Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 4

One chapter left...

...For a solid first draft of Blood Angel-3. I'm leaning towards the subheading being Revelations, because Leòn finds out more about not only Franz but also about Luahl, one of the Oiym. It involves a young French peasant named Willem, whom Luahl plans to feed upon, but which Leòn messes up.

This image of a French peasant purports to be from 1870, yet I get the feeling it's really later...like 1900 at the earliest. Still, it shows how strong Willem must be in order to handle the work of his family's farm, and how he's dressed. And he is Luahl's preferred victim type.

The man does like to needle my guy and thinks he's found a way to really fuck him over...but it don't happen like that. Because Leòn don't take to being picked at.

Which led to something else happening in this part of the story that I was not expecting. Something I have never even thought of putting into a book. But Leòn does it without a thought...and I'm still processing it. Especially since it gives him a bit of control over Luahl.

The chapter that's left to finish is mainly wrapping up loose ends and setting the stage for Leòn to go looking for Gabrielle with his proposition. That part of the story is already in first draft form...as is its followup.

The part set in New Orleans after Katrina is in screenplay format and centers around Gabrielle, so I'm not sure how to work with that, yet. But I have time. The next two sections will need some reworking to fit in with the new direction of the story.

But first of all is getting Revelations in order to publish. As of now, I'm at over 13,000 words...and will probably add another 2000. That's an acceptable length for a novella. I may even take some of the beginning of BA-4 and add it to the end, because that one is on the massive side.

But no matter what, it looks like I may get this done by the end of the month.

Almost done with a first draft of BA-3

I can't believe it. I am closing in on a workable first draft of Blood Angel-Three. Right now it's sub-headed Franz Revealed, but that's kind of a wimpy title. And this book gets vicious. For me...

Here's the rest of the first chapter, paring up with what I posted on the 11th.

-------

Franz was perfect for me. His golden beauty was matched by my dark good-looks, and don’t be surprised I say that. I’m not allowed any lies or false modesty. It’s merely a statement of fact. And we carried the same Blood Angel lineage. Granted, that made him a distant cousin, but it was well out of the range one might consider to be incest. So when I’d sent the telegram, I’d had no doubt the council would agree. 

Now they were enroute to see for themselves...or explain themselves or something, and I had little time to make certain Franz was in top shape to face their questioning. 

Of course, that had already been underway. After I’d laid him in my bed, still unconscious, and before Gregory and I’d had our little sojourn in the pond, I’d asked Tellis to sew the wound in his shoulder closed. While he worked best in his garden and the fields, I had also seen him mend trousers and shirts with a needle and thread, to the point the repair could not be seen without looking for it. 

“My father was a tailor,” he’d said when I’d mentioned it, as he was repairing my cloak. That was back in the time of Francis the first, in France. Of course, we didn’t know at the time he would be the first; we only referred to him as The Father of Letters. 

“I would have followed,” Tellis continued, in our Norman tongue, “as was his command. He thought my love of the fields and grain silly for a gypsy to want. Contrary to our nature. So...” And he’d pulled the needle up in a dramatic gesture. 

“Why do you continue with it?” I’d asked, because I’d seen him wandering through meadows and fields on moonlit nights and even during storms, as if offering prayers. And he never fed there; only in the alleys of villages and towns. 

“This is my contribution to our pack, until we settle.” 

“You think we will? We’ve been more like your gypsy clans, the last few centuries.” 

He’d shrugged. And even after we'd established the chateau as our home and provided him with fields to tend, he’d continued to tailor our clothing.So I brought him to Franz’s room...

Well, my room. I had kept the furniture light, in it; just a four-poster bed with curtains, side tables for candles, chairs, and a desk. A wardrobe held my clothing, carpets from Persia were spread over my floor, and thick velvet draperies covered the windows.

The moment he saw Franz lying under my duvet, he gave me a look of pure shock.I quickly said, “He’s been unconscious so knows nothing of us. He is the owner of the horse you are tending. I want him to heal, as well.” 

He sighed and asked, “What do you want me to do?” 

“There is a wound in his shoulder that should be closed. It might be best to handle now. The less fuss, the better.” 

He looked hard at Franz and said in a voice so soft it almost could not be heard, “I sew clothing, not humans.” Then he cast me another look of uncertainty. “If you’re going to turn him, he will heal on his own...” 

“I don’t know that I will, yet. I need permission and have only just sent off the request. I don’t want his wound to have a chance to fester before I hear from the Oiym.” 

He eyed me, for a moment, then sat beside Franz and lifted the bandage away. “That’s a very neat hole...” He did the same for the gash to his head. “What is this red stain on him? It’s not blood.”

“Bromine.” 

He nodded. “Reyndahl told me of this.”His fingers trailed from the wound in Franz’s head down his face to stroke the artery in his neck, then he looked at me.“I remember the first time I touched you,” he said, softly. “It was an odd sensation, like I was holding someone with blood unbelievably rich and exquisite, far beyond those I’d fed upon, till then. And since. It even held a bit of haughtiness. You don’t forget the first time you touch a Blood Angel.” 

I just drew in a deep breath. “I would prefer silence on that matter.” 

He gave a slight nod of his head. “Will we be departing from you, now?” 

“No!” shot out of me so fast, I didn’t have time to even think of it. “You and all the others, you are so much more than merely my pack. You’re friends. Lovers. Family to me. Why would you think I’d toss that away?” 

“Considering how your sister treats her court...” 

I huffed. “She surrounds herself with idiots.” 

“Not all.” 

“Well...save one,” I said, grinning. 

“Who is another Blood Angel.” 

“You are surprisingly aware.” 

“We talk to each other, Léon. All of us. Even Gregory, who often says more without saying anything. When I woke, this evening, I found him sitting in the corridor, with Meron. The way they held each other...” 

“What’s going on, here? Are all of you lonely? In need of mates?” 

“Léon, I work with animals and plants. I’m easiest with them. That Doric and I have connected in a way that is more than sexual is a surprise, to me. It kept me from loneliness, and Doric, as well. But I sense it in Loronce, who wants Stephane to want him, and Stephane, who wants Reyndahl to love him, and Renydahl, who wants a female mate as well as a male and doesn’t know how to work it out.” 

“I think he wants an outlet for his sexual needs more than a relationship.” 

“Which he gets. He doesn’t kill all of his conquests. But then...men are more prone to evil than women, so their endings are easier to excuse.” He took another look at Franz’s wound and nodded. “I’ll get my thread and needle, soak them in that bromine, and close it as best I can. I doubt it will be much healed before you hear from the Oiym.” 

I’d only smiled at him then gone off to meet with Gregory.

Different directions again...

Well...in my world of creativity and exploration, I have found that Blood Angel-3...which was going to be a huge uproar where Léonidès accidentally turns Franz into a blood angel and it backfires, massively...isn't going that direction.

Oh, it was going to be so rough and raw and insanely erotic, and I had it all roughed out. But when I actually started writing it, the direction shifted to where the Oiym come and talk him out of his infatuation by showing Franz is a straight horn dog who got four girls pregnant before his father shipped him off to be a cuirassier with the Prussian military.

Problem is, the Oiym can't let the guy go back into the normal world; he knows about vampires, now. So Léon decides to track Gabrielle down and offer Franz to her in exchange for Dmitriy. 

After all, she likes boys and he likes girls, and she's been looking for a mate since Dmitriy revealed he was gay after she turned him. He and Léon already like each other, so he thinks she will be willing to release the guy to him. We'll have to see how that goes.

This slashes probably 4000 words out of the story...and transitions into Leon's hunt for Gabrielle much more smoothly. Right now I'm at just under 10,000 words and have one...maybe two more chapters to write.

I think it's going to include Léon getting the upper-hand on one of the Oiym who doesn't like him--Luahl, another gay BA. How I will do that, I don't know, yet...

But I got some ideas for the story to reject...

It's Tuesday???

Shit, half the day, today, I thought it was Wednesday. I finally noticed my phone was telling me it's Tuesday, and I was irritated. I had the idea I was finally to hump day...and I'm not. Which makes no sense because I don't work a schedule, like that.

I did more writing on BA-Franz...to the point where the Oiym have arrived to Leonides' chateau near Metz in France. So far it's just about 7000 words, but it's coming together. Putting it on a back burner for so long may have helped it settle in my mind.

Working on Blood Angel is helping me so much, right now. Aiming to finish the various parts then blend them into a single paperback book gives me purpose. I was having a hard time keeping any sense of that when working on PvSH. It was so chaotic, and it made me chaotic. But BA is mainline erotic horror and gives me a lifeline to my inner core.

I really feared I had lost that with PvSH. Self confidence damaged. Unable to focus. I've wondered so many times if I should get myself tested for ADHD. I have trouble paying attention, difficulty organizing tasks, very impulsive, and so damned forgetful. Can't blame it on age because I've been this was for decades. I often start projects then lose interest, and organization? Forget it. The only symptom of it I don't have is hyperactivity.

I'm meeting with my doctor in November. I may add that to my list of questions for him.

BA is happening

I spent much of today lounging in my bed, writing on Blood Angel. This section, titled Franz, will be where Léonidès is told he may not turn Franz and, while trying to figure out why begins to see the man is not as perfect as his amazing looks suggest. 

-----------

The Oiym said no. 

I’d sent them a simple telegram: Nethys, have found a mate. Congratulations? Leonides. 

Nethys was the de facto head of the Oiym Council, and I needed their permission to make the beautiful Franz Sebastian Giselher von Bergren my mate. 

I received the following response:Denied. We will arrive soon. 

Denied!?I could not believe it. The rules that I had developed and convinced the Oiym to follow were now being used against me, and they were coming to make certain I followed their edict?I was livid. 

And terrified.Because this was new territory for me. What I’d heard from others, all simple vampires, was they had to feed until true death, no turning without permission. Anything less would be considered a violation of the edict and bring about imprisonment in their fortress. An edict I had helped arrange. 

That made me fear for Franz. If I was not allowed to bring him into my world, I wanted to make certain he would be well in his own. But the fact they were coming to see me...and, probably, him...was surely to question him and make certain for themselves that he was not a danger to us. Why else would they depart Alexandria to enter a war zone? It wasn’t just for the cuisine. 

What little he knew about me was...well, he thought I was a fellow German, and never mind my Norman lineage. I’d spoken to him as if from Hamburg. I’d helped him and his mount, Grünnald. I’d treated him with full politeness and probably saved his life. Anything he might remember about my removing the bullet from his shoulder or carrying him to my chateau could be explained away as delirium from his injuries. 

But the Oiym were less understanding than I, when it came to humans. Less forgiving or flexible. And if they had even one iota of concern about his awareness of our world, he would be ended. Better safe than sorry, as the phrase goes.I could not allow that. 

But how could I prevent it? There were seven of them, all much more powerful Blood Angels than I. No question, if I went against them I’d wind up in one of the cells in their Alexandria, and my pack would be left to fend for itself. 

Or worse—handed over to my sister, Gabrielle.Another possibility I could not allow.

Blood Angel returns...

I worked a bit on Blood Angel, today. A section that takes place in the early years of WW2, where Poland is being overrun by Germany and Russia. Léonidèsis on the side of the Poles so limits his pack of vampires to raping and feasting on the Russians. Which they have fun doing.

I also have a large part written that's set in 1871-72, where Léonidès tracks down his sister, Gabrielle, in Korea and asks her to swap Dmitriy for Franz. Each man is bound to the one who turned them, and Léon really likes Dmitriy. He thinks a swap would be beneficial to them all.

She agrees because Franz is a Blood Angel who is very heterosexual, and he is being an asshole to Léon, but she keeps Dmitriy for not telling her he was gay before she turned him. Never mind that he didn't know, himself. She's punishing him and tormenting Léon just for the fun of it...and there is nothing he can do about it.

I actually had fun with it, because it's a wild fantasy of a story about special vampires with some history mingled in. Gabrielle was in Korea because she was obsessed with a young Naval officer who's of the Blood Angel line, who embarked for Korea in the US quest to force the country to open up. But he winds up getting killed before she can turn him. So when Léon connects with her, she's not in a good mood. I think this is what I'll finish, now.

I also went out to do laundry, today, because I wanted to wash my bedcovers...and reminded myself why I prefer to use the building's washers and driers. It was hot and expensive. $33.20 as opposed to about $20 in-house. The only issue is we only have 4 machines for washing and for drying, so I'd have been going all day.

Seems I'm losing my tolerance for hot weather. It was up to 91, today, which is hot but in Houston it would be around 100 with high humidity and I could function in that. Today wiped me out. So it's that or I'm growing old.

I refuse to accept the latter suggestion.

Almost...

I don't bask a lot in my achievements, but having A Place of Safety-Derry get Third Place in the Book Fest Competition is pretty good, considering it's only the first third of the story. Seems symbolic.

This was a nice, long, quiet day...for the most part. Did some cleaning up on my laptop. Got rid of about a thousand emails I no longer needed. Managed to avoid getting into too many fights online with the MAGAt Class idiots. Had a potential packing job in London vanish, dammit. Balanced my checkbook and updated my daily minder. Even started reading.

I also watched an episode of the new Matlock on Pluto because Kathy Bates is in it. As were ads. It's like watching TV. I don't know what's going on in the program; some kind of conspiracy thing about somebody. I finally realized the service doesn't have episodes 1 & 2; I'd started with 3. A bit irritating.

I'm considering signing up with the Criterion Channel because they offer so many of the movies I want to see...as well as a bunch I already have DVDs for. At $11 a month? I could live with that. There are several foreign films they have that I'd like to see.

Overall, it was a nice relaxing day. Tomorrow is laundry, but I'm going to a laundromat for it, this time. I want to wash my blankets and mattress cover as well as pillows, and I need bigger machines to do it right.

PvSH is still nudging me, hoping I'll change my mind and try something new. But I just can't. Dealing with that story has damaged my self-confidence, since I've been all over the place with it and still don't have its voice or know what it's about. Not really.

I'm done...

The People v. Simon Halloran or Harper or Charlie-Baker or whatever is no longer on my plate. The second I think I have some kind of handle on it and where it's headed for, it explodes in my face and I'm left with nothing but chaos. I'm tired. I don't need that shit, right now.

I'm spending tomorrow reading, no writing. I've never read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by James Joyce. And there's Durant's Story of Philosophy and The Book Thief. I'm finally getting into Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray. And there are so many others.

I may curl up in bed, all day, and doze when I feel like it. Stay the hell away from social media. It's only driving me insane. I'm caught between anger at Felon47's vile administration and the abject cruelty of those people, and heartbreak at realizing nearly half the country thinks this brand of evil is just plain fine.

Hell, more than half, if you take into account the selfish beasts who stand by and do nothing. Their attitude seems to be, If it's not affecting me then it's no big deal. And that sickens me.

Maybe part of how I feel about PvSH is the growing belief that civilization is sliding into a dark age, when stupidity reigned supreme and the few intelligent people were hammered by the church if they dared suggest anything the Christo-fascists didn't like.

Religious assholes are saying, out loud, that people like me should be executed...and no Christians are really firing back. So it may start happening, soon. The LGBTQ+ community has already been targeted by ammosexuals more than once.

Me being 73 helps. I won't be around for a whole lot longer...maybe 10 years...15, if I'm lucky. I'll probably miss out on the worst of it.

Whimper-whimper-whine. Shut the fuck up, Kyle, and find a new direction. Shit.

Side-tracking...

This was not a good day, for me. Simon led me into another side alley that I didn't really understand but found intriguing enough to waste hours seeing where it went. 

The whole opening bit that I posted over the last couple of days was going to be like an interview of Simon by a police psychologist...but doing it was throwing the whole rest of the story off.

I couldn't figure out how to get back to the storyline and have it make sense. The indecision messed with my focus and made me angry with myself for not being able to work the damned thing out...until I concluded it's not workable.

I sometimes wonder if he doesn't really want me to tell his story. If he has a case of cold feet and that's the reason for all the fucking chaos.

Fortunately, my screen saver is a thousand foot high drone shot slowly passing over London. It starts around Wapping just west of Canary Wharf and gently glides in a straight path past the Shard, over the Thames and Tower Bridge, with The City and St. Paul's to the right of frame while the Globe Theatre and Tate Modern are to the left.

Then come Waterloo Station, the London Eye, Big Ben, and Parliament to the left with Charing Cross Station to the right across to Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens before jumping back to its original starting point.

It's close to five minutes long and is so amazingly soothing, to me. I can watch it a couple of times and remind myself of the size and scale of the biggest city in Europe. The photo I posted is of the City from Primrose Hill, which also reminds me.

God, I wish I was there instead of here.

Second half...

Here is the rest of the first chapter, now at 1700 words...

------

 “There’s a private library I’ve bought in Barrington,” he said, “not so very far from you.” Not even a word of Hello or How are you doing? So like him. 

“Um, Olivier,” I replied, “It’s over three-hundred miles.” 

“Well, you’re a great deal closer than I am.” Spoken in his posh West End tones, which I’m told isn’t an honest accent. “All I need is for you to work up an itemized list. You know the drill. Title, author, date, where published. It’ll be coming as a collection so no need for individual values. Though I am declaring it as six-fifty...” 

“Six-hundred and fifty thousand?” 

“They belonged to Tannen Northridge’s wife.” Spoken as if he were shocked I didn’t already know. 

That name raised issues. I’d worked at Variman's Antiquarian Book Shop for two decades, and I'd had to deal with the woman on several occasions. My first time was when she had loudly complain that the books I’d shipped her were not packed well-enough. She wanted them wrapped in tissue, then in Kraft paper, then with bubble wrap around them and put in a box with bio-degradable peanuts. All of which I'd done. But on top of that, the box should have gone into another box and, since the value was exceptionally high, that box into another. Rather like a Russian Doll. 

I'd done it that way thence forth, when she had ordered online, but no compliment was ever given. Of course, no further complaint, either. About that. Instead, she would snarl about how incomplete the description was. And the three times she set foot in the shop, she'd complained the air conditioning was too cold, and there needed to be better climate control...and so on and so on...

She also took her time paying, usually sixty to ninety days instead of the usual thirty, and then only after our accountant, Arnell, had given her two reminder calls. She was not someone I wanted to deal with. So there was another red flag telling me to not agree to do this. 

“There are only about a hundred titles,” Olivier said. 

“Mrs. Northridge is selling her books to you?” I asked. “Not to Variman’s?”

I thought she'd got on with the two men who owned it...Tomas Varisç and Harold Harman. They looked so much alike people thought they were brothers, but one was from Oregon and the other from Atlanta. Though they did like to bicker like an old married couple. They were now well into their eighties, but the store was still going strong so I'd have thought that would be the first place she'd contact about selling.

Then Olivier sighed and said, “She’s passed away.”

Mrs. Northridge? Gone? That surprised me. I'd thought her impervious to the laws of existence. “I hadn’t heard.” 

“Her husband kept it low-key. I knew her well-enough to be informed of her passing, so got the jump on it. Now I’d also like you to make a condition report on the books...” 

“Oh...oh...Olivier, that is so time-consuming...” 

“Nothing major. Just make certain she took care of them and they haven’t been trashed. These are antiquarian books, and you know how to handle those. Her? I halfway suspect she may have broken a couple of them to remove illustrations.” 

“Oh, God, it’s good she’s gone.” That burst out of me before I could even think to stop it. 

“Well, Simon, I had no idea you were so judgmental.”

“When someone tears apart a book just for the pretty pictures...” I hated people who destroyed books.

“Understood.” 

“Olivier, I don’t know that I’d be right for this.” 

“No, you’re perfect...” 

“But it means traveling to another state and hotel nights and...” 

“It’ll be easy, Simon. I promise. Shouldn’t take you more than a day. Wait, you do have a laptop?” 

“Of course I do.” 

“And Excel?” 

“Yes...but...” 

“Then the list will be easy.”

“You only say that because you’re not doing it.” 

“Simon, please. I would do it myself but I’m nearly four-thousand miles away and the Chelsea Book Fair is happening, next weekend. And Tanner wants this done as quickly as possible, or he’ll have someone just come take the books.” 

“This is so odd. I haven’t heard anything about that collection being up for sale...” 

“Told you, I got in before anyone even knew about it. She’s got some nice editions of Brontë and Austen, a lovely Rubaiyat bound by Sangorsky-Sutcliffe.”

Which I had heard about through the bookseller grapevine but hadn't seen. “Well...I am familiar with a nice set of Fielding’s Amelia she bought from Variman’s.” 

“I didn’t know about that one. So it’s a hundred-and-one books.” 

“You mean titles. That one’s four volumes in a slip-case.” 

“See? See?! You know exactly what needs to be done.” 

I was still unsure. But he was being his usual cajoling self, referencing how I’d already done a couple of similar jobs for him. One of which included air travel. So I sighed and said I’d head down Sunday. 

“Can’t you go, tomorrow?” he asked. “Start Thursday? Finish Friday?” 

“I have to make plans and...” 

“C’mon, Simon. You could head out tonight, if you wanted.” 

“That...is an absolute no. Why are you in such a rush?” 

“Not me. Tanner. I mentioned, he’s pushing to have it gone ASAP. I'll pay you for your drive time.” 

“You would, anyway. But all right; I’ll drive down, tomorrow.” My thought being it would be an excuse to break from that artwork and think about the final touch. I wasn’t due to ship it off till next week.

“Thanks, mate. You’re a life-saver.” 

What an ironic comment, considering the damage he did to my world.