Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 3

Plausibility problem

I've run headlong into an issue that really cannot be shoved aside. Adam is handled as a runaway by the authorities. Because his parents do not want him back, he is handed over to a foster home. Where the owner of the home is really a pimp for the boys staying there. Only boys. Mid-teens.

The intent is for them to have a place to live until they're old enough to handle things on their own. But it's really a male whorehouse, with carefully selected clients who drop by for their fun.

Well, that's raised an issue I cannot get around. Where can this kind of place be situated, in Montréal? If it's in a residential area, neighbors will eventually notice the comings and going of middle-age males into the house.

If it's located in an industrial area that's pretty much shut down after six, it would stand out as unusual and bring unwanted attention. Putting it downtown doesn't work, either, nor in the Old City.

No matter what, the way I have it written now is not realistic. And I'm blocked trying to figure it out. Because the alternative at the moment is for Adam to be homeless and standing outside the bus stations waiting for some old man to pick him up and pay him enough to buy a meal and room for the night.

That or wind up a kept boy for sugar-daddy kind of guy. And neither really works for me.

I've thought of just passing by it, but this part of his life informs on so much else so it needs to work. Otherwise, I'd have to chuck large portions of what I've already written and infused into his story with Dair.

And Adam's not exactly being helpful. The little shit.

I may have to get rid of my car...

I just spent $1000+ getting it in shape for winter. Tires rotated, new oil, full fluids, air filter, tune up with new plugs and distributor cap, oil seepage noted, battery replaced, lubes and labor...and a lecture on how my car's body needs attention. Which it does, but I only have 1 rust spot on it; the rest are just dings.

In the last 12 months I've spent thousands of dollars on it. I love my car, but for that kind of money I could be in a new one that's under warrantee. I like the HRVs, except for all the electronic crap and it not being available with a stick. It would have been the right height for me to get in and out of, though.

Thing is, I can't keep up this kind of expense. $1300 a year for insurance! Things going wrong because the car's 27 years old? And I don't even drive it that much. Maybe 200-250 miles a month. There's been occasions I've gone 2 months before needing to gas up.

But having a car helps so much. Groceries. Dr. appointments. Going into Caladex, now and then. I mean, I could do that on the bus; I managed in LA for nearly 2 years, with no car. But it's a real hassle. And Uber's not that cheap.

Crap, I don't need to be worrying about this, right now. I had the money, fortunately...so I didn't have to hit up my savings. I'm just...just tired of always being on the edge of broke.

Of course, Adam is saying, Let's use this for me. Even more-so, because I have no driving license. To which I reply, It's not the same fucking thing, asshole.

I dunno...maybe the fates are telling me it's time to stop driving before I hurt somebody. Even though I haven't hit anyone in nearly three years, and that time was so slight it didn't cost much to handle.

Shit, is anybody out there willing to gift me half a million bucks so I can move to Dublin or London?

Nothing on DW, today...

This is what I've been doing. I'm sick and tired of Democrats barely fighting back against the GOP's shutdown of the government and their push towards fascism, so I worked this up and have been spreading it around. Sent it off to both my Senators...Gillibrand and Schumer...and Rep. Kennedy.

It's not much, and I have no idea if it will get any traction, but I have gotten some decent feedback. And this image of the moon caught in a rainbow makes me feel hopeful.

Would you be willing to do the following to fight back against the GOP, on behalf of Democrats?

1. Rallies like AOC and Bernie did? 

a. Record them b. Talk to people c. Broadcast it on their social media 

2. Hold town halls in across the state? 

a. Record them b. Talk to people c. Broadcast it on your social media 

3. Hold town halls in Republican districts? 

a. “Your rep may not care but we do.” b. Record them c. Talk to people d. Broadcast it on your social media 

4. Make it clear to the MSM Democrats are in Washington ready to talk while Republicans are on vacation? 

a. News conferences. b. Going on MSM and cable news to press the case and keep blaming Republicans for this c. Argue back when any moderator tries to make it Democrats’ fault 

5. Table setups like Yassamin Ansari outside the Speaker’s office? 

6. Go en mass to the White House to meet with the president? He won’t do it, but the optics would be great for us. 

7. Keep publicizing the hell out of what’s been shut down and how it’s affecting Americans? 

a. Museums in Washington b. Air traffic control disrupting holiday travel and damaging safety

For some reason it's gotten me three message requests on Instagram from women who want to show me their tits. Blocked 'em all. That is NOT my thing. I just hope it resonates with other Democrats and liberals.

Discomforting...

I tapped into a part of me I usually try to ignore, today. I sat down and opened a Word doc to add notes to DW...and instead wrote about Reynard appearing outside the home Adam now lives in.

How did he find Adam? Reynard inadvertently reveals Rory, one of the boys in the home, wrote to their parents, but instead of reading the letter, they'd shredded it. Reynard saw the return address in the trash and came to demand Adam help him.

The Lécuyers believe Reynard was hiding Adam's homosexuality and are punishing him for it. Without really knowing what he's doing, he lets Adam know his parents consider him dead, and he acts like it's Adam's duty to clarify that him choosing to be gay was a secret from him as well. 

Deeply hurt, Adam punches him. They get into a serious brawl in front of the home and the good Christian man who pimps Adam out has to intervene. Reynard runs off, and Adam is left bloodied and blank of mind...and aware that the life he was trying to build in that home is no more.

This...part of this...grew out of something that happened to me as a child. I was born with health issues, some very serious. Turned out, my father had knocked up another woman, just before my mother became pregnant, and she'd borne him a healthy son. So he decided he didn't want me or my mother; he wanted to stay with that woman.

My mother and I were shipped off to San Antonio, to live. My mother got married, again, when I was four to man in the Air Force. In order for me to get benefits, I had to be his legal child, so she contacted my father and asked if it would be okay for him to adopt me.

My father, effectively, said, "Yeah, sure, take him. I don't want him." So when I was five, I was given a new last name -- Sullivan. Didn't see anyone in my father's side of the family till I was in my twenties.

The abandonment of this still messes with me and my belief I'm not worthy of being wanted. Doesn't help many other aspects of my life reinforced this feeling. Things I had had no control over. But this is mainly responsible for me being alone for the last forty years.

Adam is bringing this forward...and I'm letting him...but shit, it fucks me up.

Not rushing...

I'm fighting my natural inclination to make what I've written good-enough for now so I can jump to the next part, but instead am making myself redo each chapter till they are as tight as I can make them. 

I've almost worked like this, before, but cast it aside once I reached a certain point in the story. I'm not doing that, this time. This book is not going to be good, if I can help it; it will be fan-fucking-tastic.

My initial work with APoS was like that, but more like getting it into order. Roughing it out. Then I began working through each volume A-Z, and that seemed to do right for it. I wanted a bit of sweep to the story as well as centering it in Brendan's life.

With DW, I want it more intimate. No real sweep; just people existing and connecting and ricocheting off each other...

Wow...I just had an image of pool balls clacking all over the table but not dropping into the pockets. Funny.

...Anyway, for that to work I need to have a solid grasp of their stories. Not just Adam's and Dair's, but peripheral characters like Loren...and Rory...and even Reynard, Adam's brother.

He shows up outside the home and wants Adam to say he's okay with how things turned out. Suggests it's his own fault he had to be outed. Didn't expect so violent a reaction. And gets angry when Adam refuses to provide him with absolution.

That'll be in Chapter Four, where Adam winds up beaten by a visitor and decides to leave Montréal. His attitude will be, No matter where I go, it cannot be worse than where I am.

I've done that, myself, but always fallen back into the same habits. I'm hoping I can work with Adam not to let that happen with his story...

Thinking too much?

This is dealing with not only my trip to Seattle, tomorrow, but also flying to Hong Kong at the beginning of December, for Firsts China Book Fair.

First, Seattle. I'm going through JFK on JetBlue. I've done what I can to prepare for any issues thanks to the MAGAt Class shutting down the government, so now it's just a case of we'll see what happens. I have an extra day I can use to get there, if need be.

My return is on United, through Denver, on Monday. For my own peace of mind, I bought travel insurance for both. Hopefully, I won't need it.

The main deal is the trip to Hong Kong. I'm flying on Korean Air Lines out of Toronto's Pearson Airport. I have to change planes in Inchon, which is a modern airport but still...when I'd go Cathy it was a straight flight. The one positive here is, I'm going business class, so it should be a lot more comfortable.

The issue is getting to Pearson. My thought was to grab a bus in Buffalo and just ride that up, the day before, then spend the night in a hotel by the airport. It means going to the downtown Toronto bus depot and catching a train out to Pearson, where I'd get the hotel shuttle to pick me up, but it seemed straightforward.

Got talked out of that because "going through customs could be hours" (according to the people I'm working for). They said they's take me to St. Catharines, on the Canadian side, and I could catch a train or bus from there. Seems convoluted, but they're the ones paying the bill so...

Thing is, the bus and train schedules suck. Massively. And returning? Even worse. I tried it a half-dozen ways and nothing was happiness, in any way. Even looked into leaving from Niagara Falls, Canada...and that's crappy, too.

I'm so bummed by it, I'm more open to just driving up in my '98 Civic and parking it. But it'll be the beginning of winter and it's a hundred miles. I like to think my car is good for that, but I can't be sure.

It's really ridiculous that such a major Canadian airport doesn't have constant bus or rail traffic to connect it with local cities, like they do in Europe and the UK.

Rough day online...

I really should stay off the internet, because the horror that's building in America is reminding me too damned much of the buildup to The Troubles in Northern Ireland. Which lasted from 1968 to 1998, and killed thousands.
Protestants treated Catholics like shit for decades, refusing to give them even the minimal rights they wanted -- 1-man, 1-vote; decent housing; access to jobs. It reached the point of no return when the People's March calling for those rights was attacked on January 4th, 1969 at Burntollet Bridge. There, with the help of the Constabulary, Protestants attacked peaceful marchers, injuring dozens.
That led to a back and forth that built up to the Battle of Bogside, in August 1969, when Catholics refused to tolerate the insults and discrimination any further.
The British Army was brought in after days of fighting, ostensibly to protect Catholics from Protestants...but wound up taking the side of Protestants and demonizing and attacking Catholics. This gave rise to shoot-offs of the IRA...PIRA, OIRA, INLA, who fought back with bombings and murders and it went back and forth and back and forth and didn't stop until the leaders of both sides finally grew too old and tired to fight, anymore.
And Catholics were given pretty much what they asked for in 1968. Years of death and destruction that could have been avoided by people willing to talk to each other. But Protestant stupidity and stubbornness sabotaged every attempt to end the chaos. And I do lay the main responsibility on them, especially a loud and evil Presbyterian minister named Ian Paisley.
The part that hits me most is, the British Army was blaming the IRA for everything that happened, even before it was a workable organization. It was weak and disorganized, and labeled with the moniker I Ran Away...until it formed into the only group willing to truly defend the Catholic Community from the hate and destruction of the other side.
That is so damned much like how the DoJ blames ANTIFA for the pushback against their tyranny...an organization that does not exist. And like Protestants were allowed to do just about anything they wanted, by the the British Army, same happens with the MAGAt Class.
There was arrest and imprisonment without warrant, interrogations by torture, inhuman confinement conditions, almost all against Catholics...and that bullshit is being parroted by ICE and the DoJ against anyone they please. Citizen or not. White or minority.
The lead in A Place of Safety, Brendan Kinsella, experiences all of this between the ages of 10 and 25 -- the riots, the slaughters, the bombings, the chaos, including arrest, torture, and accusations from both sides that he's working against them. And I fear all of that is going to happen here.
We already have one side rejoicing in the terrorism of the ICE/Gestapo and calling for people to be killed, just like Protestants did in Northern Ireland. Uniformed thugs wander the streets of Chicago and Portland and LA and DC, attacking whomever they want, like the Army did in Derry and Belfast. And the powers that be celebrate this while the opposition is limited to a few voices with little support from their own party.
How long before there are massacres like Bloody Sunday in Derry and in Ballymurphy? Pam Biondi, Kristi Noem and Karoline Leavitt seem willing to champion that while blaming everything on an idea that is not an organization, but by its very name opposes the fascism they want to force on us all. All in the name of the most vile of men, ever. A convicted felon who's molested children.
It's scary.

More of the DW's chapter...

This image was made for me by the woman I hired to promote my books. Can't believe how good she made me look.

Now this part continues straight from yesterday's post.

-----------

“You got a suit?” 

I nodded. “Of navy blue.”Which had been carefully tailored to fit, and I had been very careful with. Much of my clothing was fine, but this was Hugo Boss. One is not casual with such. 

“Didn’t realize.” 

“Well...I do not wear my finer clothing when I work.” 

He nodded then removed the tux. The snow was deep and growing dirty from traffic, so we put it on a broad hanger and into a garment bag, then we drove straight to Tidwika. There, I dressed him, again, to as fine an effect. And again, fixed his tie.

And this time he gave me soft giggles as a response.

My own suit was already on-hand; it had been well-cleaned and pressed by the hotel staff, the day before, as had my light pink silk shirt and burgundy tie. My shoes were old but nicely-polished so you could not tell. And when I was done with own ensemble, I know I looked good.

But then, in Hugo Boss, with my face newly shaved and hair freshly cut, how could I not?

I turned to see him looking at me...and the lines of joy on his face came into full view. Giving him a beauty that cannot be described except as a tender sort of pleasure. My poet, within, sprang forth and said, We will remember this...and honor it.

"There," I said, to cover how affected I was, "we now have the appearance of elegant young gentlemen."

He only grinned and off we went to the Great Room.

The ceremony was sweet and simple, set against the tall window looking up the slopes, skiers dancing down for one last run before returning home. Abigail, Bethany and Chloe led Marion up to husband number three...

Who wore what can only be described as Nashville chic, from the glittering designs on the chest and back of his powder blue suit. And the odd cut of his lapels. I would swear I saw Marion’s eyes widen in shock at seeing it.

A justice of the peace from North Bend officiated and we behaved ourselves well during Marion's latest gamble.But from the glances her current husband cast me, more than once, I knew it would not be a permanent union. I hoped she would be happy for a while. 

After the reception, Dair and I returned to the room to change back into our regular clothes. Neither of us had indulged too greatly in the sparkling wine from Washington and Oregon. Nor did we wish to risk ruining our finery. But I had brought with me a bottle of one that was quite acceptable, and intended to sit before the fireplace by the Great Room and finish the bottle. With Dair, were he open to it. 

He was so much easier in that tux, now, I almost wanted him to remain in it. Such a lovely image, he presented. Especially when leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, on one shoulder, hands back in pockets, his face gentle but his eyes lost in thought. 

Finally he asked, “You think people like us’ll ever get to be married?” 

I had just hung up my suit coat and was unbuttoning my shirt. “To those we love? Who can say? There is too much religion in government for the answer to be simple.” 

I removed my shirt and also put it on a hanger. While I had worn a Ralph Lauren undershirt so my silk one would not be too soiled, I still wanted it to be properly handled by a cleaner. 

“Do you not wish to remove that horrible tux?” I joked. 

He shrugged. “I feeling okay enough in it.” He looked me over in a way I was too aware of. “Mom got you to get me into this thing, didn’t she?” 

I shrugged. “I believe she feared you would join the procession in your overalls.” 

He chuckled. “I might have.” 

“Here.” I slipped around behind him and helped him off with his jacket, then put it on a hanger. 

“You take care of things,” he almost whispered. 

I had to nod. “I am not so rich that I can afford to replace anything I misuse.” Then added, “And this is rented.” 

I removed the little black studs in his shirt, careful to replace them into the box they had come in. Same for the cufflinks. As I began to slip the shirt off him, he took hold of my hands. 

I knew what he wanted, but I still joked, “You wish to sleep in this suit?” 

His expression did not change. Only his eyes grew sharp on mine and he drew his fingers up my right bicep and touched my face and my thoughts scattered in a thousand directions as he shifted closer and kissed me. 

“I want to undress you,” he murmured. 

There it was. 

I now had him. 

Owned him. 

Another man to bring into my fold, to add to my list of conquests. And it was not unwelcome.But... 

But I had planned for it to be in his home. In the lodge. In his bed. We had come so close, that day. Four months? Five months before? To join in his bed would have been so much better. Make a union between us more complete and...and so I backed away, smiling. 

I saw fear dash into his eyes as he said, "I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have done that -- " 

My breath was sharp and my heart pounding as I heard myself saying, “Dair, keep in your mind...the gossip you have heard of me...well, I...I am not so good a person.” 

“So I’d have pay you...” 

My normal response would be to say, No, but my winter coat is so old, or I cannot think about that, right now, my shoes are so worn and in need of replacement. This time? I was wounded, deeply. He had heard the gossip...and it had taken hold of him...and...and...

And could think of nothing to say, except, “Non, never would I take money from you for that.”

Today's work on DW...

Leading up to January 1, 2001:

A week later was to be Marion's third wedding. At Tidwika in their Great Room, well-cleaned up after the previous night’s New Year's party. The very idea made Dair grumpy, for a silly reason.Marion asked him to be her Best Man.Meaning, he must wear a suit. 

“I don’t have one,” he’d growled. “I never wear them.” 

“Once won’t kill you,” she’d snapped back. “And I want you presentable for Jack.”Her soon-to-be husband. Who had, apparently, modeled for many romance novel covers, if one went by his looks. A face carved from granite. Dark hair touched with white. A physique to make mine look pale and weak, but on legs that made him appear top-heavy. 

Dair was huffing into irritation so I joked, “So then will I call you Mrs. Mellander?” 

“You do and I’ll make you into a Miss Lécuyer.” 

We both laughed, lightening the mood. 

But Dair still snarled, “I’m not buying something just to wear it one time. Or are you already planning on husband number four?” 

Marion turned to him and snapped, “Adair Carwyn Llewellyn...” 

So I cut in with, “You rent. Something in classic black? A tux, perhaps. En ensemble?” 

That made Marion smile, hopeful. “Oh, baby, that would be so lovely.” 

“But...but where can we get one here?” he asked. 

I held up a finger. “First, with Nordstroms we will check.” 

“In Seattle?” 

“They have the annex on the West End. We ask there.” 

Dair snorted and huffed off, leaving me with his mother. Who turned to me and murmured, “If you can make him presentable, even just for the pictures...” 

I chuckled. “Have faith, Marion.” Then I wandered down to my room at the Shamirs’. 

The very next day, I had to all but drag Dair to the Nordstrom's annex and found them most obliging. Despite him being in his overalls. I convinced him to remove them and stand there in his boxer briefs and undershirt so they could take his precise measurements. 

He looked so adorable, and I know he would hate to hear me say that. But his fine legs swirling with just the right amount of hair up to a lovely rear that curled around to a strong back. The young man with the tape measure was enjoying himself, greatly. So very amusing. 

The tux arrived on New Year’s Eve, so we stood before a mirror in the shop to make the final adjustments. Through all of which Dair rolled his eyes and growled, like an unruly beast. I could not believe how much I enjoyed this.I managed to convince him that the purchase of dress shoes and a fine silk handkerchief were worth the one-hundred dollars; the shirt and tie came with the tux. 

To no surprise, he did not know how to prepare a bow-tie. 

“Never had to before,” he muttered. “Got any I can just clip on?” 

The clerk blinked, in horror, and I waved him away before turning Dair to me."You never had to wear a tie?" I asked as I slipped a loose one around his neck. 

"The regular kind, a couple times, but they were already made and clipped onto my collar." 

"Oh, mon dieu,” I chuckled as I pulled and wrapped and tucked the soft silk. He was such a little boy. “The one time mon pere suggested a clip-on to maman, she all but died from apoplexy. Much too low-class and unbefitting of a Lécuyer! She had gran’pere come to show us how. Which he did. Several times until Reynard and I could manage it, ourselves. Which made maman very happy. Shall I help you to learn, as well?" 

"I don’t wear suits and sure as hell not bow ties." 

“This is not a suit,” I sighed, finishing the tie. “It is a uniform to please your mother. C’est tout.”I turned him to look at himself in the mirror. 

He sighed. “Yeah, yeah, it’s not gonna hurt me, I guess. It’s just...Gareth’s the I’m-a-suit guy and he’s not even comin’. I’m the one backin’ her up.” I said nothing, in reaction; did nothing. “That wife of his...well...at least she let my nieces be in the wedding party. Probably because she wants details about how it went down.” 

I gave him a gentle nod. “It will be his loss, and he will see this in years to come.” Then I grinned and saluted him in the mirror. “Et pour ta mère, nous qui sommes sur le point de mourir, t'honneur."

He laughed. "What?" 

"C'est un proverbe. A proverb. It means..." 

"Wait, wait, wait...lemme work it out. Uh...mourir is to die, nous is we...oh, oh, We who are about to die salute you!" 

I nodded. "You learn French?" 

He smiled at me, murmuring, "Just a little. Um, un petite peu. Helped me in France."

"With the doctor you met?"

He blushed and stepped back, slumped his shoulders a little, slipped his hands in the trouser pockets and muttered, "So does this really work for you?” 

Oh-la, he made such a lovely image, I could not help but whisper, "Oh, Dair, you are so much better looking than I." 

He laughed, said, "Liar. Now let’s see your tux."

"I am not in the wedding party, so I wear my own suit."

It's the end of the world and I'm writing a book...

It really hit hard, today. Mainly because of the abject stupidity of the MAGAt Class who worship Felon47 and revel in him giving rein to their racism and hate. And I see no end to it unless that POS dies in the next three weeks. Then maybe...maybe we'll survive.

Because there is no talking to people like that. They are not open to reason or reality. They too busy enjoying the pain and suffering they're causing. MAGA is a new religion, and just as vile as the old ones.

And it's not just in America. It's all over the globe. Bloggers and commenters in Africa and Asia and Europe and South America choosing the side of terrorism over simple human decency. We're out to kill each other for no more reason than we can. Guns. Drones. Whatever.

I was reminded of John B Calhoun's theory of Behavioral Sink, which he came up with while experimenting with rats...and later, mice...regarding overpopulation. A few rodents were put into a confined space and provided with plenty of food and water, where they overbred to the point their behaviors were altered and they couldn't function. (The link provides a much better description).

I actually wondered if earth was an alien scientist's experiment along the same lines?

What's funny is, I began thinking about this after I found and rewrote one section of Dair's Window that I needed: when Dair and Adam get ready for Marion's third wedding. Initially, I'd had Dair dressing Adam in a suit because he'd never worn one, which was totally wrong. Adam knows class. He's used it to make his way in the world. So I switched it, and it worked out a lot better.

In fact, the moment they finally connect in bed will now come after the wedding, where it just builds from the night and the joy and they support for each other, starting on January 1, 2001. Much better timing.

I went through a rough few moments lost as to what happens when and where is best for it, and this is helping. I've even worked up an XL Spreadsheet for the years 1996-2010 and decided to not have Dair go to trial for beating up Bobby. Just preliminary hearings and delays.

It may be futile to keep going on it, but I can't change now.

Then in honor of Diane Keaton, I watched First Wives Club and loved it. Again. Got it on DVD.

I have hundreds of DVDs. I need to sort these things out.