Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 51

Broke but not broken...

Well, I've done as much as I can to get APoS-Derry out there, and I will see over the next two months if it's done any good. You never know until it happens, do you? I took the dive and bought a Kirkus Review, which won't be up till the end of March, or so. And they say they will be brutally honest, so if I don't want anyone to see it, I can keep it hidden.

Not sure what to think of that.

I've had brutally negative reviews of my books, before, and some were for silly reasons. The Lyons' Den got a single star from a couple of people and torn apart because one hated my misuse of grammar and another refused to read past a point where she claimed I didn't describe snow correctly. The Alice '65 was hurt by someone who said I used too many commas.

As for my gay erotica...ooooh, baby. I've been told more than once I should never be allowed to write, again. Anything. Especially something like How to Rape a Straight Guy...which has actually been banned in paperback.

I've also gotten good ones, and some excellent, so it balances out. I learned long ago you can't please everybody and there are some people out there who will trash your work just to make themselves feel better. On one occasion, I had a guy pick apart a script I'd written, line by line, to show me how it should have been done. Things like that are easy to handle.

And I do have an excellent review from BookLife. Which is also posted in Publishers Weekly. But I don't know how I'll react to Kirkus if they dump on Brendan's story. It makes me nervous, gotta admit. But I will not hide it if it's bad. No way. That's cowardly. Besides, well-know authors have been trashed by major reviewers, as well.

Maybe I'll wind up in august company.

Ch-ch-ch-changes coming...

I'm already getting ideas on how to better New World For Old. Make it move even revolve around Brendan in ways that add to his journey rather than just happen. For example, he goes punk for a little while in the late 70s but then starts in restoring that Peugeot and slowly regains a sense of himself, and equilibrium. Currently, I have him stop because it's grown boring, to him. This would work a lot better.

There are a couple of other moments to rework, like the reason he and Evangelyne break up in such a brutal fashion. And I'd forgotten to put in a moment where Mairead explains to Bren how he was spirited out of Ireland, and why. Right now, I think it's going to be because of his father, whom he's hated for years...but we'll see what comes up.

I was planning to deal with that in Book Three--Home Not Home--but now think it best to start the thought process rolling on it. There's always been some mystery about his father's past, and this may just deepen it, for him. Leading him to want to find out more in HNH.

I've bought into an ad for APoS-Derry. To be part of a Publishers Weekly deal for The London Book Fair, and made certain they have the correct cover and information for it. I'm reminded of how much money I sank into David Martin, some years ago, including to have the book illustrated by a children's book artist, and am still very much in the red. So I've gone as far as I can, financially.

And I have to keep some in reserve for when NWFO comes out, later in the year.

Done...

Draft 5 of A Place of Safety-New World For Old is complete. Now I only have 44 drafts left to do to make it good enough to start thinking about publishing.

There are sections I know are not really ready, yet, and I added a bit towards the end about Brendan using the partial restoration of an old Peugeot 404 Cabriolet in exchange for parts to fix his Montessa motorbike, so that needs some smoothing over, as well.

But that's how Brendan recenters himself--repairing things. He doesn't bring the car back to pristine condition; it's at a junk yard and the owner wants to sell it to a guy who deals in Peugeots, out in California. He just wants it in working order. And that's what Brendan does over the next year, year and a half. I need to check my timeframe to see how that works. Because it's during 1980 and he's about to be called home due to his mother's illness.

So right now, it's now at 143,131 words and 34 chapters. There are a couple of really long ones I'm thinking of breaking in half, but we'll see what happens on the next pass. Which I'm not diving into till later in the week. I'm helping with paperwork for the return of the book fair dealers from San Francisco and I'm doing taxes with my CPA Wednesday evening. Looking forward to that...not.

I realized I made an error in my acknowledgements on the HB of APoS-Derry. I inadvertently left out one of my editors/proofreaders. Debating on whether or not to update it. It won't cost anything, but I've sold several copies. I could always say those are rare and worth more...maybe.

Closer and closer...

Houston-1975
Okay, I have fewer than 100 pages to go through to finish this draft. It's up to over 142K in wordage and 635 double-spaced pages. I'd say on the next go around I'll cut some back, but I know myself too well to think I really will.

I just finished a rough confrontation between Brendan and his Uncle Sean, where the man is demanding he do something he does not want to do--stop being Brendan. I want it to be as blunt and vicious as possible, but I don't know if it's achieving that. No violence, though there is the threat of it, but Brendan now knows he cannot return to being himself.

The new story circulating through Derry is that he died in the bombing and his body was carried away because he's Catholic and the other victims were Protestant. If he was found to be a casualty in that area, it would lead the RUC and Army straight to his brother, Eamonn, and maybe to connections he has. So he was buried, in secret, and stories circulated to keep anyone from working it out.

But it also seems his mother, whom he though hated his guts, is the one who kept the IRA from actually finishing him off and his sister, Mai, helped arrange to get him out of the country into the US. He's more confused than ever and not sure what to do.

I just hope I'm not making this into a sort of spy thriller or mystery or something. Maybe once I'm done with this draft I'll be able to cut some of that nonsense back.

If it is nonsense. It may not be.

Slowly moving forward...

Brendan's pretty happy with the section where he meets Evangelyne and goes with her family to New Orleans (1975) for Mardi Gras. Which includes a confrontation with his uncle, upon his return:

---------

The moment I tossed my satchel onto the bed, Uncle Sean came slamming at the door."Where you been?" were the first words from his mouth. 

"New Orleans," I said, put off by his demanding manner. 

"All by yourself?" 

"No, I went with friends, if it's any of your business." 

"It's very much my business. Who're these friends?" 

"Uncle Sean, I don't understand why you're asking--" 

"You should've discussed this with me, first." 

"Why?" 

"We've been in a panic for days, tryin' to find you. Takin' time away from my business. Thought maybe you'd been grabbed and sent back to Ireland."He was angry. Not as bad as Da would have been, but close to the same level as Ma after I'd gone off to Claudy--and it put my back up, to use a phrase I'd heard.

"Why would that happen? You said I was fine in the country. Legal." 

"I never said legal. I said don't ask about it. Just like I haven't asked how you got a license to drive that goddamn bike, even though I got a pretty damn good idea. And if you had been grabbed, you'd have caused us all kinds of trouble." 

And there it was. "So I'm not legal, in any way?" 

He just got angrier. "What the hell do you think? I thought you were smart, Bren. Your visa expired over a year ago! Our lawyer said to leave it be. Do nothing. You're white so you won't be bothered so long as you keep your head down. But just runnin' off? Not a word to anybody? Us callin' all over town tryin' to find you? Callin' attention to you? If you'd been stopped, it wouldn't take some cop two seconds to figure out you ain't supposed to be here." 

Now I was pissed. "So where am I supposed to be?!" 

"You're supposed to be as invisible as possible. Runnin' around with black people's contrary to that." 

"Black people? What're you on about?!" 

He hesitated then snapped, "Jeremy called for you. Wanted to see if you were back from New Orleans, yet. He wouldn't say anything more, and I know Rene's from there, so I called the shop, yesterday mornin'. Should've called there, first thing, but I didn't want to get you in trouble. Instead, I find out you're gone to Mardi Gras with his kids and their families." 

"Well, if you knew that, already, then why'd you ask where I was!? Who I was with?" 

"Because a white boy with a bunch of black people--that screams for the cops to ask questions." 

"They're Cajun." 

"Their mother ain't. And truth is, there's only two colors of people in this town, Bren--white and the rest. You'd be smart to remember that." He turned to the door then stopped and snarled over his shoulder, "Don't ever do somethin' like this, again. If you do, I'll see to it you're sent back." 

"Do it!" I snapped. 

That made him turn to me, frowning. "What?" 

"Do it!" Now there was a snarl in my voice and not one thought in my head as I spoke. I was burning on some instinct that had come up since the bombing, though what it was I did not understand, just yet. But I continued with, "Turn me in. Send me back. Explain to your officials how you had me living under your roof for well over two years and yet had no knowledge I'm in the country illegally. Call them now. I won't have this hanging over my head." 

"Now you listen to me, you little shit--" 

"I didn't ask to come here! I was brought, with no say in the matter, and you treat me like I'm a prisoner." 

"We were helpin' you." 

"You were helping the IRA keep me hidden! It was that or a bullet to the brain, wasn't it? For botching their stupid bloody operation! Killing someone I loved! Don't threaten me with being sent back, because you know bloody well it'd be to my death and that would prove YOU NEVER GAVE A TINKER'S DAMN ABOUT ME, YOU OR ANY OF--!" 

He punched me. Sent me crashing to the floor. My ears rang something fierce. I could barely focus on the carpet. Not even Da's fists had brought that much pain to me. 

I sort of made out that Aunt Mari had joined us and was saying, "What're you two on about? You can be heard through half the city." 

"This selfish little shit doesn't give a damn about anybody but himself." 

I forced myself to sit up, my breath short and harsh. There was blood in my mouth. I let it drip over my lips and down my chin as I glared at him and growled, "Make the call." 

Both he and Aunt Mari looked at me, her confused, him not. 

"You have a phone," I continued, my voice low and cruel. "Turn me in. Send me back to Derry. Do it, or bloody well shut up about it!" 

Uncle Sean's fists bunched and he started at me, again, but Aunt Mari grabbed him and spun him around, then ushered him out. She came back to me, wet a towel, and started to clean the blood from my face but I pushed away from her. 

I felt betrayed. Brutalized. I'd begun to build up a life based on nothing. Just untold lies and half-truths and no sort of foundation to steady me. Like a house on sand, eh, lad. And now I was being treated like a slave. Like some fool worth nothing. A fucking ghost. I could think of nothing pleasant to say to her. 

Her voice was soft and hurt as she said, "Bren, he was worried for you." 

I wiped some blood from my lip. "I can tell." 

Her Irish caught up and her voice grew sharp. "Ya could have left us a note to let us know where ya were. It wasn't right for ya to just disappear, like that." 

"So his anger is my fault." 

"We have done everything we can to help ya and...and..." 

Still all my fault. Bloody fucking hell. "It may be best I leave." 

"No." That had startled her. "No, here yer safe." 

"So long as I keep to the shadows? Or remain a ghost? There but not really there!? Here but not really here!? Don't you dare to live, Brendan, it might cause trouble. What sort of life is that?" 

"It won't always be like this. I promise." 

"Never promise what you can't deliver, Aunt Mari."

Excuses...

 I tried to work out going to London to support APoS-Derry at the book fair, but it would be about $2500 and I'm just plain too broke. Too deep in debt. That sent me spiraling into self-flagellation over all the mistakes I've made in my life--wrong turns--to get to the point I can't afford a trip to another country to do...well, honestly, I don't know what I'd do while there. Except walk around like I belong.

If the London Book Fair is like others I've been to, publishers give out free copies and take orders; they don't sell the books. Not unless they've set up a signing, as well. Which isn't what this fair is about. When I worked at Sam Houston Books, in the Galleria, the manager and I flew to a big book fair in New Orleans and paid for the trip by grabbing as many free copies of books as we could. I was along to provide an extra bag to ferry them back to Houston, in.

I think my two suitcases weighed a good 120 lbs. That was the limit total for checking two bags. And I carried some onto the plane. Same for Greg, the manager. He worked it out, and we were ahead by $175 while making plenty of orders, too, for the Christmas rush.

I found an amazing cookbook that coming out and had to basically threaten him to order 25 of them. When they came in, he wasn't happy...but it was just before Thanksgiving. By the end of that weekend, they were all gone. He ordered 50, and we sold all but 3, by Christmas.

On another occasion, when Stephen King came out with a special limited edition of The Stand--signed by King and I think the illustrator, and priced at $800, if I remember right--we got a copy. Sold it the day it came in, but we couldn't order more. They were being doled out across the country. However, I learned the Rizzoli Book Shop the other end of the mall had one. We talked them into selling it to us with a courtesy discount of 20%, marked it up to $1000 and sold it in a week.

But that was all dealing with books put out by major publishers, and major writers. It's what I'd hoped I could work up for A Place of Safety's 3 volumes. Dreamed about. Build the interest and excitement. Lots of publicity. But not gonna happen. I don't have the ability or resources...or audience. 

Dunno why I'm rambling like this, except I'm down in the dumps. Melancholy. And craving a hostess Cinnamon Bun with cherry filling, which they don't make anymore. Which makes me even sadder.

APoS Publicity

Since APoS-Derry is going to be at the London Book Fair , next month, I've been trying to get the word out to people I know in the UK, in case they'd like to drop by to check it out. Thing is, all my friends there are connected to the antiquarian book trade and wouldn't be interested in offering a new book in their shops.

As for regular book shops, I already have a reputation with W H Smith over HTRASG so the only book of mine they're willing to carry is The Vanishing of Owen Taylor, in hardcover. Waterstones offers the book in their catalogue, for 26.99GBP, but that's still a special order.

I do like having control over how the book turned out, and price. And it's easily ordered through any book store that is linked into Ingram's Catalogue. But I'd like to broaden the book's reach. It's just, the only way to get it into book stores is to be willing to accept returns, and Ingram fucks the author over, on those. You wind up owing more than you'd make on the book. So I designate no returns on everything and give a 55% discount as an incentive.

I'm talking with BookLife about joining a banner ad in the London Book Fair edition of Publishers Weekly, which ain't cheap...and I'm already past my budget for advertising. Guess I'll see what happens, once they get back to me.

Got more done on NWFO. The book is now over 140,000 words...and I'm only just past the halfway mark in the rewrite. Brendan has his Montessa and is becoming close friends with Jeremy. He's also got a new job at an auto repair shop that deals in UK and European models. Now he's about to meet Evangelyne and get his life turned upside down.

Again.

Stepped back from the whirlpool of madness...

I moved on from the philosophical mess. I think Brendan needs time to figure himself out and I want to get through another draft of the book, so I worked past it through the point where he's met Everett, a commercial artist who helped him get a very drunk Scott home, one night.

Not long after that, Everett brought Bren an old typewriter to be fixed and asked if he could paint a portrait of him. He'd caught a look in Brendan's eyes, that night, and old man's wariness, and he wants to try and replicate it to see if he really does have the potential to be a fine artist. Brendan's doesn't care that the man's gay, but he hasn't noticed that Aunt Mari does and is wary of the man.

-----

I'd finished working on Everett's typewriter long ago, but he didn't come to fetch it till four days after I turned eighteen. And he brought the portrait he'd wanted to do of me. Aunt Mari let him set it up in the parlor. It was framed and had a cloth over the front of it. Scott was in Austin, but the rest of us gathered 'round and he unveiled it. 
And there was me. Head and shoulders. Face done right. Hair more wavy than I'd thought but also more honest. And in my eyes was a certain wariness that did make me seem older than I was.All done in oils.I was bloody gobsmacked, it was so fine. 
"Jesus, Everett," I murmured, "this is what you can do?" 
He was blushing from the compliments. "It took a lot more work than I expected. Had a couple of false starts, and if you look close you'll see I made some mistakes, but..." 
"It's beautiful, Everett," said Aunt Mari. "Don't cut yourself down, over it." 
He beamed. 
"Where you gonna put it, Bren?" Brandi asked. 
"Not in the pool house!" asked her sister. 
"But that's where he lives." 
"It won't get seen there, and it'll get dirty." 
I nodded. "Yeah, the way I'm working." 
"We could hang it in here," said Aunt Mari. "By the fireplace." 
She had me take down a nice enough painting of some flowers and hang it there, where it did look proper. 
"Will you do one of us?" Bernadette asked Everett. 
He took in a deep breath then said, "Do you have some photos you like? I could replicate those. See what happens when I'm commissioned to do a work." 
Aunt Mari pulled out the family album, then she and Everett spent the next hour going over it to find the right images to use, chatting like a couple of the old neighbor-ladies of Ma's-- 
By the front door, sharing a craic as they cleaned their stoops, hair tied up in a scarf, apron over their old shifts, feet in slippers, criticizing friends and approving of those they liked until they didn't like them and-and-and enough said about that. 
Before they were done I felt that she saw him as another son. Which pleased me.He was ordered to stay for dinner and marveled at me eating a drumstick with a knife and fork, which brought forth a slew of comments from the girls about how silly it was. Which was why I did it.
"But that's how kings and queens eat," was Everett's comment. 
"C'mon," said Brandi, "the Queen of England doesn't know how to eat chicken?" 
"Well," he responded, "can you picture her taking a drumstick with her hands and biting into it?" Then he chomped into a leg, like a dog, making the B-Girls giggle. "Or corn on the cob?" More chomping down and getting but half of it in his mouth. "Getting it aaaaaaalllll over her face?" 
"But eating like Bren does is hard," said Bernadette. 
"Not really." Then Everett proceeded to show he could eat it this way, as well. 
That got the B-Girls to trying it, themselves, silent as they focused on their actions. Everett gave them little pointers and by the end they were cutting and trimming the meat off a drumstick as well as he or I. Aunt Mari exchanged a twinkling glance with Uncle Sean, but nothing was said by either of them. 
Then as he was leaving, Everett cast me a tender smile and said, "You're lucky, pug." 
"I'd argue with you on that," was my response. 
"Don't. You got people here who love you." 
"Yeah, but--" 
"No, you don't get to put a but on that. Not when you have a family watchin' over you." 
I had no idea what to say to that. Just looked at him. 
He took in one of his deep long breaths and continued, "When I was sixteen, my older brother caught me kissin' the captain of the basketball team. It's bad enough it was a boy; what made it worse was, he was Mexican. Chicano. I was told to get out. So I got." 
"This the brother with twins?" 
He smiled and nodded. "That was twelve years ago. My folks still won't talk to me. He and I--we're-we're better, now, and I think I've done okay, considerin'." 
I nodded. "Aunt Mari said you're welcome any time, and so you are. I know the girls would love to make you their latest pet project." 
That made him chuckle, soft and low, and still with more than a hint of sadness. 
"Thanks."He cast me another tender look then headed down to his barge of a car. 
Aunt Mari appeared behind me, as he drove away, and said, "He's who helped you get Scott in, that night." 
I cast a glance back at her. 
"I saw ya comin' back, wee hours. My son paralytic as a fool. It's good his father was still at Liam's Trough." 
Again, all I did was look at her. 
She nodded and continued, "Ya good friends?" 
Her voice carried a meaning I didn't want to understand."He's been fine with me," I said. "And with Scott." 
"That's good. Just be careful." 
"I thought you liked him." 
"I do. But men like that--they'll become yer friend, then lead ya places you never meant to go." 
"Why do you think that of him?" 
"It's just how those men are, Bren." 
At that moment, I realized I'd misunderstood why Aunt Mari had invited Everett to dinner. She'd wanted to work him out better, and he'd known and that's what his last comments to me had been about. I felt almost betrayed on his behalf. 
Then I thought of Billie Corrie and him helping his uncle prepare to attack Eamonn, sending him to hospital well-damaged, and my China not caring a whit, nor a word from him since. I thought of Father Jack and his two faces, one Godly, the other political. I thought of Colm helping set up Paidrig for knee-capping over bloody cigarettes. I saw none of that-that-I don't know--casual willingness to hurt others, in any of them. Maybe I just don't see it in Everett. 
But to me it seemed his was the soul of an artist, not a conniving bastard, and his meaning was gentle, not selfish or cruel or controlling. What surprised me is how I'd just caught a glimpse of that nonsense in my aunt and knew, deep within I knew that if I defended him her worries would only increase and she might go so far as to ban him from the house as his own family had done. For the right reasons, to her, but still--it hurt me. 
I had no need to be that kind of shite, so I just sighed and said, "It's how all men are, Aunt Mari. And women. I learned that long ago." 
"Bren, all I meant was--" 
"I know what you meant." And my voice was more sharp than I intended. "Ma tells everyone I'm simple. Do you think that, as well?" 
She said nothing. Of course. All those months of my silence probably solidified it in her view. 
I nodded, closed the door and led her back to the portrait. "This looks good here. Let's leave it." 
Then I returned to the pool house, climbed onto the roof and stayed hidden in the shadows, smoking, letting myself accept the fact that my aunt saw me in much the same way as my mother had. Damaged. Foolish. Incomplete. Needing someone to watch over me. And to be kept close so as to control me, because worst of all? I could not be trusted. 
And finally I could see how right they both were.

Still struggling...

I did a lot of work on Brendan's thoughts about things happening for no rhyme or reason, and I feel like I'm still circling the full meaning. But what am I circling? An existentialistic idea of humanity and civilization? Does that fit? 

I took this definition from Wikipedia's post on Existentialism and I guess it could be right...maybe...

Existentialism is a form of philosophical inquiry that explores the issue of human existence. Existentialist philosophers explore questions related to the meaning, purpose, and value of human existence. Common concepts in existentialist thought include existential crisis, dread, and anxiety in the face of an absurd world and free will, as well as authenticity, courage, and virtue.

Existentialist philosophy encompasses a range of perspectives, but it shares certain underlying concepts. Among these, a central tenet of existentialism is that personal freedom, individual responsibility, and deliberate choice are essential to the pursuit of self-discovery and the determination of life's meaning.

The second paragraph tells me no...but I can't figure out what other form of thought it should be associated with? Absurdism? Hasn't that been dismissed as a philosophical theory? Suggesting the universe is irrational and meaningless...that trying to find meaning leads people into a conflict between rational man and an irrational universe, or between intention and outcome? Absurdism claims that the world as a whole is absurd...but that doesn't really fit, even though it sort of does.
And then there's nihilism: the belief that all values are baseless and nothing can be known or communicated. It 's like an extreme pessimism mixed with radical skepticism while condemning existence. A true nihilist believes in nothing, has loyalty to nothing, and holds no purpose other than a need or impulse to destroy. But that last line is not Brendan.
Problem is, I don't understand any of these philosophies well enough to honestly discuss them or work them into Brendan's life, because none of them are exact while they do fit a part of him.
I dunno. Maybe that's how it needs to stay. Bren's not a deep thinker. He feels. He's instinctive. He likes you or he doesn't. But if he's wounded, he's not above attacking...at least, since nearly being killed by that bomb. So maybe just let him go and let the reader decide what the hell it is he's talking about.

Are there reasons for things to happen?

I'm caught in a weird place with APoS-NWFO. Brendan doesn't accept that there are reasons for people's actions. Not simple and direct things like, I'm hungry; that's why I'm eating, or, If I want to live I have to have a job, or, I don't like what that politician supports, so I'm voting for their opponent.

He seems to be aiming for the idea that when things happen that careen out of control, it's because there's no specific reason for it. Not until after the fact, when people need an explanation. Demand an explanation. And get upset when none is forthcoming.

Like some mass shootings where the shooter's dead and people are trying to figure out why they did it...but can't. They keep trying for months and come up with all sorts of reasons. None of which may be right.

I don't know if this is really working properly, yet. It's taking a lot of writing and rewriting and thought and snaking down narrow trails in the woods to try and find it, and I'm still looking. Still following. Seeking a clearing or a stream to follow or something, because it's going to inform on the rest of the story.

I just don't want it to be silly.

Made one last trip to the airport seeking my lost keys. No luck. They have to be somewhere in that SUV but the only way I'l be able to make sure is to go to La Guardia, rent that specific vehicle and search it, myself. Not gonna happen.