Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 48

Near the end...

Brendan's just learned his mother has cancer, but no one in the family told him. It was in a letter his younger brother, Rhuari, sends to a friend of his, Eldon. They're pen-pals practicing Gaelic, and Rhuari mentions it. This tears Brendan up; adds to his sense of being cut off from his family in Derry.

He goes out riding on his motorcycle, tracks down the place where he was taken to be beaten for dating Vangie -- a churchyard with a playground -- and tears the area up with his bike then goes home and...

---

I strode up to my room, not caring about being quiet. Tore off my jacket. Tore my shirt at the pocket while doing so. I didn’t care. It was too much a part of this world and I wanted it gone, so I tore more away, and each shrick of the material brought me a hint more peace.

My trousers were JCPenney specials, and so fucking middle-class. All those fucking houses around that playground had been fucking middle-class. So these, too, were torn.

In moments, I was wearing nothing, not even my briefs. They were in heaps of rags on the floor, and I was weary beyond measure. I heard movement in the house so slammed the latch closed, then stood still in the middle of the room.No one came up the stairs to me. Nor did I hear a voice. Let them settle back. I had much to think about and wanted nothing to disturb me.

That the people who had probably attended that fucking church would stand by and let someone be tortured without even a call to stop it, that screamed too completely of the actions and attitudes in Derry. A lad being kneecapped by the IRA? Keep walking. Sunday services with the devil Paisley? This proves we are Christians as we slaughter Catholics. Let some bastards erase a young man from the world for daring to date out of his religion or race? Well after all, it’s just not allowed. Anywhere. So it had to be done. Nor would that attitude change.

It made me cold. So fucking cold. I was like ice. Quaking from the shivers. And that’s without the air conditioner going.I set the shower going, more by habit than anything, and looked at myself in the mirror.

I was healthy, now, to say the least. Clear skin. Some freckles had come along. Body more fit. My chin seemed stronger and the mustache—suddenly, it looked pathetic. Was this my one real act of rebellion? Fucking facial hair?

I found my scissors and ran water in the sink, ignoring the shower, then cut most of the mustache away. Ran a lather and shaved the rest. I looked so fucking weird once it was done. Had my upper lip always been so far from my nose?

Then I looked at my hair. Curls and—and more curls—and I cut at it. Along the sides, mainly. And over the top, but not as much. I was thinking of a MyDolls concert I’d been to at a club, with Everett, and some of the lads had what they called mohawks. So I cut my hair down to the point I could shave on both sides of a thick strip of it.

Which made me look comical.

But wasn’t everything about me ridiculous? I very nearly shaved off the rest of my hair to make it official, but no.No, that could be acceptable.This was the look I wanted. A stripe of curls down the middle of my skull.

I saw little scars in my scalp. Some from the bombing, I suppose; some from my lashing. Well-healed but visible. They looked right. It all felt right and made me joyous.

I showered and scrubbed my face and scalp and stepped into the room, stark naked and dripping water. Then I started up some Ramones followed by Patti Smith, flopped on the bed with my headphones, and let the music dance through me.

I thought of the Provos in the Maze, still on their blanket protest, demanding Special Category Status. Eamonn was amongst them. Might even be leading them, for all I knew. They wanted to wear their own clothes as political prisoners, not the bloody uniforms of the state. They’d been allowed that privilege until recently, then told they were now common criminals, not men fighting for their country’s rights and freedom. And once again, as if to prove how stupid everyone was, it was escalating, tit-for-tat.

Beat us and we’ll destroy everything we can in our cells.Take away what we haven’t destroyed? We’ll sit on the floor.Take our clothes? We’ll wear nothing.

I’d now heard that they weren’t even cleaning the fucking cells, anymore. Just letting everything rot with shite and piss. And the response was, fine, we’ll make art on the walls with our feces. God only knew what the next level would be, but it was sure to be met with just as much stupidity from the opposing side. Keep it up until both sides are too weary to continue.

That’s the only way compromise ever comes about, really; both sides grow equally tired. And finally understand that the world really does not fucking care about anything.

So now here I was, approaching the same fucking habit. Should I not bathe? Not clean my room? That would be silly. I was hardly a political prisoner; just a familial one. Like a king locked in his chambers by his royal Uncle. Better that than execute him, I suppose.

So who should I imagine myself to be? Prisoner of Zenda? The Count of Monte Cristo? The Man in the Iron Mask? Considering my actions with Jeremy, once, maybe I was just Oscar Wilde in Reading Gaol. Ha! The Oscar Wilde of the mechanic’s set. He never met a phrase he couldn’t turn, nor I a screw.

Christ, I was pathetic.

But to honest with myself, understanding that made me happier than I’d been in years.

Closing in...

Just 99 pages left to go through. A couple more typos found -- missing punctuation or a first word in a sentence not capitalized. Simple things. I'm still adjusting bits here and there, shifting around sentences in conversations to make for a better flow. I like to think it's coming across as real...like a record of actual people talking and reacting...but I'm way too close to the story to be able to tell.

I'm up to the point where Brendan is grabbed by some racist men, a blanket is thrown over him, and rope is bound around him to hold it in place. He's thrown in the trunk of a car but he manages to tear a hole in the blanket and see at least a little of what's happening as they drive him out to Deer Park. Then he's tied to a tree and brutalized for dating Vangie.

They come close to killing him, thanks to his heart issues, but can't take him to a hospital; he'd be found out as being illegal and all hell would tear loose, so he's taken home, to heal. This sets up a massive rift between him and his family...because he thinks his uncle had something to do with it.

I'm a bit nervous about this section. It's one that's tightly bound, historically, to the racism and hate of America in the first half of the last century, and I've tried to find a way around it. But the story...and Brendan...keep coming back to it. They want it, so in it stays.

I wrote a horror script about a minister conjuring up a demon to prove the existence of the devil, and thus prove God exists. Of course, there was the usual I need five souls sacrificed to make it work, the minister being the killer, and there's the college kids at an isolated cabin on a lake. But I also added one last demand -- that there be a sixth sacrifice of an innocent, killed by a number of people doing the right thing after being told the truth about the deaths and who had really committed the murders, for all the world to see.

I actually worked it out quite well. The minister saw to it one of the college kids is arrested for the murders, then as a crowd gathers in anger, he gives a sermon telling them the kid blamed him for the killings. He tells them the exact truth, but riles them up to where they become a violent mob and lynch the kid...as news cameras record it all.

No way in hell it'll ever get made. That scene kills any possibility. But I couldn't get the remainder of the story to work without it...and when the muse makes its mind up, you cannot change it.

More than halfway...

...And still making changes to streamline the read. And cut out some proselytizing by Brendan. I have to keep in mind that through this half of the book, he's no older than 18. Sometimes I let observations slip in that are perhaps too adult and aware for him. He's not a fool, even though his mother thinks he is, but he doesn't yet have the knowledge needed to make some of his comments.

That said, he is more mature than most 18 year-olds (as opposed to his cousin, Scott) because he's lived in what was, effectively, a war zone occupied by the British Army. He's experienced brutality and seen horrific deaths. And he's smart enough to know the occupiers will be allowed to do anything they want without legal repercussion.

Like with Bloody Sunday--he figured out something the Widgery Report didn't address. The paratroopers who stormed the anti-internment demonstration on January 30, 1972 came with live ammunition in their rifles. Their intent was to kill people, which they did. 14 men and boys. And the only reason Bren wasn't number 15 was sheer luck.

Seeing death like that and knowing how the killers will walk away, scot-free, colors your view of the world. That's when he started the process of getting the hell away. Which led to him nearly being killed in a bombing and hidden at his aunt's home in Houston under another name, as he recuperates.

Then in the summer of 1973, a new friend of his, Jeremy Landau, is off to work on a kibbutz for a year, and winds up in the IDF during the Yom Kippur war. When he finally returns home, the following summer, he's lost and caught in the horror of it, and he figures out Brendan is the only other person he knows who's seen death like that. The only one who'd understand, and who he can talk to.

They become more like brothers than the lads who share their blood.

Final read-through of APoS-NWFO

And I DO mean final -- even though I'm still finding typos and issues. For example, I have Brendan digging up a copy of Mario Puzo's The Godfather at two different times in the story. Dumb. And I've found a couple of moments that needed a bit of finessing to make them clearer and smoother. But overall, I'm a third of the way through and haven't decided I'm completely full of shit, yet.

I'm at the point where Scott drags Brendan to a gay bar and it turns out there's a drag show, that night. This is where he meets Everett, who helps him handle Scott after he's had too much to drink. AKA: Chapter 12.

I'm doing this read-through in its 6x9" format, Times New Roman font in 10", .3" gutter and different even and odd pages. Viewing it at 200% size. The header and footer haven't been set, yet, so that might change the pagination a little, but right now the number of pages of text is 316, and it's just below 142,000 words. I'm going to keep it as much like Derry as I can.

I'm still thinking about what to do for the cover. I kind of like the double passport image, and also kind of like the idea of his painted portrait, but neither of them grabs me like the initial one of the boy in a doorway I used for Derry. So still thinking about options.

I've emailed Martin Melaugh with information about the book, including a jpg of the full cover and links to the reviews at Kirkus and BookLife. And I've offered to send him a copy. This makes me very nervous, because he actually lived through these times while I'm really more of an interloper. I don't know how I'd handle it if he tells me the story's bullshit. I guess we'll see what happens.

God, I want to make another trip to the Cliffs of Moher. They've become a touchstone for my Irish writings.

Goddamned typos...

I read through The Prussian, volume 2 of Blood Angel, and found four typos. Irritating, but not bad, for me. I did this to remind myself of Léonidès' voice. His is different from Brendan's; his English and manner of talk more formal and precise while Brendan's is more lyrical and casual. Can't have one bleed into the other.

I'm still trying to figure out the lead-in to the story, and considering other changes to my initial outline. Not that it matters. Once I get into writing it, my hope is the characters will take over and lead me into the part where Léon wants to find his sister and trade Franz for Dmitriy (they can formally do that with a BA they've turned).

Dmitriy is a BA who Gabrielle thought could become her mate. But he was in the closet and only had sex with her to prove to himself he wasn't gay. Now that he's turned, he cannot deny who and what he is, and he and Léon really like each other. But Gabrielle's pissed off about it and refuses to release him to Léon. Hence the offer of trade, since Franz is decidedly heterosexual and filled with violence. Which Gabrielle likes. But that's in Volume 4.

Tomorrow, I'm doing a read-through of APoS-NWFO to get a sense of whether or not it's holding together. If I don't find fault in it...which is probably unlikely...I'm sending it out for proofing and editing. I know I keep saying that, but it's time to put a stop to my incessant rewriting. I'm at the stage of wondering if I should replace a but with an and, which is really kind of nuts.

I should also start figuring out what to do about the artwork for the dust jacket of the hardback. And when I should release Derry in paperback...so will need new artwork for that. And figure out a way to finance this all. It's not that expensive, anymore, but still I'm pretty much on the edge when it comes to my bank account.

And lack of interest in Derry. It's been exhibited in 2 book shows and no bump from either of them, while good reviews from Kirkus and BookLife aren't really bringing in readers.

But still...I carry on. I owe it to Brendan.

The usual excuses...

I spent much of today working up an outline for Blood Angel-Franz, which would be volume 3 of the series. Volume 2, The Prussian, takes place during the Franco/Prussian war of 1870-71, which culminated with the fall of Paris. That was like a smorgasbord of victims for vampires to feast upon, and Léonidès, my MC, and his vampire troupe are there to partake. 

He happens upon a wounded cuirussier (Franz), who's tending to his injured horse...and falls in love with his physical perfection. He also senses Franz has the Blood Angel gene in him so could be a mate for Léon, convincing himself the young man has a gentle nature.

But first, he must get the Oiym's okay to turn Franz into one of them, and they refuse. They can tell Franz would be a detriment to the vampire world, so Léon is forced to release him once he's well. One cannot go up against the Blood Angel Council. Except one of them, Luahl, decides he wants Franz, himself...not to keep, to kill.

He attacks the young man, thinking he will have fun raping him, first, only Franz manages to fight him off, severely wounding him, but not before he's been bitten. Now he's beginning to change. That's when all the brutality and evil in Franz is no longer held in check by societal good manners...and he begins to wreak a horrific trail of death across central Europe.

Since no vampire may kill another, Léon fights to find a way to gain control of Franz, even as word spreads from village to town to city that there are vampires on the loose, and they need to be found and destroyed.

That control finally comes through an alliance between Leon and Gabrielle, his sister...but not until Book 4, currently sub-titled 1871. Franz is straight and Léon knows Gabrielle loves to break men to her will so goes looking for her. This part is pretty much written, so I may bring it out not long after Volume 3.

Oh, and I've finally found my image of Gabrielle -- Assumpta Cerna, a Spanish actress in Pedro Almodòvar's Matador. She's a literal man-killer in that film, obsessed with a damaged matador who's a serial killer of women.

Mix in the amazing color palate and you've got peak Almodòvar.

Me and my distractions...

Got busy with my expenses and invoices, today, and also called my youngest brother to talk. Seems I'm invited to see a cousin of mine who's visiting San Antonio. My sister'll be there, maybe a nephew, and possible my younger brother, with whom I haven't spoken since burying our mother, and another cousin. And there is no way in hell I'm going.

Helps that it's in a few days and air fares are insane, so I can say, Don't expect me, without seeming rude. But the fact is, even if I'd had plenty of warning, I would not have gone. That side of the family cut me off in 1987 after I was outed to them. They thought I had AIDs; I'm HIV negative. Still, I get no information from them. Don't know which of my cousins is married and which not, how many kids they have, grandkids, their addresses, anything. 

On the two occasions where I was informed of my uncle's and a cousin's deaths, I was specifically asked not to come to the funerals. I wasn't even told my aunt died till after she was buried (she was my mother's sister and converted to Catholicism when she got married). And I only found out another cousin had died, by accident. I still don't know when, where, how, why, anything.

They do not want me in their lives, and I'm finally okay enough with that. I visited my aunt once, some years ago, wanting to have a quiet talk with her...but she brought everyone in as if it were a big reunion, so that didn't happen. I left as soon as it was polite enough to. I was beginning to feel as if I had to make myself acceptable to them...or apologize for being who I am...or something, and I ain't doing that, no more. I am who I am, and it took me too damned long to be able to say that.

I used a bit of this when writing Everett's history, in APoS-NWFO. He reveals being ostracized by his family to Brendan after he's been made feel welcome at Aunt Mari's home, but coaches it as a warning. After he's gone, Brendan realizes Aunt Mari invited him in so she could work him out. She's uncomfortable that he's gay and warns Bren he may try to manipulate him into being gay, too.

Brendan rejects her worries but finds he's lost a bit of respect for his aunt. And later, she is the one who betrays him in ways unforgivable. But even at this early stage he knows that's how all people are, down deep. In the right place at the right time for the right reasons, anyone will stab you in the back.

Anyone.

Home and catching up to myself...

I don't have a lot of honest reason to complain, because 2 of the jobs this last week were merely pickups and no packing involved. Well, no packing till they were back at the warehouse and had to go into containers. But still...by the end of it, I was exhausted. And then had to deal with Southwest being inconsistently consistent.

After everything going so smoothly on my flight down to Dallas, and then the ease with which I shifted my flight to San Francisco to one that worked better for me...my first flight home was delayed to the point I would miss my connection, in Denver. With no other flight available to follow it. I'd have been stuck there.

I reworked it to where I left from San Jose, instead...and found as pretty as that airport's terminals are on the outside, the gate I had to go to was straight out of 1960. Then, as usual, my flight in Denver landed at one end of a terminal (that long middle one) and I had to go all the way to the other end. Within 10 minutes.

I also lost my Early Bird check-in and wound up in C group for boarding, both flights. A bit of whining and over-emphasizing my elderly aches and pains got the gate person to let me on the flight to Denver as needing more time, which put me ahead of B Group, and I managed to snag an aisle seat on the second row. So soon as we landed, I was off like a shot.

Made it as they were boarding the flight to Buffalo. Did power-walking, including along the moving walkways. No time to grab anything to eat. When I finally arrived in Buffalo, it was too late to get anything. This is not a 24 hour city, not like LA. There, I could have stopped at Norm's, had a full breakfast of eggs, bacon, hash browns, biscuits, short stack of pancakes, at 1am, and been totally happy.

Another reason I miss LA.

BUT...I did get some proofing done on APoS-NWFO. Spell-checked and defended my grammar choices according to Word's specifications and feel pretty good about it. I am doing one more read-through to make certain a couple of sections really do work, but then I'm going to be an adult and let it go out into the real world for proofing, editing and feedback.

Any takers?

I miss California...

Going from the mess that is Dallas to the San Francisco bay area just reminded me of how much I miss my home state. I was born in San Diego and have always loved coming here, even when I was pissed off about aspects of it. Too damned expensive to live in. Gas prices are insane. Traffic is gnarly. But...

And this is a big BUT...

It's a state of dreams and moments of un-paralleled beauty you just can't find anywhere else.

Case in point, I flew into SFO at 6:45pm, last night, and got my minivan, then went to a Safeway close to the airport to get water, milk and edibles (including an amazing strawberry cheesecake that destroyed my blood sugar readings) and in the parking garage was an older man polishing a turquoise 1952 Chevrolet Belair coupe in perfect condition.

I'm not a fan of Chevys. I had a brutally traumatic experience in one and cannot divorce that from the car line. But this moment...under fluorescent lights that seemed to shine just right...it was so lovely I had to stop and ask if I could take a photo of him at work. He preferred I not, so I didn't. I just watched before going into the store. He was gone when I came out.

I miss those moments. I've never seen them, elsewhere. The closest I've come to this, with cars, was a parade of Minis in Brighton one Sunday, eight or nine years ago. A thousand of them, all years and models, passing by then lining up on the boardwalk, below.

If I could afford it, I'd move back, in a heartbeat.

Dallas is an afterthought...

Man, I do not like Dallas. It's an ugly city, where the streets make no sense, traffic is nonstop,  no matter where you drive you find broken roads and run down buildings, and it has the attitude of a third child who's got grievances about not being the primary kid. (Houston and San Antonio have larger populations.)

But...as a Metroplex, which includes Fort Worth and dozens of surrounding cities, it's the fourth largest in the country. It's almost like, See? Even though I'm number three, I'm number one. It depresses me.

Even Google Maps was taken aback by Dallas' ways. It was scrambling to tell me when to turn left or keep to the right, usually a moment after I needed to because even with me pulling my LA attitude I couldn't get in-between most drivers. Then it would yell at me and tell me the new route...5 times in 5 different ways.

I finished the packing job and went to drop the shipment off to be crated...but couldn't find the facility. No signage. I drove around for 5 minutes before finding a guy and asking him where the place was, and he directed me to an opening tween two warehouse buildings. Everyone was very nice and polite, but it's almost like they didn't want to be noticed or bothered or something, and I was interrupting their anonymity.

But everything is done, I made it back to my hotel, and I was so fucking exhausted I crashed. Slept. Made myself go out to a nearby Taco Cabana for an enchilada plate. 1.3 miles away only took 20 minutes to get to, and two wrong turns, thanks to rush hour traffic. Added to my depression.

At least I was smart enough not to dig into NWFO. When I'm in this kind of mood I just tear my work apart. I'm probably being too sensitive about it. Truth is, there are parts of what I've written that I'm really proud of. But that's immaterial to anyone who's in the creative arts. All it'd take is one comment to cut through the self-proclaimed joy and turn to hating your work.

Even Larry McMurtry apparently went through times where he did not like his writing.