Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 37

Again with the slow progress...

I finally worked around removing the party chapter from HNH to guide Brendan into seeing Joanna, again. It's not really, completely, totally right, yet, but it's getting there. By changing it to a meeting of the peace group Maeve belongs to and setting it in the Guildhall, it becomes even more charged with emotion.

That building is like a flashpoint, a couple of times in the first volume, so this makes better sense. And having half the chairs empty adds to the feeling that things are not going well. That Joanna shows up means even more, because she drags a few Protestants with her and their nerviness adds to the general atmosphere.

I'm also changing the chapter titles, as I go along, to better reflect their part in the story...but with a bit more finesse. The one where Brendan and his mother have a truly brutal talk about his return and she slips into a confused state, inadvertently revealing more about why he was saved instead of allowed to die, was initially titled Blunt Force. That's a bit much.

I thought of naming it Face to Face, but that's weak. And Revelations is too biblical, really. Right now I'm using More Revealed, but I'm not completely happy with that, either. Kind of wishy-washy.

FWIW, 2 months ago I asked Publishers Weekly if they would do a review of New World For Old and have yet to hear back from them. When they rejected Derry, it was within a couple days. They acknowledged getting the request, so I know that's not the issue. But I've heard nothing since. My hope is this means they will give it a review...but I honestly don't know.

I'm not going to ask, yet. The book is still slated for July 31-August 13...which I may change to the 20th, depending on how things go with setting it up for printing at Ingram Spark.

Damn...I wish I had the money to hire someone to do this right.

Tapped out...

Here's some background on the times Brendan is returning to...

...because I'm brain dead, right now...took me three tries to write these sentences without error. Duhh...

Prep for APoS-NWFO release

Today I worked on an online ad and changed up the dust cover synopsis for APoS-NWFO. Not flashy, but I can't afford to have something super-graphic done.

As of now, I'm releasing it in ebook on July 31st and in hardback on August 13th.

-------

Tag line: 

 1973, Houston. Seriously injured by a horrific bombing in Derry, NI, Brendan Kinsella is snuck into Houston and hidden in his aunt’s home. As he recovers, he comes to believe has found a place of safety in a city of wealth and promise so can start his life anew. But appearances can be deceiving...and promises are not always kept.

Synopsis: 

Houston 1973 

Seriously injured by a horrific bombing in Derry, Northern Ireland, Brendan has collapsed into an Akinetic Catatonia, where he is barely aware of what's going on around him. Some members of the Provisional IRA want him dead because they think he tried to warn the targets of the bombing. At the same time, the British Army seems to believe he helped set it and wants to interrogate him. But thanks to a note he left for his mother, the UK passport he’d just received, a job offer on a ship in Cobb, and the train ticket he’d bought, one-way to Dublin, all evidence suggests he had left town prior to the explosion, so that is the story all parties settle on.

In truth, while his wounds were being tended to, it was discovered he had a heart condition and was snuck into the US on a medical visa -- to be treated by a heart specialist. The name used? Brennan McGabbhinn. So for six months, he’s been kept hidden in an attic room in Houston, Texas, slowly recovering, well out of sight of everyone except his Aunt Mari, Uncle Sean, and cousins -- Scott, Brandi, and Bernadette.

But while Brendan’s body may be healing, his mind is still torn by horrific memories of that day; the understanding that Joanna, the girl he loved more than anything, is dead; and that his family is still caught in the brutality of The Troubles...and he is not allowed to contact them.

In an attempt to regain his center...as well as make a little money...he reverts to type by repairing items for the neighborhood help – irons, toasters, lawn mowers and the like. He also develops tentative friendships with Everett, a graphic artist, and Jeremy, a high school friend of Scott’s. And while he is not fond of the extreme heat and humidity of a Houston summer; he grows to believe he has found a place of safety in a city of wealth and promise.

But he slowly comes to realize that appearances can be deceiving...and promises are not always kept.

A bit more of the beginning...

Immediately following yesterday's post:

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Now again...if truth is to be told, while I loved the idea of escaping Houston, I did not want to return to Derry. It's a city of ghosts, to me. Some of whom I had known. Some of whom were still living. But familial duty has its demands, and despite what people have said against the once-was-me, I honor my duties.
Once in Glasgow, I'd shift to a short-hopper to Derry’s Airport on Logan Air. It was faster than American Express had come up with, but was not as cheap. Still, from the moment I'd heard of Ma’s cancer I'd focused on saving harder than usual so had well-over enough to cover it. I was even assured I could catch some sleep on the long haul across the water, if I wanted. So it was settled. 
When I’d revealed my planned date of departure, Uncle Sean had offered to buy the ticket. Which grated on me. In the more than four years since my sister, Mairead's visit, I'd found any polite excuse I could to leave when he entered the room, so he knew full well I wanted nothing from him. And I knew full well he was glad to be quit of me. 
But he had stupidly made the offer in front of my Aunt Mari, certain I would refuse. Instead, just to be difficult, I’d politely thanked him, told him I’d bought the ticket, already, shown him my receipt for the cost, and then sweetly added I’d be happy reimbursement. In cash, as I had no bank account. He had grown tense and angry, but he was caught...and the next day I had the money, also done very deliberately in front of Aunt Mari. 
Perhaps I should have fought him, openly, or argued with him or condemned him. Revealed him to be the conniving, vicious bastard he truly was. But a threat he’d made against my younger brother held me back. And now he was not even worthy of my contempt, so the point would be moot. 
It’s funny. As hard as my Da had been with his fists and words, not once could I could think of a time where he'd threatened harm to any but Ma, Eamonn, or myself. And even then, it was only when he was in his cups, caught in a sickness and secrets that made him desperate, at times. As a child, I’d never thought his actions honorable in any way. Just brutal and cruel. 
But in comparison to my uncle's, they were almost forgivable. For that man had no honest excuse for what he’d done. 
Aunt Mari had noticed our childish game, of course, for little escaped her sharp eyes, but she had just returned from her own trip over and feeling the jet-lag from it, so had said not a word. Not once. I did not blame her for that. She had gone through Shannon and taken a bus the back way up, and it had been quite the chore. 
"No trouble through Letterkenny," she'd said. "Oh, but the moment we reached the border. My little suitcase was rifled, as if I were carryin' guns or drugs." 
"Or cash," said Uncle Sean, sneering at me. 
She cast a glare at him, saying, "That they found in my purse, and didn't they make an issue of it?" She was nearly shaking with anger. "Naught but two-thousand pounds, and that only to help me one sister have a decent wake and burial." 
"It’s good you had an American passport," I said. 
Aunt Mari nodded. "Those with Irish or British passports did have it worse. Some men were physically searched. And the words used on the women! It would shame Judas. What do the British think they're achievin' with this sort of nonsense?" 
"Just reminding the little people of who once ruled the world," I chuckled. "They haven't the strength to admit they're nothing more than a tiny island of little significance." 
"They're more important than you let on," said Uncle Sean. 
"Aren't we all unto ourselves?" I smiled back at him. 
"Even with Thatcher runnin' things, now?" 
"Just more proof to my point." 
He was about to growl at me, but that was when the B-girls had burst through the door--Brandi from Rice University and Bernadette from her last year of high school. Seeing their mother returned, they had instantly begun their interrogation of her, so Uncle Sean had simply cast me a glare then carried her bag upstairs. 
I went out to have a smoke by the pool, and count the minutes until I could leave. 
Aunt Mari had been there when Bobby Sands began his hunger strike, so had seen the demonstrations and heard about the deaths. And the brutality. And the stupidity of those in power thinking batons and rubber bullets would put the stupid taigs in their place. All of which she told me, in full, during one of her midnight smokes and beers.
I had much to look forward to.
As for the confrontations between her husband and myself, how much she knew was of no matter. It was she wed to him, not I. It was just to my sorrow she had chosen husband over blood.

The Beginning...again...

What I've been banging my head about--the opening of A Place of Safety-Home Not Home:

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So I was finally leaving Houston. 

Truly leaving. 

And that I was not jumping for joy about it was more than little unsettling, for I truly despised this city and its hidden ways.Oh, I’d made a couple of good friends here. As well as some enemies. Ruined a couple lives--both deliberately and not--while making others better off-again, both deliberately and not. I’d tried to build a new life without ever actually trying to. It was an odd situation to be in, but everything about my life was odd, just then. 

How did my mate, Jeremy, describe it? In limbo? No...no, a holding pattern; that was it. As if I were awaiting notification that I could now land and get on with more than merely existing. 

Well...that notification had come, and I was undertaking a journey back to a home that was not my home to see my family that was not my family. If you want a fuller understanding of how ridiculous this all was, I was set to travel on April Fools Day. 

Talk about too bloody appropriate a comment on my life--choosing to travel on the Jokester’s day. The fates must be holding their sides, from laughter. 

 My plan had been to go through Dublin. There, I could hop a train at Connolly Station and ride up through Belfast. Well...if the tracks hadn’t been blown up, again, by the IRA. But even a bus would have taken me straight from the airport into Derry. And had I been willing to travel on March 1st, there’d have been little difficulty. 

But I chose not to because Bobby Sands’ hunger strike was to start up that same day, and knowing how people were in the North of Ireland it seemed best to avoid what would be daily protests that would then collapse into riots. 

Aunt Mari’s friend at the Galleria office of American Express also said to wait till it calmed down. Which it was beginning to do, according to the nightly news and two local papers. She’d been most sympathetic over how my mother--who was not my mother--was riddled with cancer and could pass away at any moment, so promised to find a plan for the trip that would be as quick and easy as possible. 

What she finally decided upon was flying into New York to change planes for Shannon, then a bus to Galway and changing to another bus to Derry, from there. 

That was what she called quick and painless? 

But then she explained it was the best she could do because of some stupid little music festival, in Dublin. 

The name of that little music festival? Fucking Eurovision! 

It was being hosted the first week of April, and the city had lost its goddamned mind. Flight costs were double. Decent hotels impossible to come by. Trains packed. Busses, too. The riots in Belfast and Derry were nothing compared to those rowdy crowds. Oh, had I timed my travel just right. 

My mate, Everett, knew the owner of a travel agency, in Montrose, and that man understood Eurovision. He told me the simplest way to get back in my city of birth--that was no longer my city of birth--was through Gatwick then Glasgow, on British Caledonian, straight from Houston. Then I had to trust the fates my bag would follow. There was a certain disdain he offered about Gatwick. As for Glasgow? Enough said about that. 

He simply suggested I put a change of clothes and any valuables in a backpack to carry on the plane.So very inspiring. 

But I suppose it is the perfect way to return to a home I could no longer call home. To see a mother, brothers and sister, who were not my mother, brothers and sister in an area of the world I was from, but wasn't.How can one even think to make sense from such a situation? 

Of course, it was best to enter the UK with as little fanfare as possible, for though I’d been born Brendan Kinsella, that was no longer me. All who’d known me in that town thought me dead, even though I am not...unless they didn’t or knew I wasn’t. 

The life that wasn't mine...but now was...belonged to some lad named Brennan McGabbhinn. Of Letterkenny. In the Republic. A third or fourth cousin to myself, who'd died as an infant but was resurrected through me, like Lazarus.

So McGabbhinn was my name to the American government. Those I'd met in Houston all called me by that name, as did my cousins. That's what it said on my visa, and passport, and Green Card, and driving license, and health insurance, so why would anyone even begin to believe a lad who might claim otherwise? Because, in fact, the only proof I had that I am not the person who everyone says I am is my memory...which, according to my medical history, is really not to be trusted.

Naturally, the British are not yet convinced I am no longer of this earth, despite there being no evidence to the contrary. Their stubborn bureaucratic nonsense was keep alive their need to speak with this Brendan Kinsella about a bombing he was caught in, despite there being no evidence he was. And that need would not vanish, even if he’s dead. 

I could think of no way to reconcile all of this madness except to accept it as it is and do as I always have--as I pleased.

Tail chasing...

I worked myself into a nice bit of confusion, dealing with APoS-HNH, today. Restructured chapter one probably five times...and have no idea if it's working. Tried moving one part to chapter three...and only made things worse. I probably wound up cutting about 500-600 words.

I'm trying to maintain information from the first two books in the beginning of the third, but do it in such a way that it doesn't come across as an encapsulation. I'm getting close, I think. Won't know till sometime in the future.

I'd scream about it, but in reality this is how I work. I'm like a dog chasing his tail. Until I catch it...then I have no idea what to do with it.

I've got all my notes from my editor/proofer, so APoS-NWFO is ready to be published. Just waiting for the reviews to come in. I thought about entering it into the BookLife Writing Competition, but NWFO is 142,000 words and they cap their entries at 100,000. That seems a bit short, but it's not up to me.

That convicted felon running for president was shot at and his ear clipped by a bullet, during a rally. Apparently, the shooter is dead, along with one other person. I don't know why, but my gut instinct says this was a setup for that vile man to look good and it went wrong. But now all hell is going to tear loose.

The MAGAt crowd are perfectly fine mocking other people who've been hurt or killed by violence, but God forbid you do the same to their chosen ones. The hypocrisy is going to get deep. They're already blaming Democrats for it and calling for Biden to be charged...even though the Supreme Court's actually given him a path to immunity.

I'm still voting for Biden/Harris, no matter what those motherfuckers do.

Dead of brain, today...

I managed to get together my expenses and invoice, and took them into the office...to find no one there. So left them. Left some See's Peanut Brittle, as well. Then came home. Uploaded a couple of photos I took from the plane...like this one of Green River in Utah...and my brain shut down.

Nothing new about that after a trip. I needed to decompress...so I went online and got into some political arguments with people who are dead set on having that convicted felon as our next president. As well as a couple of backstabbing Democrats calling for Biden to step aside and let someone else run.

There isn't much I can do for a politician aside from donate money, which I have to Biden, so I do what I can online. I can't phone-bank because I get tongue-twisted and uncertain, and that is NOT what you want to happen. Same for house-to-house.

I have sent out cards asking people to Vote Blue, but my handwriting sucks and I make mistakes. I recently sent out cards to 5 Supreme Court justices, asking them what their price is to resign, seeing as how they were open for business...and went through a couple of cards due to screwing up what I was writing.

When I worked on Ann Richards' campaign for governor in Texas, in 1991, I made yard signs and stuffed envelopes...and many times I was the only person in the office doing anything. It's amazing she won.

So now I tweet and post on Instagram and repost in tumblr, and that's the extent of it...and I get reactions and arguments from it. Usually people who call me various forms of stupid and who love to project the GOP's sins onto Democrats. I'm not very nice about it. Another reason for me not to canvass.

As a side note, the people at the office suggested my anti-China/pro-Uyghur posts might cause me trouble in Hong Kong. Not for getting in but for leaving. So they wanted me to pull back. I don't do that. Just like I don't use a pseudonym for my writing. I am who I am, and that's caused me trouble in the past...but I'm still here.

Don't see why I should stop that now.

Brendan's father's mythical tale...

Brendan is going to hear a recording of his father telling this story in a pub. A student from the new university at Coleraine has brought his recorder and it is a clean telling. He has more to tell, but he becomes too drunk to be coherent. I worked on this on the flight home. Late, as usual.

-------

There is a tale about how harpies came to live in the Cliffs of Moher.

Back in a time before the wondrous few went to the earth and the world still held the power of magic, the Tuatha de Danaan came to the land and brought to us the beginning of our times. Appearing from the purest of mists on the shores of the west, they were tall and fair, like angels pure and fine, and so advanced in their abilities, those who lived here thought them gods. 

He who led them was the Dagda, and his figure was perfection among men, with shoulders broad and strength beyond compare, his face well-formed, eyes the color of the sky, and his chin offering a beard that put the sun to shame. They said his parents were the wind and the sea, and none would dispute it. 

His mate was Morriggan, whose beauty was the greatest ever beheld. Hair flaming bright as a sunset, eyes as green as grass, and skin like fresh milk, her mastery of the world’s mystical ways was without compare. It was said all she had to do was think of where she wanted to be and she would materialize there.

Tara was their home, built with beauty and grace, and three daughters did that union bring forth. Each as lovely as their mother, and each happy to follow in her mystical ways. To witness the five of them together was to know none better could exist. 

Of those who first existed on the land, the clan Ui Briuin was the best. For millennia, they had lived in their compounds and toiled in their fields, growing the finest barley. Their hunters were beyond compare, and never in winter were they left with little food or mead to drink. 

They were led by Larne Ui Briuin in ways generous and honorable, and his son, Caoughin was being well trained to follow. He was himself a fine young man...sturdy and strong and well-thought of as a hunter. 

Now there was a day when the Dagda approached the Ui Briuin compound to seek shelter from a storm. Good manners demanded his request be honored, so he was offered a room to himself, with a fire blazing and more than enough food and drink. Had he been satisfied with that, all would have been well. But the Dagda being a man, his eye roamed over the lovely lass who was attending him. 

Her name was Caera. Hair as black as a raven’s wing. Skin soft and pure. Lips like red berries on the vine. And a manner quite joyous. She was betrothed to Caoughin and propriety dictated she remain unsullied. But the Dagda worked his charm on her and brought her to his bed. Some say willingly; some say not. Whichever way it was, Caera wound up with child.

This was a major breech of etiquette and the Dagda was banned from their compound. Then Caoughin, his pride severely embarrassed, spurned poor Caera.

What is more, when Morriggan learned of the liaison, she lost herself in anger. To have the Dagda mingle with a common girl of the earth was insult enough to her, but to learn she would also be birthing his child was unacceptable. Using her mystical ways and with the help of her daughters, she found and killed the lass. Her intent was to also kill the child within her, but the boy had already been born.

Infuriated, the Ui Briuins demanded retribution so as to avoid war. The Dagda, shamed by his part in the travesty, ended his companionship with Morriggan and washed his sins away in the waters beneath the Cliffs of Moher. His promise? To add greatness to the son he’d sired.

But Morriggan was not to be put aside so easily. Through their magic, she and her daughters formed the Dagda’s sins into seven harpies and sent them out to kill the child. The beasts ravaged the land, feasting on any male youth they found, so great battles occurred between the clan and those monsters.

Year after year the fighting raged, with Caoughan at the fore, throughout, and one harpy after another was destroyed until three were left. But it was at the cost of many widows.

Morriggan finally realized the horror she had unleashed and relented from her anger. She could not stop the harpies, but was able to convince them to rein in their terror so they might survive.They agreed to shelter in the caves of the Cliffs of Moher and come out only during storms to feed on fish in the sea. In exchange, once each hundred years a lad of the Dagda’s bloodline would be sacrificed for them to feast upon.

To seal the bond, the first to be sacrificed was Caoughan Ui Briuin. At Darian’s Point on Inish Ciuin. Willingly he went, destroyed by his guilt over how he had treated Caera.

And so it has been for thousands of years, even till this day.Go to the Cliffs in the midst of a storm. Go well into the night, and you will catch glimpses of them dancing in the rain and mist.

They will show you what true horrors are possible in this world, and you will not come away from them unchanged.

And pray that your bloodline not be that of the Ui Briuin, for the time of the next sacrifice is soon approaching.

Returning home, early...

This was not the best of trips. Flying out was a nightmare, between Las Vegas and San Jose. Got in 3 hours late after sitting in a hot plane for an hour while Southwest tried to make its right engine work. And that's with NO AC on the Vegas heat. Fuuuuuuuck...

But at least the job got completed early and I'm heading back to Buffalo tomorrow morning instead of Saturday. Southwest really fucked me over on charging for the change, but it means two fewer hotel days and car rental, and per diem and parking at the airport, so it cancels out.

This break did give me an fresher view of APoS-HNH...and I'm cutting that party where Brendan sees Joanna. That was the problem; it was such a fake shift in the story. Derry's undergoing all kinds of rioting and demonstrations and back and forth with the RUC and British Army due to the hunger strikes, and it would be ludicrous to have this kind of get-together.

This hurts, because it's been in the story from the first draft and I was really locked in on it. But it's just plain wrong and I couldn't see that until now. I'll have to work something else out. Fact of the matter is, the peace people wouldn't be very popular, at that point in time. Emotions are too high. I need to pay more attention to the reality of it all.

Of course, it might be the In-n-Out #2 combo, animal style, that jolted me. Cheeseburger with onions and spices cooked into the meat, fries and a DP. Never disappoints...and it's CHEAP. To follow up, I had a couple Jack in the Box tacos, this evening. My world is complete.

I'm now going to sit in a nice hot bath and relax. I tried compression socks while working, yesterday, and last night I had a nasty cramp in my left leg. Does not make for wonderful feelings. Neither does getting up at 6am for the flight. Even though I kept my body clock on East Coast time, meaning it's really 9am, it's still the psychological aspect of arising before dawn.

I am morally opposed to it.

Gettin' on a jet plane...

Going to San Jose, tomorrow, till Saturday. Not looking forward to it, since the heat dome is pushing temperatures up close to 100. Then after I leave it goes back down into the 80s. Happy about this, I am not. But the money will be nice. Keep me solvent for another month.

I'm in another fight with Facebook. I put up a post for Feeding the Beast in a private group, and they pulled it for being spam. One posting. No tags. No blanket asks for likes. Nothing. But they pulled it, and it makes absolutely no sense. But try and get Facebook to do anything about it.

Yeah, you can request a review, which they won't really do and will keep to their decision. I halfway think they pulled it because I pointed out that I'd been banned by FB over an image that was nothing at all like they claimed. And these assholes want me to open a store with them? Fuck that.

I'm still circling that chapter in Home Not Home, unsure what to do about it. I'd like to think I'm like an eagle seeking a trout to dive in and grab for my meal...but I'm more like this little critter trying to figure out if he's gonna have berries or mosquitoes for dinner.

I've been getting really good feedback on Blood Angel-Léonidès on GayDemon. When I get back from California, I might post The Prussian on there, as well. Or not. I've only made it through about 50% of the full story. I've got the beginning and the third section, but not the second or fourth sections, yet. Maybe even a fifth section. I dunno. I haven't looked at it in a while...so maybe I'll work on it after I'm done with APoS.

Or not. How decisive of me.