketch to one done in simple pin and ink (the more elaborate styles using India Ink are the exception; those go both with pen and brush).
None of this is something you can do with a ballpoint pen or anything felt tip, not really. You can approximate the feeling...and I have, sometimes...but those are really more work-a-day stylos good for business and finance, not as a partner in your thought processes, and their aura is commercial and plain.
Problem is, you can't use fountain pens except on good paper; otherwise the ink seeps through and you wind up only able to use one side of the sheet. I avoid writing with one in my journal, for example, because I do that in a composition book. Same for legal pads; one side only. And on checks, you have to wait till the ink dries before you can do anything more with it. I don't remember it always being like this.
When we lived in England, our neighbor had a teenage daughter who would babysit for my folks. And she'd do her math homework with a fountain pen on paper that held it fast. I could watch her for hours. I tried it a few times and quickly returned to the safety of a pencil, because I made a massive mess of the page. But it took a lot of ink for it to seep through to the other side of the sheet.
I have Calligraphy pens, and pens I've used for India ink sketches, but the feel of a reservoir pen nestled between your finger is just...nice.
January 7, 2015
Doin' that two-step...
The rewrite was going smooth until I came to a section where I had to decide which way to take the story. If I went left, a huge section had to be rewritten...and it felt right as it is. If I went right, I'd have to get rid of a subplot about Tone and his legal troubles...that didn't add anything to the story...so off it went. But it means jumping back to page 90 to rework two chapters. Grr...
BUT...I've cut nearly a thousand words out. That's not a lot when you're over 110,000 words spread across four parts and 550 pages. I've got an epic going here, fer dang sure.
I've been following the police action in Paris after the attack on Charlie Hebdo, a French satirical magazine. Twelve people were killed, including a janitor. And a policeman lying wounded on the pavement was brutally executed. Islamic leaders have condemned the attack, but you wouldn't know it from the American media (and let's just not bother considering Fox to be part of that world, since their only business is to build fear and loathing, not dispense information).
The magazine was threatened numerous times for publishing cartoons showing the prophet, Mohammad, which is thought to be a no-no. The staff stood up to the threats, and I admire them for it. What's interesting is listening to how quickly this is being turned into an anti-Muslim screed. People doing that completely miss one aspect of this -- Charlie Hebdo is a liberal magazine run by people who cared about humanity; they would be horrified at being used to push anti-Muslim hate.
Stephane Charbonnier is among the dead.
I once had a character in a screenplay spout a profundity about how the world was slipping into chaos. I thought I was being clever and cool with that; I didn't think it was really more prophetic. But the last couple years have convinced me we are entering a new dark age, like after the collapse of the Roman Empire. That lasted 500 years.
I pity the generations after me.
BUT...I've cut nearly a thousand words out. That's not a lot when you're over 110,000 words spread across four parts and 550 pages. I've got an epic going here, fer dang sure.
I've been following the police action in Paris after the attack on Charlie Hebdo, a French satirical magazine. Twelve people were killed, including a janitor. And a policeman lying wounded on the pavement was brutally executed. Islamic leaders have condemned the attack, but you wouldn't know it from the American media (and let's just not bother considering Fox to be part of that world, since their only business is to build fear and loathing, not dispense information).
The magazine was threatened numerous times for publishing cartoons showing the prophet, Mohammad, which is thought to be a no-no. The staff stood up to the threats, and I admire them for it. What's interesting is listening to how quickly this is being turned into an anti-Muslim screed. People doing that completely miss one aspect of this -- Charlie Hebdo is a liberal magazine run by people who cared about humanity; they would be horrified at being used to push anti-Muslim hate.
Stephane Charbonnier is among the dead.I once had a character in a screenplay spout a profundity about how the world was slipping into chaos. I thought I was being clever and cool with that; I didn't think it was really more prophetic. But the last couple years have convinced me we are entering a new dark age, like after the collapse of the Roman Empire. That lasted 500 years.
I pity the generations after me.
January 6, 2015
California's looking to the future...
The most important kickoff in America today will not happen in Washington, where the 114th Congress begins its work. No, a far more consequential beginning takes place on the other side of the country, in modest Fresno, California, at an invitation-only ceremony on the corner of Tulare and G Streets. There, officials will break ground on America’s biggest and most ambitious infrastructure project of the century, a high-speed rail line linking San Francisco and Los Angeles that, when completed, will run at speeds of 220 miles an hour and move people between those metropolises in around two and a half hours, half the time it takes by car. ...I got the story from Salon; read the rest, here..it's too-too-kewl.
January 5, 2015
Back to forward motion...
I got a couple more chapters done on OT, including changing Jake's meeting with Lorinda, Owen's real estate broker/lawyer. Here's their meeting.
--------
She was late, so I got a table and ordered a tea. Man, nothing's weirder than CPK. They had a bar area walled off by glass panels, high tables with chairs, and servers that ask you every five seconds how everything is doing. And everything on the menu has chicken in it, like they should call themselves California Chicken Kitchen.
The second I saw her burst in off the street and head for me, I knew her nickname was Little Miss Golden, her clothes were so bright and business casual, and her hair was bleached and hair-sprayed just right. She looked ready to take you stalking through a hundred homes that day, if you could keep up. Even in casual pumps. And when she got to talking? Dion way-understated her ability to chatter.
Oh, and she just a-dored my uncle.
“He’s like the uncle you always wish you’d had. Like cool and calm and sweet. My mom met him and she’s like, ‘You know what a Dutch Uncle is? That’s Owen.’ But I didn’t know what a Dutch uncle is, so I’m all, ‘Mom, what do you mean?’ And she’s like, ‘He’s practical, direct, outspoken, stubborn, blunt, well-organized, and thinks he’s always right.’ And I’m like, wow, that’s him. Who knew? And when I told him she’d said that, he laughed for like half an hour, he thought it was so cute.”
She paused long enough to take a bite of her salad, so I hopped in with, “Did you handle all of his real estate deals?”
“Oh, no, I only took over two years ago, from the guy who was doing it because he and Owen didn’t get along, but there hasn’t been much for me to do except make sure he like keeps up on his taxes, though I did handle some legal stuff. Like when he wanted to buy that condo. We tried like crazy to work it out but the bank wouldn’t say yes, and once word gets around everybody’s like ‘No, I don’t think so,’ and you can't get them to change their minds not matter what you do, so don't even try.”
“When was this?”
“About a year ago, maybe more, maybe less. Time gets away from you so fast. Like I thought today was Friday and I’d have a day to catch up but it’s not, so I’m scrambling to make all my appointments and I’m like wondering why I set so many up, but some of them look good, so I can’t say no. Can I?”
Another breath. Another bite of salad. Whooh.
“I know my uncle owned four of the townhouses and an apartment complex. Was there any other property?”
“I think so, but it wouldn’t be stuff that I handled. It’s like I think there was some property he bought, like some kind of partnership under Baskin and Baskin, with some other people and – oh, they’re not like the ice cream place, where you get all those flavors and cones. Like Baskin Robbins. No, these guys’re like really serious lawyers, so they'd handle anything he’d partnered with people on, so you ought to talk to them. But you have to wait till Monday. They’re big enough to get weekends off -- of course. I’m like scrambling to find time to do my nails, and they really do need a touchup.”
“But he called you about a lawyer -- .”
“Oh, yeah, Scott, oh, yeah -- he said he’d deal with it and I guess he did because I like didn't hear anything more about it, after that, but then that's just like Owen to get things done and taken care of without telling you. Back when we were planning to buy another townhouse, he had some illegals come in and start painting it before the bank said okay, like it's nothing to even think about.”
"Illegals?"
"Couple of Mexican guys. Brothers, I think. They looked alike, but one was way too young for me, but the other one -- makes you want to break the law."
Another bite. A moment of silence, broken by me before it was broken by her. "Uh ...break the law, how?"
She leaned close to whisper, "Oh, you can't sleep with an illegal guy. People might think you mean it, and think you like think it's okay that he's here."
"But...what if he's a citizen?"
"But he was like Mexican."
"California used to be part of Mexico."
"Then why don't the cities have Mexican names?"
Okay, that so startled me, I went blank for a second. I covered it by asking, “What...what...what about this Scott-guy?”
“Baskin. The old man’s grandson. He does rock climbing and he is like so much. Ooh. With him, nothing would be illegal. Not one thing. Nothing.” She actually fanned herself. “But he and Owen didn't get along, so Owen went his own way. Just like a Dutch Uncle. I need to call him and find out what he’s been up to. Oh, wait, he like ran off, right, a couple months ago? Some legal thing, I think. Oh, and it’s time to talk about property taxes. Like, so quick. Ugh. He better hurry back. Riverside doesn’t like give you any leeway.”
Two minutes later, she was on her own way to her latest appointment, leaving behind a third of her salad and half her tea. I was left to catch my breath and pay the bill.
--------
She was late, so I got a table and ordered a tea. Man, nothing's weirder than CPK. They had a bar area walled off by glass panels, high tables with chairs, and servers that ask you every five seconds how everything is doing. And everything on the menu has chicken in it, like they should call themselves California Chicken Kitchen.
The second I saw her burst in off the street and head for me, I knew her nickname was Little Miss Golden, her clothes were so bright and business casual, and her hair was bleached and hair-sprayed just right. She looked ready to take you stalking through a hundred homes that day, if you could keep up. Even in casual pumps. And when she got to talking? Dion way-understated her ability to chatter.
Oh, and she just a-dored my uncle.
“He’s like the uncle you always wish you’d had. Like cool and calm and sweet. My mom met him and she’s like, ‘You know what a Dutch Uncle is? That’s Owen.’ But I didn’t know what a Dutch uncle is, so I’m all, ‘Mom, what do you mean?’ And she’s like, ‘He’s practical, direct, outspoken, stubborn, blunt, well-organized, and thinks he’s always right.’ And I’m like, wow, that’s him. Who knew? And when I told him she’d said that, he laughed for like half an hour, he thought it was so cute.”
She paused long enough to take a bite of her salad, so I hopped in with, “Did you handle all of his real estate deals?”
“Oh, no, I only took over two years ago, from the guy who was doing it because he and Owen didn’t get along, but there hasn’t been much for me to do except make sure he like keeps up on his taxes, though I did handle some legal stuff. Like when he wanted to buy that condo. We tried like crazy to work it out but the bank wouldn’t say yes, and once word gets around everybody’s like ‘No, I don’t think so,’ and you can't get them to change their minds not matter what you do, so don't even try.”
“When was this?”
“About a year ago, maybe more, maybe less. Time gets away from you so fast. Like I thought today was Friday and I’d have a day to catch up but it’s not, so I’m scrambling to make all my appointments and I’m like wondering why I set so many up, but some of them look good, so I can’t say no. Can I?”
Another breath. Another bite of salad. Whooh.
“I know my uncle owned four of the townhouses and an apartment complex. Was there any other property?”
“I think so, but it wouldn’t be stuff that I handled. It’s like I think there was some property he bought, like some kind of partnership under Baskin and Baskin, with some other people and – oh, they’re not like the ice cream place, where you get all those flavors and cones. Like Baskin Robbins. No, these guys’re like really serious lawyers, so they'd handle anything he’d partnered with people on, so you ought to talk to them. But you have to wait till Monday. They’re big enough to get weekends off -- of course. I’m like scrambling to find time to do my nails, and they really do need a touchup.”
“But he called you about a lawyer -- .”
“Oh, yeah, Scott, oh, yeah -- he said he’d deal with it and I guess he did because I like didn't hear anything more about it, after that, but then that's just like Owen to get things done and taken care of without telling you. Back when we were planning to buy another townhouse, he had some illegals come in and start painting it before the bank said okay, like it's nothing to even think about.”
"Illegals?"
"Couple of Mexican guys. Brothers, I think. They looked alike, but one was way too young for me, but the other one -- makes you want to break the law."
Another bite. A moment of silence, broken by me before it was broken by her. "Uh ...break the law, how?"
She leaned close to whisper, "Oh, you can't sleep with an illegal guy. People might think you mean it, and think you like think it's okay that he's here."
"But...what if he's a citizen?"
"But he was like Mexican."
"California used to be part of Mexico."
"Then why don't the cities have Mexican names?"
Okay, that so startled me, I went blank for a second. I covered it by asking, “What...what...what about this Scott-guy?”
“Baskin. The old man’s grandson. He does rock climbing and he is like so much. Ooh. With him, nothing would be illegal. Not one thing. Nothing.” She actually fanned herself. “But he and Owen didn't get along, so Owen went his own way. Just like a Dutch Uncle. I need to call him and find out what he’s been up to. Oh, wait, he like ran off, right, a couple months ago? Some legal thing, I think. Oh, and it’s time to talk about property taxes. Like, so quick. Ugh. He better hurry back. Riverside doesn’t like give you any leeway.”
Two minutes later, she was on her own way to her latest appointment, leaving behind a third of her salad and half her tea. I was left to catch my breath and pay the bill.
January 4, 2015
Anger is good...
I should get pissed-off more often. It seems to shatter my barriers and I suddenly see places in whatever it is I'm working on that I can improve. So after the last couple of days of ranting and raving around my apartment -- I did not got out; if I'd driven anywhere, I'd probably have smashed my car into one of the idiot drivers in this town, just out of spite -- anyway, I stayed in and made myself sit down to OT, today...and bam. Jake took over.
He finally sees someone he dislikes is being set up to take the wrap for a murder. How he handles it is pure Jake. He's a wolf to the core, all right. An alpha. He doesn't quite get it, yet, but that entails certain requirements -- like taking care of your pack. And deep down he's sensed, whether he likes it or not, this person is one of his. So he shifts into protection mode without a thought.
I know I've danced around this idea in earlier posts on this blog, but today it got clarified and I went straight to the section in question and changed it. Which means a lot more has to be changed in the rest of the story, but that also means cutting a sub-pot that probably should have been cut, anyway. I weep tears of the crocodile.
Something else that happened was, I saw a way into writing the very beginning of Darian's Point -- the part where the harpies are brought to life thanks to actions of The Dagda and Morriggan. I'm reading Seumas MacManus' The Story of the Irish Race -- which is really an anthology of other people's writings about the beginning of civilization in Ireland. I had to give up on that insipid collection of gay mysteries when I read one that was a direct rip-off of a Ruth Rendell mystery from the early 50s, and a rotten one, at that.
So I'm reading the part about Fionn and the Fian -- which is damn close to the Celtic version of Camelot and knights and honor and adventure, even though it takes place 1000 years earlier -- and the opening came to me. I'd had a problem with getting the Celts to Inish Ciuin, the tiny island near the Arans on the West Coast of Ireland where all three parts of the story take place. The story begins 3500 years ago, when the Tuatha de Danaan ruled Ireland, and the boats they had at the time would be barely seaworthy...unless the sea were preternaturally calm.
Well...Morriggan's a witch. She can control the earth and the sea and the sky...so make use of it. Instead of a storm to emphasize the emotional turmoil to come, everything is unusually calm and beautiful. Makes perfect sense, once you see it, but sometimes there's too much garbage in the way. Garbage is gone, now.
Reason for the garbage?
1. My insurance company double-charging me for my premium, even though I'd called them earlier in the month to make certain everything was okay. I was told they'd put the auto-debit on hold for January, so I paid my premium, then. On the 2nd, the auto-debit took out a payment for my premium, and customer service insisted that by the time they got the money back to me, I'd have to send it right back to them, anyway, so it's better if they just hang on to it. Fortunately, I could cover it, but it was irritating.
2. A word fight on Facebook with a young woman (and some man who backs her up) over Obama filling the military with illegals so he can have them come kill white people. I kid you not. This is the kind of two-bit mentality that thinks since you're queer you've got HIV and need to get tested, and accuses you of being on welfare because you don't agree with them. They are a danger to America, and they seem to be growing in number. What makes it really scary is, these are people who do not know the difference between "you're" and "your".
3. Family issues.
4. Getting an award-winning screenplay spit on, again, by people who think everything has to be according to Save the Cat. If it isn't, it isn't good...and you're not a good writer. I used to take criticism like this to heart; now it just infuriates me.
5. And then the old standby -- financial crap. Seeing how I'm deeper in debt than I was at the beginning of the year, even though I've been trying to change course. Maybe I'm the Titanic of monetary issues.
Hmm...sounds more like I'm becoming a cliche of a writer.
He finally sees someone he dislikes is being set up to take the wrap for a murder. How he handles it is pure Jake. He's a wolf to the core, all right. An alpha. He doesn't quite get it, yet, but that entails certain requirements -- like taking care of your pack. And deep down he's sensed, whether he likes it or not, this person is one of his. So he shifts into protection mode without a thought.I know I've danced around this idea in earlier posts on this blog, but today it got clarified and I went straight to the section in question and changed it. Which means a lot more has to be changed in the rest of the story, but that also means cutting a sub-pot that probably should have been cut, anyway. I weep tears of the crocodile.
Something else that happened was, I saw a way into writing the very beginning of Darian's Point -- the part where the harpies are brought to life thanks to actions of The Dagda and Morriggan. I'm reading Seumas MacManus' The Story of the Irish Race -- which is really an anthology of other people's writings about the beginning of civilization in Ireland. I had to give up on that insipid collection of gay mysteries when I read one that was a direct rip-off of a Ruth Rendell mystery from the early 50s, and a rotten one, at that.
So I'm reading the part about Fionn and the Fian -- which is damn close to the Celtic version of Camelot and knights and honor and adventure, even though it takes place 1000 years earlier -- and the opening came to me. I'd had a problem with getting the Celts to Inish Ciuin, the tiny island near the Arans on the West Coast of Ireland where all three parts of the story take place. The story begins 3500 years ago, when the Tuatha de Danaan ruled Ireland, and the boats they had at the time would be barely seaworthy...unless the sea were preternaturally calm.
Well...Morriggan's a witch. She can control the earth and the sea and the sky...so make use of it. Instead of a storm to emphasize the emotional turmoil to come, everything is unusually calm and beautiful. Makes perfect sense, once you see it, but sometimes there's too much garbage in the way. Garbage is gone, now.
Reason for the garbage?
1. My insurance company double-charging me for my premium, even though I'd called them earlier in the month to make certain everything was okay. I was told they'd put the auto-debit on hold for January, so I paid my premium, then. On the 2nd, the auto-debit took out a payment for my premium, and customer service insisted that by the time they got the money back to me, I'd have to send it right back to them, anyway, so it's better if they just hang on to it. Fortunately, I could cover it, but it was irritating.
2. A word fight on Facebook with a young woman (and some man who backs her up) over Obama filling the military with illegals so he can have them come kill white people. I kid you not. This is the kind of two-bit mentality that thinks since you're queer you've got HIV and need to get tested, and accuses you of being on welfare because you don't agree with them. They are a danger to America, and they seem to be growing in number. What makes it really scary is, these are people who do not know the difference between "you're" and "your".
3. Family issues.
4. Getting an award-winning screenplay spit on, again, by people who think everything has to be according to Save the Cat. If it isn't, it isn't good...and you're not a good writer. I used to take criticism like this to heart; now it just infuriates me.
5. And then the old standby -- financial crap. Seeing how I'm deeper in debt than I was at the beginning of the year, even though I've been trying to change course. Maybe I'm the Titanic of monetary issues.
Hmm...sounds more like I'm becoming a cliche of a writer.
January 3, 2015
Guess which one is me, right now...
Need I provide an answer?Taz is still spinning, spitting, snarling, and grrring. So silence will remain the best option.
January 2, 2015
Taz is not happy...
Better to be silent and alone, right now, so no one gets their feelings hurt. But MFSOB, do I want to rip some heads off...January 1, 2015
Oops, there it is...
What fun today has been. I spent it at home using the laundry facility in my building (it's next door to my apartment) so I could work on OT, some more. My goal was to finish the rewrite of parts 1 & 2...and I did. But in doing so, the picture Owen painted of Dion and Jake together popped up, again. It apparently is important to the story.How? Well, one might ask, but all one would get from the characters involved is deafening silence. I guess I can only hope that the big revelation comes as I'm working on parts 3 & 4, because I got no clue except it pisses Tone off and leads to a nasty argument between him and Jake.
Hmm...I'm suddenly remembering an Italian Opera -- Tosca. Floria Tosca, the lead in Puccini's opera, is jealous of a painting her lover, Cavaradossi, has almost completeld. It's a representation of Mary Magdalene but has the likeness of another woman Tosca knows, a beautiful Marchesa who is blond and blue-eyed. Tosca insists Cavaradossi make the painting's eyes brown...and it's her jealousy that leads to the story's tragedy.
Could this painting lead to Jake and Tone's breakup?
December 31, 2014
I resolve to not resolve...
No New Year's Resolutions. They're a waste of time. Waste of effort. Waste of positive energy on something geared towards failure. And the fact that I've never kept one is beside the point. I've also grown to believe that once you actually give voice to a resolution or plan or intention, something deep in your psyche -- or a force in the universe, if you prefer -- aligns itself against you. At least, they do with me.I've discovered, for example, that every time I get into a line for anything, it's the slowest one. Doesn't matter how fast it was going when I joined it; the second I'm locked in with people behind me, it all but stops. I actually had a good grocery checker swap out for an amazingly inept one at a Wegman's, who then called for assistance 3 times while checking people out ahead of me. Then she was replaced with one who couldn't understand the concept of putting bread and bananas in last, so they're on top, instead of slinging them in as you go along. I wound up putting my own groceries in the bag.
I also make wrong turns. If I hit a fork in the road and go left, it winds up that I should have gone right. And what's the latest? For the first time I let myself get talked into getting a flu shot...and it turns out it's for the wrong strain of the epidemic happening on the West Coast, right now. Perfect. Means I'll probably wind up with the effin' flu.
So the only thing I can do is embrace my wrong-way-ness. It's been suggested by a "friend" that if I wanted to write books with gay characters and intense sexual situations, I should have used a pseudonym so it would lessen the impact on my more mainstream work. And logically, they're right. If you Google my name, what comes up first are links to me as author of How To Rape A Straight Guy.
It's also been suggested that if I'd written my books geared to heterosexuals, I'd probably have sold a lot more. 50 Shades of Gray is used as an example of how kink can sell to suburban housewives, and Jackie Collins sells millions of copies of books with intense sex in them; hell, she can be found in the damn library. But two guys having at it? Ew.
Well fuck that. If I go left and should have gone right, I'll just change course. And I'm writing what I fucking want to write, from now on, and if it doesn't sell a million copies, so be it. I'm at that stage of life where I'm going to enjoy myself and if people don't like it, so what?
I am Tigger...hear me ROAR...wait, did I just make a resolution?
