Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 53

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. 

Updates

The job in Colorado is no longer for me. We're just having boxes of books collected, crated and shipped. Too bad; it was going to be up in the Rockies, deeper in than I've ever been.

A job in Los Gatos, CA is looking more real, as is. potential job in Sacramento. On the latter one, I'm wondering if it's a possible job we were approached about at the beginning of February but never got the information we needed to work up a price. Guess we'll find out.

I'm through chapter 31 of APoS-NWFO and took out a section that just felt gratuitous. Where Everett talks Brendan into letting him service him. I was being self indulgent and Everett was doing it to get something specific...and it was just wrong. But I now have Jeremy back from Hong Kong, so he, Brendan and Everett are back together as close buddies.

One more positive about changes made is they bring Everett and Brendan closer together as friends. Brendan sees his aunt's house as a prison, now, and being at Everett's place is like a respite from that. He's even given a room where he can continue fixing things to sell.

Going by the page count on the Word doc, I only have 45 more pages left, and three more chapters. They're going to be expanded, because some important things happen here and I don't want it rushed. That'll put me up over 145K but the book will be as long as it must be to tell the story.

I took a walk...

Just from my apartment to Walgreens and to get a haircut at Supercuts. 1.4 miles round trip. It's been a while since I've done that, but it was a nice cool day and I've found walking helps me think. It also makes my left knee ache. I hate getting old.

I'm feeling better about the direction APoS-New World For Old is taking. Brendan is willing to wait and see if Uncle Sean will do what he said he would, but he feels something like a prisoner. Like Rochester's Island wife in Jane Eyre. He's back in the attic bedroom, but has also made some friends, with whom he feels comfortable. So his life coasts for a while, aimless...until his mother is diagnosed with cancer.

That is something he has to be told about, and react to. As much animosity as there is between them, she is still the woman who raised him. So his confusion increases. He cannot contact her without revealing who he is, meaning he's reliant on his aunt and sister for information. It sends him crashing into a seriously rebellious punk mode, for a while, till he reconnects with his balance.

I spent part of the day dealing with two potential packing jobs in Baltimore and Sacramento. Can't do any estimation of costs till I get some more information from the people who contacted us, but both seem fairly straightforward.

It also seems like the China in Print Book Fair will be happening in December (6th-8th), but it's now called Firsts Hong Kong. I may be doing that, again, since I did both the move-in and move-out for several years before things went crazy, in 2017. It's being run by some new people so we'll see what happens.

This photo is from my last trip...2016. The book fair took place in the low building to the left of the ferris wheel, with the turquoise roof. I wouldn't mind seeing Hong Kong one more time. 

Confrontation part 2

This continues the scene from yesterday's post:

--------

"They weren't my friends!" He took a deep breath and let it out before continuing. "Just a couple guys at the bar. Saw you with that girl." 

"Evangelyne!" 

"Keep your goddamn voice down! They told me what was bein' planned." 

I advanced on him. "Who? Who was it? Bidwell one?" 

He didn't budge, except to bunch his right hand into a fist. "You ain't gettin' names, boy. All you're gettin' is what I'm tellin' you. They wanted to me to understand it was nothin' personal against me or my family." 

Ain't gonna hurt you much. 

Just put you in your place. 

Bidwell. Fucking Bidwell. Working with Lon. Bidwell saw me cripple Matty and did his gossipy bit. You see him, again, let me know. That kind of thing. 

"So I made a deal with 'em," Uncle Sean snarled. "Warned 'em 'bout your heart. Didn't want you left there to get found in the morning. Get it in all the goddamn papers." 

"You give over some of my pills?" 

"Just to be safe." 

"You fuckin' helped them!" 

"I kept 'em on a leash." 

"I still near died." 

"I know. They did go too far with their end of it, but there's nothin' I can do about that, now." He rose. "Sometimes you gotta make hard choices and hurt people in order to protect those you care for. So I'm sayin' up front, I'm not sorry 'bout any of this. It's half your own damn fault." 

I couldn't keep the sneer from my voice as I said, "Isn't that always how it is, with a coward?" 

He stood there, for a moment, tensed enough to hit me, again, and I made myself ready for it. Instead he sighed and said, "You're movin' back here." 

"Are you bloody mad? Why should I?" 

"We'll put you in the room upstairs. I want you here the next time those Fed bastards come snoopin' 'round. An' you'll tell 'em who you are. Brennan. McGabbhinn. I'll give you a bio to repeat." 

At that I snarled, yanked off my shirt and turned to show him the marks on my back. Even in the soft light you could see the scars. The words hissed from me. "And how about I show them this?" 

"You won't." 

I turned back to him. "You so sure?" 

He nodded. "'Cause you know as well as me, they won't care. It's somethin' for the local cops to handle." 

He remained a block of nothing in the kitchen light. 

I felt like I was floating."I don't understand," I said, soft and breathless. "What good does me staying here do?" 

"Told you. I want this shit over Brendan or Brennan settled. I want my business back to where it was 'fore you came. With the ABC off my neck and no more shit from Washington. I'm gonna have David Landau make you fully legal. Get you a green card and social security number. Till it's all done, you'll be workin' at The Colonel's. Paid normal, with taxes out. Path to citizenship. Whatever. Everything legal. Helps to have a Jew lawyer who knows people who can do favors for you. And it'll all get done under your new name." 

I snarled, "My name is Brendan Kinsella." 

He shook his head. "It's now believed he died in that explosion an' was buried, nice an' quiet. Couldn't have a Catholic body show up in a bombin' aimed at a Protestant group. Especially one with connections to the IRA. Brit's'd have a field day, in the papers. Great propaganda tool."So you are Brennan McGabbhinn, now. Born in Letterkenny. Relatives in Dublin took you in after an accident that killed your father. Decapitated him. Seein' it sent you off your head and exacerbated a heart condition. 'Cause of my charity work for Ireland, the Church asked if I'd sponsor you here. Get some specialized treatment for a sick boy who went a little crazy. 

"Your disappearance was part of this illness. Maybe. Something to that effect. And it was thanks to complications in your illness that you wound up over-stayin' your visa. It's a medical visa, so that's easier to get corrected. It'll mean some fines and court costs, but it's doable." 

My brain went into automatic. "Then you already have a passport for me--" 

"Expired. Gonna have to work you up a new one. It may mean goin' before a judge, makin' nice with the State Department, a few political donations. But I can get it settled. If you're here. Available for them to talk to whenever they want." 

"You're wanting too much. I-I-I won't do it. I'll leave this fucking city." 

His voice grew soft and like ice. "I seem to recall Brendan had a younger brother. Nice kid, I hear. Smart. Goin' to college in Belfast. Got married to a sweet girl. Mai loved tellin' us all about it. But just imagine--a Catholic boy in a Protestant town? Name linked to an IRA offshoot? These days?" 

I actually felt ice spread throughout me, and had to fight to keep my voice level. "You wouldn't." 

He said nothing. 

"But it--it's Rhuari. He's done nothing to you." 

Now he advanced on me, both fists ready and reminding me so much of Da I actually expected him to punch me--and I just knew if he did I'd lose any sense of control and tear into him and wind up dead, or worse. 

"Listen up, you little shit," he growled, his voice barely audible. "You been nothin' but a disruption since you came here. Bringin' that fag into my house. Attackin' a cop at my bar, over his slut of a wife. Chasin' 'round with a black girl for all my neighbors to see. I got the IRS auditin' me over money sent to NORAID. I spent more in lawyers in the last four years than my whole life. I want it stopped. Now. An' if that means me bein' a motherfuckin' asshole to do it, then I will be a motherfuckin' asshole. Family or no family. 

"But once I know for sure that it's all done, you can do what you want, go where you want, even move to fuckin' Canada. I know your sister'd like that. Fact is, so would I. So think about it. Brennan. Choice is yours. Make the right one."

Then he stepped back, gave himself a shake, and went upstairs.