Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 44

Back to it...

I jumped back to the beginning of HNH to go through it and bring out Brendan's voice, again. What I had initially written was on the pedestrian side, not how he would say or write it. And there were a couple moments that made no sense or were over-written, so those got changed. In a couple of spots, I just cut out a complete paragraph. It feels a lot getter, now.

I was looking for a spot to add in him buying a portable tape recorder. I was going to do the Sound-about (the first name of the Sony Walkman) but it doesn't have recording abilities and that will prove necessary. When he goes to the university in Coleraine to hear a tape of his father telling a story, that's how he records it. 

The student doing it used a Sony reel-to-reel portable recorder to tape Da's telling of the tale. It's a high-quality device, so its clarity is amazing. But Brendan notices with each story told, his father becomes more drunk and incoherent...and in one part segues into something that has no relevance to the story being told. But it clues Brendan into something about his father's past. Not long after, the tape ends.

I have no idea what that is, yet, but it will come to me.

I also need to work out how Brendan can get an interview with Eamonn in the H Blocks, during the hunger strike. I doubt it would be allowed, especially considering the unrest going on and how Bobby Sands is getting weaker while more have joined the queue to starve themselves, but I really feel the need for it.

Might be impossible.

I'm pissed...

Well, I am apparently a writer of snuff porn. That's according to Smashwords. After selling several copies of Feeding the Beast, a novella I posted last week, they've decided to pull it from their platform. Apparently killing people in a horror story that also has gay sex in it is unacceptable. And I am given no recourse. None.

This has begun to happen more and more, lately. Like HTRASG getting banned and refused on other platforms. Carli's Kills even getting refused, despite it being heterosexual in nature. The puritans are out in force and pushing back the allowed region of self-expression.

Smashwords claims to be supportive of the erotica community, but it's being absorbed by Draft2Digital and it's seeming more and more that the allowances made for sexual content are being reworked. They may go back and re-evaluate all of my work, in which case I may have problems.

Carli's Kills starts off with Carli watching a man and woman have sex then, after they're done, pushing the woman out a 25th floor window to fall to her death. If that gets re-evaluated, it's a gonner. Same for Blood Angel's two parts, Rape in Holding Cell 6, and The Beast in the Nothing Room. Not sure what other platform to look into if those need to be reposted.

That the book was dumped without further explanation is upsetting, but what really pisses me off about it is the cowardice. No way to respond or argue. Right now I'm waiting to hear if they will pay me for the copies sold or if they're going to pull them away from the people who bought them and refund their money. And it's not just like that with Smashwords; Kindle's been known to do that. 

Amazon's banned some of my work. Facebook put me in jail for an image of a man in a Speedo, in a private group, whose hand was resting on his leg. Called it sexual activity when there was none. They also went back to 2017 to remove an image they claim goes against their guidelines, but won't tell me which one it was, what it was, anything. And their review option is worthless.

So right now I hate the world and everything in it.

Technology is the devil...

Met with someone in the Genius bar, who ran a series of tests and found my phone is in great condition and working fine. BUT...thanks to the sensitivity of the screen, even when it's in sleep mode if it's in your pocket and rubbing against material, it might think you're trying to log in. And after a number of false tries, it shuts you out for a while. That's what that message is all about.

I don't know that I accept that 100%, because I've been carrying it in my shirt or pants pocket for years. But to be safe I got a flip folder to hold it, so it won't be rubbing anymore. It's more protective, anyway, if a bit harder to use.

I'm at a point in HNH where Brendan sees his first ghost and I'm having trouble with it. He agrees to go to a meeting/party with Maeve, where Catholics and Protestants mingle to show how alike they all are...and he uses some of his punk music from Houston to liven the dreary atmosphere up. But as he's bouncing with some of the younger people there, he sees Joanna enter the room.

That Joanna.

It turns out she was not killed in the bombing but was badly burned. Half her face is fine, half is severely scarred. No one said a word about her surviving...and he comes close to losing it.

Thing is, this shifts a lot of the trajectory of the rest of the book. Maeve may not have known about Joanna, but surely his mother found out during the aftermath, during her fight with PIRA. And possibly his aunt and older sister were told. The sense of betrayal he feels about not being told is really going to mess with him. Because if he had known she lived, he'd have come back to her, no matter what.

Problem is, now she wants nothing to do with him...and that's tearing him apart, even more. He has to get out of Derry for a while to calm himself.

So this begs the question -- is the symbolism too heavy-handed and obvious?

Freaky...

Went shoe shopping, today. Trying to find a comfortable pair to replace my old Clarks. There's an outlet store in Niagara Falls...but they had nothing that was comfortable. I have a high arch and if the top of my foot rubs against the shoe too much, it messes with that.

On top of it, the ones I saw online aren't available there...at least, not yet. Dammit.

So I hit a couple other stores and finally find something worthwhile at Dick's Sporting Goods, of all places. More than I wanted to pay, but they felt good. My old shoes just don't offer the support for being on my feet all day, as I learned in DC.

So I also did a bit of grocery shopping and was planning to hit home and work in HNH...only my phone shut down. I got this weird message on it that said it would be unavailable till after 5pm. I couldn't turn it off. Couldn't restart. Nothing.

Then...after 5, it started working, again. Like nothing happened. But trying to deal with that and figure out if my phone is compromised took up the day. What's sad is, it's not even my phone; it belongs to Caladex. I just use it because they insist I have it.

I did manage to start posting Blood Angel-Léonidès on GayDemon to drum up interest. The latest Smashwords sale is on, going through the end of July, and this is one of my latest works. It's also more romance than vampire, right now.

Tomorrow I'm going into the Apple store to see if this phone message is a situation I need to worry about. If they can't deal with it, I may hit AT&T. Can't have this happening when I'll be in San Jose, next week.

Ch-ch-ch-changes...

Today I worked on Brendan going head to head with his mother over his return. It's rough, a bit cruel, and low-key. But playing off his Aunt telling him Ma rambled and said things that made no sense, it became a moment where his mother's mortality is brought home hard.

He realizes his aunt just didn't have the context needed to see Ma wasn't merely rambling; she was revisiting moments she's lived. And learns she never hated him; she hated an attitude that she saw in him where it seemed he thought he was superior to her. I think.

Oh, I just had a thought. Kieran has that attitude with Brendan. Sees him as a coward and traitor and refuses to share his room with him. But the hutch behind the house was made over to be livable for Mairead and Turleigh, when they were wed, and then was lived in by Eamonn. I think I'll have Maeve move him into that, after he gets snotty with Brendan.

"But it gets cold!"

"I'll give ya an extra blanket!" 

So now I'm through 5 chapters, and there are so many changes happening, I'll need to do at least three more drafts to make it work...maybe four. We'll see how things go. In reality, I'm restructuring the actions in this draft so the details can emerge.

Through July, Smashwords is having one of their ebook sales. I've set two books up at half-price, one of them APoS-Derry, and five books are free. The rest are $0.99 each, as always. Scroll down the linked page to see which is what.

It's amazing how many people will download a book that's free and never read it. Though I can't say much about that. I've got so many books I need to read, myself...and just added three dark works of gay erotica to the pile. They were written by a writer friend of mine...but still, I'm hopeless.

I'm currently working my way through a friends' daughter's first book, Truthfully Yours, which is a nice, sweet young-adult romance between a bi-girl with autism and a gorgeous-guy who's on a smash hit TV show. Her style is easy to read, but it's like a bright sunny day when I'm Mr. Midnight.

However...it's set in Scotland. That makes it more than worthwhile.

Beginning to take me over...

Today I reworked the below section away from Aunt Mari telling Brendan his father killed a man, which seemed really cheesy, melodramatic TV MOW crap, to something much simpler that ties in with the rest of the story a lot better. It's still kind of messy, overall, but getting there.

--------------

Aunt Mari sighed and sat on the edge of the bed to say, "Bren, I should let ya know...when ya see Bernadette, yer mother is...well, it may come as a shock. Try not to show it." 

That jolted me into breathing, again; I hadn't realized I’d stopped. "She...Ma does know how I'm coming, right?" 

"Mairead let Maeve know all about it." 

Probably meaning no. "She...she told Maeve everything about me?! Then what bloody good does it do for me to..." 

"No, no, no...not you, yerself. While she was there, she told Maeve about ya. As a cousin. And that ya'd be willin' to come and help. And I supported that. When I was over." 

I took in a long breath. The lie was never-ending. Now is was to keep Ma and Maeve from knowing it was me coming. Did they really think this would fool anyone for more a minute or two? So what was the purpose of it? That they might spread the story of a distant relative's arrival so the bloody cows would make it truth during their usual craics? It was a weak cover story we were offering up. 

I let myself sigh and continued with the last of my packing, saying, "Well, that passport backs you up."

"Yes," she murmured. "Sean showed me before he give to ya. Made ya legal." 

So there it was. No question now but that Aunt Mari was full aware of the callous blackmail Uncle Sean had used to force me back into becoming who I was not. Threatening death to her own nephew. Her own blood. Christ. In my childish way, I'd been clinging to the idea she'd been in the dark about that, but if she knew all about my past being legally gone, it meant she knew a great many other things I'd rather not have known she knew.It was hard to accept the betrayal I felt at this. The anger. 

But I managed to keep my voice even. "As he promised." 

"Yes," she murmured, again. "An' when ya return, ya can do as ya like..." 

Return? Here? Did she think I’d come back to this hell-spot? Or was she leading up to something? If so, I wish she'd just get it the fuck out of the way. 

"How long do ya think ya'll be there?" 

"Depends on Ma." I was impressed with how even I kept my voice. I looked back at her. "Will you be coming for the wake?" 

She shook her head, almost sad. "I've said me good-byes. No need to show off for others." 

I made myself chuckle. "I've never heard a funeral referred to, like that." 

"That's Ireland. People come from far and wide to say lovely things about the dead, and nothing bad, whether they knew them or not." 

I nodded. "I remember, from Da's wake." 

"He was always rough with ya, wasn't he?" 

"You know full well he was. With me and Eamonn. And Ma. Not the girls and the youngest boy. Kieran timed his birth well, to miss all his hate and anger." 

"Bren, it's unkind to speak ill of the dead." 

I just rolled my eyes and zipped my duffel closed. 

"I should tell ya something more..." Her voice trailed off. 

Finally! Finally.Still, my voice was sharp as I snapped, "Aunt Mari, I've hardly led what I would call a sheltered existence, so say what you need to. No hemming and hawing, as you like to say." 

It took her a moment but then she took in a deep breath and whispered, "Yer father may not have been born a Kinsella." 

As I'd already wondered. So if she thought I was going to be shocked or horrified or angry, I disappointed her. "May not have? Who says so?" 

She was quiet for a long moment before she finally said, "Yer mother." 

Of course. Ma and her secrets. Her anger when I went looking into Da's past. Her refusal to acknowledge her brothers. It all rang odd to me, even at the time, and now I was finding my suspicions were correct. That's probably why I was still so calm in the face of this revelation. 

"Kinsella's the name on the registry of my birth. I had to get a copy of it when I sent for my passport." 

"If I’m understandin’ Bernadette right, yer father took that name when he married her. I think it was from a solicitor she knew. His birth name...I think was Gorman."

"Understood her right? What does that mean?"

"She was babblin' on and...well..."

"Did she say if he was Catholic or Protestant?"

"Does it matter?"

"Does, over there."

"Catholic. I’d think. But I don't know. He was introduced to me as Kinsella and I had no reason not to believe him, or my sister. And some of the things she was tellin’ me...some of the stories...they didn’t make sense so they may have been nothin’. I'm still not completely sure Bernadette knew what she was sayin’. She’s under a painkiller and Percocet can bother your mind and..." Her voice trailed off. 

"What things did she say?" 

"Oh, nonsense. Like claimin’ yer brother was blessed by Eamon de Valera, when he wasn't even born till after the man's visit." 

"Aunt Mari, Eamonn was born in 1950. End of April. A year before De Valera came." 

"Was he?" She glanced around, confused. "Are ya sure?" 

I only nodded, wondering at how she could be wrong about that. She'd sent him cards and gifts, though never money.

She leaned her head against her hand, propped on her knee, and sighed. "It's hard to keep track of everything, now. The news about yer father was so off, I just got lost and uncertain and...and seein’ Bernadette like she is..." 

I let myself chuckle. "Well, that might explain why Da's past was that of a ghost. What did he do to make him change his name?" 

“She never said. But somethin’ else. Ya know of yer seven uncles?”I only nodded.“Bernadette swears she and I have no siblings. No brothers. And if any do show to see her, she will become a horror to them. Michael and his wife came over, while I was there. A very pleasant man, he is. And his wife is sweet. But to my shock, Bernadette near came off her bed to attack him when he was up in her room. She said, since they had abandoned her and myself, they were no kin to her.” 

I nodded. “So that’s why she never spoke to us of them.” 

“I’ve made contact with all seven, now, and they are aware of the situation. If any do show while ya are there, or come to the wake, they’ll know ya as Brennan McGabbhinn and ya may want to warn them off from her.” 

“Did any of them know me Da?” 

“No, all had gone across the water long before he came into the picture.” 

“When did you first meet him?” 

“At the weddin'.” 

“In Derry?” 

She nodded. “I was still held in the orphanage, so two nuns accompanied me. It was just us, the married couple, a priest and an altar boy.” 

“Why did they get married?” 

She hesitated then murmured, “To give yer brother a name.” 

“And Da never told you why he changed his name? Or Ma?” 

"Bren, she's dying and-and-and as I said, wasn't in full control of her thoughts. Maeve also is of a mind she's only confused." 

"So it may be best to leave it that way." 

"Which is why yer the only one I'm tellin’ any of this to," she said, weary to the bone.

A bit more of chapter one

Continuing from yesterday, since my left eye is hurting and I don't want to keep working...

----

Now if truth is to be told, I did not want to return to Derry. It's a city of ghosts, to me. Some of whom I had known. But familial duty has its demands, and despite what people have said against the once-was-me, I honor my duties. So here I am, about to leave a city I had never chosen to be in, or ever really existed in, though I had. 

I was set to fly out of Intercontinental on to Glasgow, where I'd shift to a short-hopper to Derry’s Airport on Logan Air. It was neither fast nor easy nor cheap, but from the moment I'd heard of Ma’s cancer I'd been 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. 

When I’d revealed my date of departure, Uncle Sean had offered to pay the ticket, he was so glad to be quit of me. Which grated on me, for he knew full well I wanted nothing from him. 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. Aunt Mari had noticed, for little escaped her sharp eyes, but had said not a word. Not once. How much she knew of the confrontations between him and me didn't matter. It was she wed to him, not I...and to my sorrow, she had chosen husband over blood. 

Perhaps I should have fought him, openly, or argued with him or condemned him. Revealed him as the cold, vicious bastard he truly was. But his threat against my younger brother made me hold back. Now, in my eyes, he was not even worthy of my contempt. For as hard as my Da had been with his fists and words, not once could I could think of a time he'd ever threatened harm to any but Ma, Eamonn, or myself...or to those who had caused him immediate irritation, in a pub. And even then, it was only when he was in his cups, caught in a sickness and secrets that made him desperate, at times. 

At one time, I would never have thought his actions honorable in any way. Now, in comparison to my uncle's...they almost were. For this man had no honest excuse for what he’d done.That’s why I turned down his offer, and he’d snickered I was independent to a fault. The first time he'd said that, so many years ago, I'd thought he meant it gentle. Even at the ripe old age of seventeen I'd wanted to be my own person. Beholden as little as possible to anyone else, and never mind what I had just been through. It was my childish way of reasserting myself. Him repeating it now meant only that he had learned nothing about me. 

Aunt Mari had said nothing, having just returned from her own trip over and now feeling the jet-lag from it. 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 through as if I were carryin' guns or drugs." 

"Or cash," said Uncle Sean, smiling. 

"That they found in my purse, and didn't they make an issue of it?" she'd huffed, nearly shaking with anger. "Naught but two-thousand pounds, and that only to help me one sister have a decent wake and burial." 

"You're lucky you had an American passport," I said. 

Aunt Mari nodded. "Yes, those with Irish or British passports had 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 arrived home, 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 as I went out to sit by the pool and have a smoke. Calm the anger within myself.

The fact I would soon be gone from this place is all that cept me calm, these days. 

I cashed all my savings into pounds, at American Express, finished all my projects and took no more on, despite some very tempting ones. Those I could not sell I donated to Goodwill, who were quite appreciative. Elliott let me use the Chrysler to do my carrying. It still amazes me how large the trunk is. 

Now it was the day before I was to leave. It was the same attic space I'd been in when I first came back from my catatonia. Unchanged. The gable windows still looked down on a pool and back yard that in need of tending. And would still need, long I'd left. The pool house was just as reclusive. Poor old Angus was lounging in the shade of the trees. Aunt Mari’s new Aires wagon was sitting where that old Volvo once was, but that was the only difference. It was as if the back yard had frozen time, and could be disconcerting were my mind wandering. 

I was packing the last of my things into my duffel bag when I heard someone coming up the stairs...pause for a bit...then knock.The heavy tread told me it was Aunt Mari so I said, "It's your house. Come on in." 

She entered my room, her face caught in uncertainty. The month she’d stayed with Ma had been hard on her. In the two weeks since her return, she'd been more quiet than usual and would sometimes let her mind wander while fixing a meal or rinsing a dish for the washer. Then after a moment she'd snap back. If I was around, in any way, she'd cast me a near glance, huff at herself and continue on. 

At night, she had taken to having more than one beer and, if the weather wasn't too chill or raining, she'd now sit at a table by the pool and smoke a cigarette. She'd shifted to Virginia Slims menthol, as they were milder than the Kools. On those nights, I sometimes caught her looking up at my window, as if trying to decide to come talk to me like she had before she went over, but she never did. So far as I knew, she never spoke with anyone about anything that might be troubling her. Just sat and drank and smoked, for an hour, then went inside. So her entering, this time, was something of a surprise. 

"Just checkin' to make sure ya got all ya need for the journey," she said, almost apologetic, her brogue more in evidence.She noticed the passport for the me who was not me. I'd deliberately left out for any and all to see. She also saw my pound notes; the rest was in traveler's checks stuffed in a couple pairs of socks, in my backpack. Not the safest method of transport, but not easily noticed. 

"Ya...um, ya changed yer look," she finally mentioned. 

I'd had my hair cut close and asked Everett to put in some reddish highlights."The less I look as I once did, the better," I replied. 

"But, Bren..." she said, her voice still uncertain. "Is that really a concern, now?" 

"You mean, don't they think me dead?" 

"No! No. It's only...well...surely they aren't still on about the...the..."

The silence and blinding white swirled around me until that leg was twisting and twirling in the air as it whispered down to land before me and blood splattered me and-- 

I froze, my mind a blank. That memory hadn't cut at me in so long. I had a pair of socks in hand, and my duffel open before me but had no idea what I was doing. I took in a deep breath and deliberately made myself think-- 

You've got socks in your hand and your bag half full, so you’re packing, Brendan. Isn't that right? Packing. Keep at it. 

Which I did.

I think this is it.

 I've reworked this opening to where it's close enough to what I want to let me continue on.

----

So...I was leaving Houston.

Really leaving.

And to my surprise, that I was not jumping for joy at the thought of my departure was more than a little unsettling, for I truly despised this city and its hidden ways. 

Oh, I’d made a couple of good friends here. And a couple of enemies. Of a sort. I’d healed well-enough to try and build a new life...without ever actually being able to build one. How did my mate, Jeremy, call my situation? In limbo? No...a holding pattern; that’s it. As if awaiting notification that I could now land and get on with more than merely existing. 

I’d let the meaning of it pass me by, like so much else, because I really didn’t care enough to understand what he meant. But now I was undertaking a journey back to a home that was not my home, and that it was to happen on April Fools Day seemed too damned appropriate a comment on my life, as it currently stood. 

I am forever stained by abstract meanings being thrust upon me. Such as being labeled simple, meaning stupid, merely because I choose to keep to myself. Called ungrateful because I wanted to live in my own way and accept others on my own terms. I was even stained by my life beginning on Groundhog Day, an American tradition unheard of in the UK but still laid upon me thanks to my Aunt Mari. 

Saw his shadow as he was being born so ran back into his hole, and didn't come out till half-seven; that's why he loves the night. 

Merely proof of my mother’s claim that I was simple. 

Perhaps I am. For what am I doing but proving them right by choosing to travel on the Jokester’s day. The fates must be holding their sides, from laughter. 

 I'd wanted to go through Dublin. It would have been so much simpler. So much more direct. I could hop a train at Connolly Station, ride up through Belfast...if the tracks haven’t been blown up, again, by the IRA. But even a bus would have taken me straight into Derry. And had I been willing to fly a month earlier, there probably would have been no difficulty. 

Well, no difficulty but for the hunger strikes going on in the North of Ireland, with daily protests collapsing into riots a-plenty. Everyone I spoke with said to wait a little. See if it calms down enough to trust a train. Which it was beginning to do, according to the nightly news and two local papers. 

So I headed to the American Express in the Galleria to get the most updated information. My Aunt Mari had a friend who worked there and gave me solid advice. She also helped me make a plan for the trip to be a quick as possible, since my mother who was not my mother was riddled with cancer and could pass away any moment.She was so very sympathetic.

But not very much up on things. Because she mentioned there was a little music festival going on in Dublin and she was having trouble getting the ticket I wanted.The name of that little music festival?

Fucking Eurovision.

Being hosted in Dublin the first week of April. And the city had lost its goddamned mind. Flight costs were double. Hotels impossible to come by. Trains packed. Busses, too. Even hopping a ferry from Holyhead would be ridiculous, if I could even get there from Heathrow. 

That’s when I went to the British Airways office downtown to buy my ticket. They understood Eurovision and told me that if I wanted to be back in my city of birth that was no longer my city of birth before my mother was dead and buried, it was through Gatwick and Glasgow, I had to go. 

And hope my bag would follow. 

There was a certain disdain they shared about Gatwick. As for Glasgow? Enough said about that. They simply suggested I put extra clothes and my 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. That I was born Brendan Kinsella meant nothing, now, for that was no longer me. And all who knew me in that town thought me dead, though I am not.How can one even think to make sense from such a situation? 

I've lived in Texas for more than eight years, and yet I haven't. I tried to rebuild a life that wasn't mine but belonged to some lad named Brennan McGabbhinn, of Letterkenny in the Republic. A lad who'd died as an infant but was now brought back into this world through me, like Lazarus. 

I’d compare my situation to that of Jesus and his resurrection but I’m still too Catholic. 

So that is who I was, even though I wasn’t, for all my immigration papers were in that name. Meaning, the American government was satisfied that was my name. Those I'd met in this city all called me by that name, as did my cousins. In fact, the only proof I had that I am not the person who that name says I am is my memory...which, according to my medical history, is really not to be trusted. 

Now, I can understand the willingness to accept me as someone I am not. It's simple. Easy. Uncomplicated. If that's what it says on your visa, and your passport, and your Green Card, why cause trouble when none is at hand? And why would anyone believe a lad who might claim otherwise?Especially since he's simple. 

Of course, I have received indication that the British are not yet certain I am who I am not, despite there being no evidence to the contrary. I think that is due only to their own bureaucratic stubbornness. Somewhere, somehow they decided they need to speak with this Brendan Kinsella, alive or dead, about a bombing he was caught in, and naught can change their vague focus on that. 

So I can think of no way to reconcile all of this madness except to accept it as it is and I should do as I always have--as I pleased. Which has led me to both great difficulty and amazing joy. 

And intense sorrow.

Shorter?

I'm getting the feeling Home Not Home is going to be the shortest of the volumes. I just cannot see it reaching even 120,000 words, let alone 140K. Right now I'm working on the story Brendan's father is recorded telling. I'm using the old legend of harpies that live in the Cliffs of Moher, which was the basis for two of my horror screenplays, Darian's Point and Return to Darian's Point.

Both had done well in competitions, but the closest I ever came to selling a script was with the first one...and I'm glad it didn't go through. I might well have gone crazy if they'd changed it or ruined it, in any way...and the more I see of Hollywood, the more I'm sorry I wasted so much time there. I would never have fit in.

It was my first real screenplay, and is still very close to me. I've begun writing the beginning of the myth about the Dagda, the father of the ancient Celtic Gods, who'd washed away his sins in the waves that crashed into the base of the Cliffs. But there's a lot left to do on it.

DP and RDP are fully fleshed out as scripts, so I could shift them into novel form. It's on my list of stories to write. So many stories to write, and me such a slow writer.

Okay, we're backing away from that thought, right now. I do not need to trigger my self-flagellation, again.

Gary Meikle...

I did something I haven't done since I first moved to LA -- I went to see a comedian, live. In a venue that claimed to be a comedy club but was really not all that great. Helium Comedy Club. I was looking for dinner and a show...and couldn't get in.

Which made no sense to me. On their website, you can make dinner reservations for 5:30, 5:45 and 6 pm. I made mine for 6. Got there at 5:55 because in the stadium next door to the place was a high school graduation so travel was shit.

But I got a spot right across from the main door and hopped on over...and everything was locked and no lights on. I tried calling and only got voicemail. At 6:01, someone opened the door and let me in...and they weren't completely done setting up. They do not open till 6. Irritating.

I sat down and had a decent burger and fries, and a Heineken 0.0 non alcoholic beer, which is damn good. And my waiter was adorable in a slim, quiet way.

Finally, the box office opened and I got my ticket, then at 7:35 I was let into the auditorium and taken to my table right next to stage right and almost behind the comedian. There was an opening act that was not ready for primetime, then on came Gary. 

I started following him when I saw this video online. He's Glaswegian, aggressively heterosexual, a single father at 17, a grandfather at 40, and he can get very raw. But he's fun to watch and my bet is many in the audience didn't get half of what he was saying, much of the time.

There were only about 40 of us in the crowd, but we enjoyed it. He tried out some new material on us for about an hour. Then I came home because I wasn't feeling well. Old man issues and a bit of depression. The job in San Jose just expanded by a day and I'm not looking forward to it.

I just wish I didn't need the money so damn much...he says after spending $80 for the night. Gag.