Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 46

Usual method...

Okay...my inner muse is working out a new opening for Home Not Home because neither of us is really thrilled with what I've got, right now. It's not bad...it's just not there, yet. It needs to be less writerly and more Brendan. If that makes sense.

It's maybe...maybe just on the weak side? Or something? The opening to NWFO was vague and slow, but that made sense because Brendan was coming out of a psychotic break and finding his footing, again. This? The whole I am who I am but I'm not is just a bit too much on the cute side. And that is inappropriate.

But I still don't know what to use to replace it. I just know I can't get to work on the rest until I know what this is. It's how I work. Front to back. Beginning to end. Over and over and over, but not until I know what the starting words are.

No matter how many rewrites I did for Derry, the opening line was always basically the same. 

Those who knew Eamonn Kinsella--and were truly being honest with themselves--had to admit that were be born but ten miles to the west or north his murder would have been seen as a fitting end to a hard and brutal man.

A word or two may have changed, been added or removed, but that sentence was always the basic opening line. From the beginning. Same for NWFO, spacing words and sentences out to reflect a boy returning from a deep emotional state. I never had any other plan in mind, except that.

But this one? Just continuing from the second volume, like I should number it chapter 32? It feels wrong, and has, consistently. And I don't know what to do about it, yet.

But I'm not going to say I hate me, when I'm like this. I'm not. It's my process...and I accept it. Dammit.

I fucking accept it.

Something good...

I received my Library of Congress Control Number for A Place of Safety-New World For Old, today. I added it to the copyright page of both the hardcover version and ebook. That lightened my mood a little.

BUT...I was informed an apartment on my floor has bedbugs, and that sent me into a frenzy. I haven't seen any and can't find any nests of them in my place. And the bedbug pros are coming on Tuesday to check, for sure. I scrambled out to buy some diatomaceous earth but the building doesn't want me to use it. Turns out it's not really all that effective against them.

So on top of this pissy mood I'm in, I'm dealing with that shit. Just like at my old place, when the apartment below me brought some of the damned things in and it took forever to get rid of them. I was so paranoid about them, I didn't bring any of my furniture over to the new place. And I'd left my papers in outside storage over the winter, so if any were in my boxes they froze to death.

I got into such a state, I worked on We-come...and retitled it The Beast. Got into a truly brutal part of the story, for me, with Ren (as Warren is known by) raping the deputy who killed him before the man is killed by the alien. I also reworked a photo into this image and...if I decide to publish it...may use this as the cover.

I don't know that I will, officially. It's pretty harsh and really does veer close to porn, if not run straight into it. To be honest, I still have a 1970s vision of what porn is and that my be way out of date. But doing this has helped me pull back from my black mood more than anything else.

Rabid doggie just needed a scratch behind its ears before it collapsed into madness.

Dark place...

I'm in a mood of shadows and self-loathing, right now, and cannot seem to break it. All I see around me is my failures after so many decades on this planet. This attitude is not based on intelligent thinking or honest emotion, I know that, but I'm still a mess.

The only smart thing I've been able to do is keep myself from writing on HNH. Staying the hell away, because I know I'll trash what I've done, so far, and beat myself up over it.

I almost broke through when I began writing a story, freehand. About a man who's joined forces with a stranded alien to help it get back home. The MC is named Warren Randall, and he was shot and killed by a sheriff's deputy. It brought him back to life and gave him extra powers and strength, but in exchange he has to bring it people to feed its damaged ship so it can use their life energy to send out distress signals to others of its species.

It's a reworking of We-come, a little Sci-Fi/horror script I wrote years ago, that was told from the viewpoint of some potential victims. Dunno why I started it going this way. And of course it's already falling apart on me, thanks to my mood. Just another reason I should do no writing, right ow.

I can think of some semi-causes I'm like this. Stupid reasons.

1. I'm not going to Hong Kong for the book fair, there. It used to be a free-port, but not any more. Coming from the US, my social media would probably be checked and I might be refused entry for my comments about Xi and his assistance to Russia in its invasion of Ukraine. Not to mention how he's been about Taiwan, which I consider a separate sovereign nation while China doesn't.

2. I'm not doing Seattle's Book Fair at the end of October. It's not cost effective for me to go.

3. I'm doing a job in DC, but it's getting complicated and I'm looking less and less forward to it.

4. There's another possible job outside San Francisco that's making me nervous...yet both of these packing jobs seem straightforward. Easy compared to others I've done. So WTF?

5. And a job in Boston became ridiculously expensive so that's not happening, now. And I'm not sorry.

What's funny is, I wasn't really up for the book fair trips, either. It's 15 hours to Hong Kong from Toronto, and I just don't want to be in a plane for that long. And Seattle usually meant returning on a redeye back to Buffalo, which I've grown to hate. So I don't know what the big deal is, with me. I'm just...I'm in one of my leave me the fuck alone moods, and those can come out of nowhere. Maybe I am psychotic.

Or into dementia. Wouldn't that be perfect?

Whine over and out.

A little more...

Here's more of what I've reworked for the opening chapter, leading into the section I posted a couple days back. That part is only a little changed, not enough to matter, right now. Wordage is 77,144.

-----

Perhaps I should have fought him or argued with him or condemned him. Treated him as the cold vicious bastard he truly was. But his threat against my younger brother still held sway. He was nothing, in my eyes, now; not even worthy of my contempt. 

At least my Da had been specific with his fists and words, for not once could I could think of a time he'd ever threatened harm to any but Ma, Eamonn, or myself. Well, save for those who had caused him irritation as he drank in the pub. That my brother and I were but children was not the point. I could see now that Da was locked in secrets and a sickness that made him desperate, at times, and while I would never have thought his actions honorable in any way, in comparison to my uncle's...they were. For this man had no such excuse.

When I turned down his offer, Uncle Sean snickered that I was independent to a fault. The first time he'd said that, so many years back, I'd thought he meant it gentle. Because 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 and how completely I'd relied upon my family for support. It was my childish way of reasserting myself.

What had helped was how I'd shown myself able to do it...once my wits had rejoined me. Him repeating it now meant only that he had learned nothing about my capabilities.

Aunt Mari had said nothing, having just returned from her own trip over and feeling harsh 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' 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'd 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'd 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," Uncle Sean had said. 

"Aren't we all unto ourselves?" I smiled back at him. 

"Even with Thatcher runnin' things, now?" 

"Just more proof to my point." 

That is when the B-girls had arrived home, Brandi from Rice University and Bernadette from her last year of high school. Seeing their mother was returned, they had instantly begun their interrogation of her, so Uncle Sean had just cast a glare at me then carried her bag upstairs as I went out to sit by the pool. 

I'd 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'd 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. 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."

Testing...one...two...three...

I'm almost thinking this might work as the opening. It references volume two...and I have accepted that volume three of APoS will never be a stand-alone story--hell, none of them will--so...

-----

March 1981.

It's morning in America, according to some Irishman who's been elected president. An actor, I'm told, though I've seen nothing he was in. But his fans are rabid in their devotion, and I suppose I could see why. He knew how to deliver a speech, as any actor would. Not that it mattered. He had nothing to do with me, for I was headed home. 

To a place I could no longer call home. 

To see my mother, brothers and sister, who were no longer my mother, brothers and sister in an area of the world I was from, but wasn't. 

My name is Brendan Kinsella, but it is not. I was born in Derry, twenty-five years ago, last month, but I was not. To all who knew me in Derry, I'm thought dead, though I am not. And that's Londonderry, Northern Ireland, for those who cannot be bothered to know the city's true name. Alleviate at least one aspect of the confusion.If possible. How can one even think to make sense from such a situation?

I've lived in Houston, Texas for more than eight years, even though I haven't, and tried to rebuild a life that wasn't mine. It really belonged to some lad named Brennan McGabbhinn, of Letterkenny in the Republic, who'd died as an infant. Except he hadn't, because all of my immigration papers were in that name. The American government is satisfied with that being my name. Those I've met call me by that name, as do my cousins. The only proof I now have that I am not who that name says I am is my memory, which is patchy, at best. 

I can understand the willingness to accept me as someone I am not. It's simple. Easy. Uncomplicated. That's what it said on your visa. That's what it says on your passport. That's what it says on your Green Card. If those papers all agree, why cause trouble when none is at hand? 

And why believe a once-mad-lad who might claim otherwise?

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

It's insane, but I can 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. Which has led me to both great difficulty and amazing joy. 

And sorrow. 

In truth, I do not want to return to Derry. It's a city of ghosts, to me. Some of whom I knew. 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, in my room, packing for the journey. 

What can you say about returning to a home that never was? And yet, was. I suppose to a child, anywhere you live is your home. A simplistic view of it, yes, but also true. Perhaps that's why I never honestly felt completely right, in Houston. It was as if I were visiting. Residing. Here but not here. One of her people, but not.As I had been shown, more than once. 

More than eight years in this city and I still felt that way. 

Near eight years since I'd finally allowed myself to return to myself...to find I wasn't myself. Leave behind that mental and emotional limbo that had surrounded me for a world that welcomed and repelled me. 

I was in the same attic space as I'd been in when I first came back from my catatonia, with gable windows looking down on a pool and back yard that were in need of tending. And would still need, long I'd left. My aunt and uncle had drifted into a sort of casual malaise that neither seemed willing to let go of. Perhaps my departure would change that. 

A friend of my Aunt Mari’s worked at American Express in The Galleria, so she had set me up to fly out of Intercontinental on B-Cal via Gatwick. Then on to Glasgow, where I'd catch 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 Ma had cancer I'd been saving harder than usual so had more than enough to cover it all. And I was even assured it would be comfortable enough to catch some sleep on the long haul across the water. 

My Uncle Sean offered to pay the ticket, he was so glad to be quit of me. Hell, he could barely hold back a smile as he oh-so-deliberately made his offer in front of my aunt. Which grated on me; he knew full well I wanted nothing from him. In the more than four years since my sister, Mairead's visit and the catastrophe that followed, 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 nothing. I'd like to think it's because she thought this anger between us would pass, but to be honest with myself, I half-believed she knew his blackmail was the reason I'm their trained dog, and she had chosen to ignore it for fear I might make an issue of it. How much else she knew didn't matter, to me, for there was naught I could do to change what had happened, had I even wanted to. It was she wed to him, not me...and she had chosen husband over blood.

Here we go...

I don't like the opening I have for Home Not Home. It's weak and writer-ly. Almost like poor stage directions in a 1930s play. There's a lovely cliche for that--Enter laughing; exit crying or something like that. Simple and meaningless, like Shakespeare's infamous stage directions. Wasn't he the one who wrote Exit, chased by a bear in one of his plays?

Well...the problem is, I have a nice little steak before me. Raw and ready to be worked into an elegant meal, with the usual accoutrements. Just needs to be cooked right. But how the fuck do I do it?

I've never been good at grilling a steak. Hamburgers? No problem. Meatloaf? I've got five different ways to make it and every one of them tastes fantastic. Especially as a meatloaf sandwich. I've baked a patty with a peeled potato, carrots and sliced onion wrapped in foil and consider that a feast. Pot Roast? Just let it cook in a crock pot for 24 hours on low, slathered in onion soup, and it comes out so tender, it flakes apart. But that's the pot's doing, not mine. And meat sauce for spaghetti? Thick and tasty and kicks ass.

That's kind of like how my gay and straight books get made. Simplistic ingredients, like ground beef, onion, peppers, to be served with potatoes, carrots, corn, peas, even olives.

But to broil round steak? Usually winds up tough and as the makings for hash or chili. And that's the trepidation I'm having now, not only for HNH but also NWFO. The ingredients I used are for fine dining in an elegant restaurant, when as a chef I'm just a cut above McDonald's.

I see Derry's turning out well as a fluke, right now. Maybe NWFO will wind up as my cottage pie, which is as good as any you can find in the UK. But I was trying to make a filet mignon. And now it's time to dig into making HNH and I can't decide how the hell to start it.

Why ain't there no cookbook for this?

And so it goes...

Okay, this is part of the first chapter of Home Not Home. Brendan's prepping to return to Derry as Brennan McGabbhinn, a third cousin, to help Maeve with Ma. She's being difficult about her cancer treatments and will probably be dead soon. Aunt Mari's recently returned from a visit, not long after Mairead was there...and the feel of death has begun to permeate.

--------

The day before I was to leave, as I was packing my duffel bag, 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 worry and uncertainty. Her visit with Ma had been for more than a month, and I could see it had been hard on her. In the week or so since her return, she'd been even 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 sit at a table by the pool and smoke a cigarette. She'd shifted to Virginia Slims menthol, for they were milder than the Kools. On those nights, I 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 have everything ya need for the journey," she said, almost apologetic. As if I were going to an undeveloped part of the world. 

Which, in truth, was not far wrong. 

She noticed the passport for the new me. I'd deliberately left out for any and all to see. She also saw a stack of pound notes; the rest of my money was in traveler's checks stuffed in a couple pairs of socks, in my duffel. Not the safest method of transport, but not easily noticed. 

"You...um, you 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?" 

"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 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 felt as if I'd been punched in the gut. I had a pair of socks in hand, and my duffel open before me and had no idea what I was doing. I had to take in a deep breath and deliberately will my mind back to functioning. 

You're packing, Brendan. That's all. Keep at it. 

And so I did. 

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."

Well, at least that jolted me into breathing, again. "She...Ma does know how I'm coming, right? Not as her son but..." 

"Mairead let Maeve know all about it." 

Wait...what? "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 Brennan. 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. It was a weak cover story she offered up, that I was slipping back into the country not as Brendan Kinsella, probable fugitive of Her Majesty's justice, but as some vague blood relation named Brennan McGabbhin. As if this would fool anyone in Derry for more than a minute or two.

I let myself sigh. So...that all but confirmed that Aunt Mari was full aware of what Uncle Sean had done to me. In my childish way, I'd been clinging to the idea she was in the dark, but that was no longer an option. Which meant she probably knew a great many other things I'd rather not think she knew. What all they were, I would not let her tell me. How much she might have shared with Mairead, I did not want to know. It was hard enough to accept the cold betrayal I felt at this. The anger.

Husband over blood.Best to keep quiet, Bren. Tuck it away in the back of your mind. You can feast on it the rest of your life, once Ma is gone. 

I continued with the last of my packing. Said, "Well, that passport backs you up." 

"Yes," she murmured. "Sean showed me before he give to ya. Makes ya full legal, now." 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, will you just shut the fuck up?! Why do you have to say this to me, now? Why'd you tell me that? Why're you letting me know this? Fuck.

I barely kept my voice even. "As he promised." 

"Yes," she murmured, again. "How long do ya think ya'll be there?" 

Oh, Christ. Christ, Christ, Christ...if she was leading up to something, I wish she'd just get it the fuck out of the way and leave me be. 

"No idea. 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 my 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. But not with the girls and the youngest boy. Kieran timed his birth appropriately. Missed 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.

Moving on...

It's time to start focusing on the third volume of A Place of Safety -- Home Not Home. This is where everything comes together...but how much together, I have no idea, yet. There's a lot I've built up about Brendan's life that could use closure, to use that vile cliche. And it has to happen in a city coming apart, thanks to the hunger strikes.

Why is his father so difficult to understand? The man was violent, but Brendan's had indications none of that started till his birth...even as his Aunt's noted the arguments between his mother and father were ongoing before he was born. How is this reconciled?

And his father's semi-fame as a storyteller and singer. I have an idea of how to reveal that for whatever truth there is to it...but why didn't he share the stories with his children except when he was too drunk to do so?

There's the silence of his uncles concerning Bernadette and Aunt Mari, until the latter makes contact with them, again. And his brother, Eamonn, managing to keep himself strong while imprisoned in the H-Blocks, now in line to join the hunger strikers when another dies. Where did that strength come from, since he was not known for it?

The list goes on and on and I want to make it all understandable, relatable, if not fully explainable. It all has to lead to the ending to make it work...and, of course, I'm nervous about it. Nervous? Scared shitless, really. What I have now is only just over half the length of the first two volumes, and I want it ready by mid-October.

Am I setting myself up to screw it up? I don't know. I just know I need to push and write and then trim back to where there's nothing left to trim of what I've overwritten.

I'm feeling adultier, today, so actually worked. Dammit.

 Got full info on both packing jobs I'm prepping, and found I'd severely underestimated the weight in one. Fortunately, before I passed it on to the client. That would have been awkward. Um, hi, yeah, gonna cost you 50% more than I said. Sorry, but shit happens.

Then I spent lots of time...and lots and lots...on laying out the dust jacket for APoS-NWFO. This is close, but I think I'm going to adjust some of the type and try to figure some way to make the spine more visible. More readable.

The big black area is for a review I'm expecting to come in before the end of July...if it's good. God, what if it isn't. What if they say it's not as good as Derry? That it meanders or makes no sense or is self-indulgent? Crap. Maybe then I'll repeat the glowing reviews I got for Derry.

Because reality is, this story's set. Almost in stone. When I get the proofing back, the only changes I'm aiming to make are for typos and errors. No rewrites. I can get myself lost in that shit forever, and any good artist knows when to let go, no matter how much you want to keep trying to make it perfect.

Not that I'm a good artist...but still...

So it's time to start on volume three, Home Not Home. And I have a lot of ideas for that. Plus there are a numbers of things that happen in one and two that build up into three...and then end of the story.

I think this one's going to make people mad.

I don't wanna adult...

I got my drivers license renewed at the downtown DMV, very nice and easy if parking was a bit ridiculous. There's a massive garage across the street, half of which you can't park in. You have to go to the underground level. And several of the elevators up to the ground floor are out of service. Not lookin' good there, Buffalo.

But the process itself was easy. I proved my eyes still worked and paid the fee...and was done nice and quick. Which made me happy because I felt like crap. Still affected by that vaccination. I stopped at a pizza joint and had a slice and DP then came home and slept. For two hours.

When I do that, I'm extremely unmotivated once I wake up. But I still sent some emails for work and arranged for a review from Kirkus for APoS-NWFO, and started pulling together pricing for one of the jobs, even though I don't know exactly where it is. I have photos of the books on their shelves but that's it. Still, that lets me work out how much in the way of packing materials I'll need.

I've had it with the MAGAt crowd so I've started just blocking them. I just don't want to deal with it. I also had someone I used to know contact me, asking to catch up. I don't want to. She and her husband voted for that orange bastard in 2016 and I told them I can't be friends with people who support an organization that wants to hurt me. Haven't seen them since.

So I'm a bit perplexed as to why I'm being contacted. It seems rude to tell her, No, I don't want to call you. But the fact is, I don't. She doesn't have my phone number, anymore; I dropped that years ago. So I'm thinking about how best to handle it.

I like being left alone, and I've realized a lot of that's colored Brendan's world. A nephew of mine asked me what I meant by a safe place, and I said, Where people leave you alone to live your life. His response was, There is no such place. Which, as it turns out, is the theme of the books.

And he hasn't read any of them.