Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 47

The B-girls take over...

Brandi and Bernadette have been giving Bren the silent treatment because he won't let them come and go in his room as they please. But that didn't work with him, of course; he loves being left alone. So they're changing tactics...

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After two weeks of silence, the B-girls decided it was time I be made acceptable to them and their circle of friends, for my general appearance was not cool. So a makeover was started, and I went along with it.

Why? I have no idea. I'd never cared about that nonsense in Derry. But their incessant nattering kept my focus on them and not my past life, so I let the fanatical two lead the way, with one condition--that we keep the price low. My ready cash was not so very great. 

“We could just ask mommy for her charge card,” said one. 

“Like for Joske's. Maybe Penney's,” said the other. “No Sears. No Montgomery Wards.” 

“Not Frost Brothers or Neiman's, yet.” 

“We gotta establish your style before we go upscale.” 

“What's upscale?” I asked, truly perplexed. 

“Designer duds.” 

“No upscale, at all,” I'd snapped. 

“Well, we're not talking Yves St. Laurent,” said one. 

“Or Christian Dior,” said the other. 

“He doesn't have men's clothes.” 

“I saw one of his suits at Holleran's.” 

“That was Burberry. From England.” 

“You don't know what you're talking about.” 

And off they went, no longer discussing designer duds for me. Thank God. Instead, first was my new wardrobe. 

“Those pants are just plain ugly,” said one, after I'd about given up hope of ever telling them apart. 

“What's wrong with my trousers?” I'd growled. 

“They're for old men, not boys.” 

“And nothing but white t-shirts?” said the other. 

“With stains on them!” 

“And holes.” 

“From cigarette burns?!” 

“You have to get out and be around people.” 

“But we don't want you to be embarrassing to us,” 

 “So this is for your own good.” 

“No hip-huggers, either.” 

“I don't know; David Cassidy still wears them.” 

“Not like he used to. They're closer to his belly button.” 

“I still think he'd look good in them.” 

“But they are so last year.” 

“Gracie Venable wears hip-huggers.” 

“Yeah, and look at her.” 

“Oh. Yeah. No hip-huggers.” 

Levi 501 jeans, is what it wound up at; not Wrangler, thank you. Dingo boots. Sandals. Madras button-ups and undershirts with pockets. 

“No tie-dies.” 

“Very last year.” 

“Worse, very 1970.” 

“Now that's just mean. We were wearing tie-dyes last year.” 

“You were. Not me.” 

“Now you're being rude!” 

And off they would go into one of their arguments, and they'd forget about me. 

Of course, I could not forget completely about Derry and Belfast, because it seemed every night's news carried a new atrocity. Constables and soldiers grabbed and murdered. Protestant workers, with the same done to Catholics. Bombs dealing death and destruction to people out and about at the time. Politicians nattering on and on with nothing to show for all their talk. Bleating from Westminster about how best to settle the matter and the planning of a new government beholden to none and all, after the June elections. Stories with little depth or understanding of what was happening. 

The intrusion of the B-Girls and their demands grew more and more to be a sanctuary against the arbitrariness of what was happening.So every Saturday, they'd be knocking at my door, ten am--until I growled a reminder that I hadn't got home till near four and needed my sleep so I could do it all, again, that night. So they shifted to noon, with time enough for lunch before dragging me here or there, on the bus. 

Fortunately, the little beasts had accepted that everyone agreed second-hand shops were cool enough to shop in. 

“Sarah Wakeman told us about this great one on Bissonnet,” said Brandi, one Saturday, “so we need to go.” 

“I'm working tonight,” I said. 

“Plenty of time,” said the other, pulling out a bus schedule. 

It took a bloody hour to get there. Then they dug through several racks of shirts and coats before finding a real leather bomber jacket in a wonderfully shabby condition, with a name sewn in it. Oh, did they sigh over that. 

“I bet this is from the Second World War.” 

“We're learning about that in history.” 

“Bombers flying over the Channel to destroy Berlin.” 

“Kissing the girls they leave behind.” 

“Sister Joseph played A Guy Named Joe in our class.” 

“I saw that one. So romantic.” 

Even though it was twenty dollars, it was settled I had to have it. And wear it home. And sweat my arse off in that bloody, never-ending Houston heat to the point I needed another shower. But it was that or listen to their chattering, and I'd melt before I do that a moment longer than needed. 

They also took much pleasure at filling me in on what the newest sayings were. 

“Cool is okay.” said one. 

“But groovy is dead.” 

“Radical is a fun word.” 

“So is awesome.” 

“But do NOT ever, EVER say What's up, pussycat.” 

“That's so middle-aged.” 

Fortunately, they never concerned themselves with music for me. 

“Boys have to find their own songs.” 

“Usually pretty bad choices.” 

“Seriously! Ramblin' Man?” 

“Saturday Night's All Right For Fightin'?” 

“Money? Really stupid.” 

“All barks and growls.” 

“And howls.” 

So they studiously ignored my eight-tracks...so long as I didn't play any of them when they were over. 

By this point, my curls had returned, but they weren't going to let me cut them...until they saw how thick and wild they became in the heat. Then they dragged me to a salon on West Gray, within walking distance, and forced this amazingly patient woman to make it smooth and well-behaved. Which extended to instructing me on how best to care for it. 

“A hundred strokes in the morning,” said one. 

“And a hundred at night,” the other added. 

“I'll go bald, like that,” I growled. 

“That's what Mommy told us to do.” 

“Are you saying she's wrong?” 

Both said with a great deal of hostility, but the woman working on me said to them, “Oh, but your hair is silk--” 

Like Joanna's. Blowing in the breeze. 

“--while his is more like cotton, and needs a different way to be treated. You don't wash a cashmere sweater with your sheets, do you?” 

That, they had to agree on. So the woman gave me a spiky sort of brush and said, “This'll be easier on you.” 

“Looks like what you use on a dog,” I said. 

She'd just smiled and winked, and the B-girls had giggled. 

I managed to catch the woman to one side before we left and whisper, “You giving lessons on how to talk to those two?” 

She'd giggled, patted my cheek and said, “Don't worry, honey, you'll catch on to it.”

Respite...

Watched a lovely film on DVD and relaxed after a long couple of days at the office. Made enough to pay my taxes. Tomorrow, it's back onto NWFO.

What's fun about The Farmer's Daughter is how it shows cynicism, double-dealing and fascism have long been in the shadows of American politics. Two more good ones are Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and His Girl Friday.

These are my space-holders, today...

Tootie my horn...

I now have three excellent reviews for APoS-Derry . All posted on Amazon. This is the latest I've seen:

5.0 out of 5 stars Incredibly written and riveting!Reviewed in the United States on March 11, 2024
Verified Purchase
I loved this book! Sullivan has created incredible
characters. I felt like I was in Derry experiencing
all these incredibly sad historical events. I can’t wait
for the next book in this series!!

I didn't notice it until today. Makes me feel good. Praise for your work always does. I'm hoping to get more reviews, but for now these work their magic.

I'm through 8 chapters of NWFO in this rewrite, and sensing it'll need more work that I expected. I went through the explanation of how Brendan was brought over, again, and tightened it up, some more. Then the B-girls -- Brandi and Bernadette, who like to pretend they're twins even though they're 10 months apart -- popped in with more of thier back-and-forth arguments.

I'd like to think it's humorous...two blond pre-teen girls always arguing with each other in nonsensical ways. But then they commit a serious violation of Brendan's space and act like it's no big deal, which nearly sends him back into catatonia. I need to fiddle with that some more, then maybe tomorrow I'll post it to see how it works in this format.

Found out today that a biopsy off my right calf was pre-cancerous, but had been completely cut out. So I'm fine. I guess this is going to be my life, from now on. Skin cancers here and there, thanks to my Norwegian heritage.

Happy, happy, joy, joy...

So much fun...

I'm dealing with inconsistencies, now, that I actually ignored in earlier drafts. For example, I wanted to see where everything was going, so I wound up with a contradictory explanation of how Brendan wound up in Houston. Dropping one that kept him as a blood relative to Aunt Mari helped clarify the other and make it more believable.

He's now put forth as a cousin to an uncle's wife. A relative by marriage. The cousin had a son who died in infancy and no more children. Then the man died in a horrific accident and the wife wasted away, so that was used to build Brendan's new background.

I think I've mentioned this, before, but it's now clear and simple. This was before passports were really checked in detail, at customs. So long as it looked good and wasn't on any cautionary list, you were usually free and easy into the US. Now, you couldn't get away with it. The customs officers don't even stamp your passport, anymore; it's all electronic.

I miss that.

Anyway, I'll need to keep this in mind as I go through the rest of the story. And I'll use the attached UK passport as a template to work up Brendan's for the book's dust jacket. It's similar enough to Ireland's, and the one he actually ordered and received would have been exactly like this.

And I like the idea of John Lennon being helpful in my book.

Reformatted for proofing...

I've found if I reformat what I've written for a book, I notice mistakes more easily. So I've redone APoS-NWFO to go through it from beginning to end, and that's exactly what I'm finding -- typos and missing words and such. When this is done, I'm printing it out and doing the red pen. Then comes feedback and proofing.

I also test-formatted it into the basic size and style I'd use for the final hardcover book. Looks like this will be around 360-375 pages, including title pages and such, and over 145,000 words. I've gone through three chapters, so far, and cut about 400 words, so it's possible that might go down as I get into the more volatile parts I've written, but I know better than to plan for that. It's like my psyche takes over and decides, No, we need to explore this whole sub-plot in full detail as Brendan thinks and considers his life.

I also think I've found the basis for the dust jacket of the book. I really like the feel of this young man's pose and expression. I'm going to try and add some bits to make it look like a passport photo. Just need to see if I can smooth it over. I'm not all that versant in Ps and am finding it difficult to use. But we'll see how it goes.

I actually licensed the photo from Shutterstock, so I'm not worried about using it. I may seek out an actual Irish passport from 1972, if there is anything like that around. Then I could lay this photo into it. You never know, with today's web...

But at least I'm moving forward, again.

"A thrilling tour of an historically volatile conflict..."

I've been in the foulest mood for the last few days. Did no writing. Hated even the thought of doing anything creative. Furious about all kinds of shit. Which I had to keep tamped down while working in the office.

But then Friday I got notification from Kirkus Reviews that they were done with A Place of Safety-Derry. I was actually afraid to read it. Thought they'd see through my lack of background in Northern Ireland. Annihilate my syntax. Mock me for thinking I was a writer. I had to make myself sit down and pull it up...and this is what they said:

A young Catholic boy in Northern Ireland is drawn into the political tumult of the 1970s in Sullivan’s novel.

In 1956, Brendan Kinsella is born in Derry, Northern Ireland, a Catholic town imperiously controlled by a Protestant-dominated government. Just after his 10th birthday, his father, Eamonn, is savagely murdered by two Protestants, an event that transforms the volatile alcoholic into a political martyr. Brendan is unabashedly happy he’s dead—Eamonn’s drunken irresponsibility kept his family in squalid poverty. 

Brendan’s mother, Bernadette, thinks her son dimwitted, but he’s actually just a peculiar loner, disinterested in making friends or playing sports, with an uncanny knack for fixing things. As a young boy, he’s largely indifferent to the political acrimony between Catholics and Protestants—he knows he’s cheated by both, and that his priest, Father Demian, is a hypocrite and likely a pedophile.

However, as violence mounts in Derry and his mother, a nationalist zealot, encourages him to hate the other side, he becomes deeply embroiled in the bitter disputes of the time, a transformation deftly portrayed by the author. Brendan meets Joanna Martin, a Protestant from an affluent family, and quickly falls in love; his devotion to her undermines his blind partisanship, which is gradually replaced by a contempt for both sides. 

“What struck me most was the lunacy of those in control, on either side, who thought they could end this cycle of death by threatening even greater death, but that’s what they did.” 

The arc of Brendan’s maturity is depicted with great subtlety and restraint by Sullivan, who artfully and admirably avoids any sententious proselytizing or earnest sentimentality. In addition to the power of the novel’s emotional drama, the author also provides a historically rigorous look into what came to be known, with astonishing understatement, as “the Troubles.”

This is an engrossing and intelligent work.

---------

I was so shocked, I actually loved myself for a whole five minutes before thinking, "Shit, I'll never be able to keep this going in New World For Old." But at least I'm back to thinking I can finish this book.

Bothered

Something's bugging me about the last three chapters of NWFO, so I'm digging back into them, tomorrow. Just those three. Then I will print the full book out and go through it the old-fashioned way, after which I will input the corrections and start asking for feedback and proofing.

I haven't seen anything happen with APoS-Derry, thanks to the London Book Fair. No interest or queries or additional sales. Hell, any sales at all. When I get volume 2 done, I may need to look into refining my sales strategy. I can't afford a publicist or book promoter; I've already far exceeded my budget and my credit cards are too close to the max...much of which is due to prepping and publishing APoS-Derry.

Maybe I should start a go-fund-me page to build up money for either advertising or paying off my debts. That's the only way I'll get out of this fucking hole.

Aimless...and pissy...

Once again. Now that I'm done with a draft of a story it takes me a little while to return to the real world. I get grumpy and sad and don't know what to do with myself, and the last couple days have been emblematic of that.

And silly. I got into a ridiculous argument in a Facebook private group I belong to, over objectification of men. This is what I posted, with the heading:   Some guys are just as sexy dressed, as not.

Another member posted this, "Ah the comments, proving yet again that gay men are the exact same as straight men, they just objectify their own sex rather than the opposite."

I thought he was joking, so I replied, "I “resemble” that remark. (Was it Groucho Marx who first said that?)" Thought he'd find it funny, or cute.
He didn't.
He responded, "I mean, if a person is only attractive to you without clothes, you probably don't deserve to spend any time with that person, as you are probably a shallow git, who is only interested in people for whatever sexual pleasure they can give you."
Well...it went downhill from there. All over nothing. It really was ridiculous...and I'm ridiculous for being upset about it. But I am. Kind of stupid, too.
But I'm in a delicate mood. I got bummed when I went out to get some groceries and couldn't find any Dr Pepper Zero on special. Now I'm upset because I made a chocolate pie (from a non-fat pudding mix) with a graham cracker crust (pre-made by Keebler) and just had a slice...and didn't like it.
I'd like to say I'm not always like this, but I know better than to make that claim.

Time to regroup my brain...

I'm letting NWFO sit for a while before I go back into it. I may do a red pen correction, next time around. Meaning print out the text and make corrections. This is usually the best way to deal with everything in it. Typos. Inconsistencies. Mistakes in timing. It's easy to get lost in what part of the 70s Brendan is going through.

With me, the 70s were all San Antonio. I was working at Frost Brothers, an upscale department store on Houston Street, in visual merchandising. Dressing mannequins in Women's and Children's clothing and the front windows. I liked it. I was making a good wage. Had a car, insurance, apartment, and people I liked to hang out with.

I did some artwork, too, and sold a little. Helped with a few major functions, including fashion shows at the St. Anthony Hotel and the North Star Mall store. I also got to handle the gowns for the Fiesta Royal Court . (This link is to Maria Schell's commentary on a visit to the Witte Museum, when they had an exhibit of some of the gowns.)

“The royal robes were first worn in 1909 as part of San Antonio’s annual commemoration of the Battle of San Jacinto, the concluding battle in Texas’s 1836 revolution against Mexico. The celebration, now known as Fiesta, began in 1891 with a parade and rapidly grew into a citywide festival, currently featuring over 100 events.”

...It takes about three years to get the robes from idea to reality. There is one queen, one princess, and 24 duchesses. That’s 26 gowns at $42,500 a pop or approximately 1.105,000 million dollars. Now there are six dressmakers each with ten seamstresses for a total of 66 individuals working for maybe a year-and-a-half.

This was a huge deal in San Antonio, during Fiesta. There was an elegant ball at the Menger Hotel, by the Alamo, and for a local girl to become a member of the Court was great. To be crowned queen? The girl rode on that all year. The thing is, the applicants to the Court had to be well-off, because their families paid to have the gowns made.

Frost Brothers and Joske's had a deal. We both would display the amazing gowns in our main windows, for a week to ten days, and would alternate which of us got the Queen's gown, which was the most elaborate. A co-worker and I would pick the gowns up the morning after the Fiesta Flambeau Parade and set them up in the windows, where they'd stay for a week to ten days. The whole thing was like a highlight of San Antonio society.

One anecdote--when the Court and the ladies' gowns rode in the Battle of Flowers Parade , the floats would circle around by the Menger Hotel. A lot of the city's gay community would take up residence and watch the parade from the hotel's balconies, and as the floats wandered by they'd call to the ladies, "Show us your shoes!"

Which were always comfortable track shoes, not high heels. Poor girls had to be standing for hours in the hot sun wearing gowns that could weigh as much as a hundred pounds, so no way were they doing that in heels.

A Place of Safety-New World For Old draft 6 is done

It's 2am and I'm brain dead, but this draft is completed and ready for the next go-through.

653 double-spaced pages in 12pt Courier font, and 145,946 words, 34 chapters.

The last chapter still needs work due to me adding a visit by the Feds and a Brit to question Brendan, so I want to make sure that works well. But I'm never saying I'm cutting back anything, ever again. It's like my subconscious takes that as a challenge to add.

I'm ready to. This map is Houston in 1975. It's gone from abut 2million to being over 7million in populations, now. Insane. Small wonder the damn place is sinking below sea level.

Taking time off from the book, now.