Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 54

Busy, busy...

The weather is looking too rough for Sunday so I'm heading out, tomorrow, and stopping south of Albany. Keeping to the toll roads all the way. They tend to be better cared for in bad weather. This way I don't need to rush, and I'll have food and drinks with me, just in case, as well as a blanket. May take my shovel, as well.

So today was spent prepping for everything to be a day earlier. Plotting out the fact that the job doubled in size. Getting additional packing materials. Refilling meds and having blood drawn. Groceries. Washing. Packing. The full deal.

I'm going back to the beginning on APoS-NWFO to zero in on issues that have come to light. Finally. I was having trouble with it...but I think I know why and hope to sort through it on the drive. One deal is making the flashbacks more centered on what Brendan's going through, at the moment. and cutting out the flashbacks I was using to fill in parts of the story.

I'm halfway wondering if I should drop the bit where he's been brought over under a fake name...but I'm getting resistance on that from Brendan. He likes the dislocation and dissociation it gives his character. He says in Derry I'll be Brendan Kinsella till I die, and now he's not. And while he feels the freedom it brings to him...he also resents it and fights to keep himself who he always was.

That's also missing from the story.

A Place of Safety-book two

The opening for New World For Old...

Chapter heading -- Woken Dreams

A thick line of swirling black crossed my eyes.Slowly....Slowly....Slowly drifting into focus.Silent. Cutting through the middle of this horrible, horrible white, white evil that was smothering me. Surrounding me. Hot and vile. Wrapping me in a world from which I could not move.Slowly.Slowly.Slowly the dark line expanded.Details emerged.My focus sharpened.Finally revealed to be the wooden sill to a pair of narrow windows. Both open. Neatly positioned before me. Light screens across them. The black line was paint. Weather-beaten. Dried. Bleached by the sun. Curled into little shreds. Creviced lines in the wood, gray and deep and dark. What used to be the grain. Bits picked away by wet and wind, making the color inconsistent in tone. Some fresher-looking; the rest dirty.Maybe helped along by someone’s careless pulling at the splinters?Maybe it was me did that?The possibility nudged my brain then softly wandered away. Not that it mattered. The wood was so lovely in its weaving grooves and interlocked patterns and the care taken in placing each line exactly right next to its brother, I felt as if I were viewing the work of an artist at his peak.The flow of it poured into my soul. A flow emphasized by a steady line of ants scurrying back and forth along a half-straight section to swirl over what was left of...of...a half-eaten sandwich? What vaguely looked like some sort of meat salad on light bread? Part of a crust next to it, neatly bitten into.Had it been mine?Possibly. I noticed there was a taste in my mouth that was rather fishy. Salmon? Tuna? All I could say for certain was, it was not haddock.I watched those swarming creatures continue their quick dismantling of it, making it live and breathe as they worked. It was on a dish. With crisps. Greedy little buggers wanted those, as well, dancing over and under and around them, making them move a bit as if a living creature trying to escape their casual destruction. I half supposed were my hearing sharper I could hear the screams of the crips as they were torn apart and...Someone whispered a chuckle.Was that me?Must have been. No one else was about.The plate was set by the center post between those two windows, and in my hand was a short bottle of Coke. Sweaty and half gone. Barely chilled. In my other hand, half a crust from a portion of that sandwich and...The tea and cakes I shared with Joanna were so gentle and tart and real, and she loved them as much as me and...and...the whiteness surrounded us and...Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.Lightning tore into my heart and I coughed and coughed.Eyes closed.Eyes closed!Breathe.Deep.Long.Slow.Long...Slow...Long and slow.Until the coughing ends.The moment passes.My heart slows its screaming.Then I can open my eyes, again.Then I can see the window sill, again.See the black and gray is still there.See the ants still swirl and race back and forth.See the sandwich and crisps are now just a living breathing mass of the busy little beasts.I coughed.Drew in a deep breath.Felt so weary.Felt the need to keep still and let my heart continue to slow its sudden racing.Let myself think of now.Right now.And of nothing things.Like being seated on a chair. Old. Wooden. With arms. Dowels in the back that ran from the seat to a curved banner. I let the fingers of my right hand explore it. Smooth. Polished. Creaking when I moved but solid enough to be my anchor. I needed it. Needed something to brace myself against.The windows were narrow and tall, the lower panes raised halfway to let in a breeze. Looking outside and I almost felt as if I was floating above the ground until I saw...No, I noticed...No, realized...I was actually on the second floor of a house, looking down at a yard that was nothing like what you would find in Derry.And which could have used some tending.Half was covered in red bricks set into the earth, with grass forcing its way between them in ragged strands. A large rectangular swimming pool held the other half, more bricks and mortar encompassing it. Clumps of leaves and twigs had scattered about. At the far end was a large hutch built of similar bricks, with French doors under a narrow porch and a slanted roof made of tin.This was curious. I'd never seen a hutch like that in Derry, before. Brick, yes. Roof, yes. But not with doors that were so large and fragile. Was this some of the new construction up Creggan? Pennyburn, maybe? Strand Road?Except...There was nothing new about it. Thick strands of ivy twisted up its corners and across the top of that porch, and also enmeshed a wire fence that ran from its back corner before mingling with deep green vines of thick, drooping, leaves and fragrant yellow and white flowers. Those vines also wandered up one of two trees that flanked the little house. Trees that offered lovely deep cool shade. A bunched-up strip of colorful cloth was strung between one of them and a post of the porch. An old Schwinn bicycle, rusted, was propped up against the other...and...Tommy rode up on a Schwinn, Shane on his Huffy and Danny greeted them and they threw stones at the Paras off William Street and the bastards started shooting and...and...Cough.Deep breaths.Let my heart stop its racing.Let the quiet and dark and stillness of that corner whisper through me. Let it settle me and bring peace and easiness. Keep me away from thinking.From feeling...Feeling what? All I knew for certain was this terrifying numbness behind my heart. And that I had to lean against the frame of the window to hold myself up.Down below, that building was quiet, dark and still. Almost like a hideaway. Like the hutch Danny and I made over for Tur and Mairead, where you could live apart from the madness and never have to think ever again...ever...No, Brendan, no, don't allow the memories in.Don't think, don't think, just look.To let memories in would only jolt and shatter you into fear or grief in the space of a second before they withdrew to their corners. To wait for the next time it was called forth to wreak havoc and damage. Each time leaving you torn to bits and lost in weariness.Fight them.Fight them.

Stephen King video on writing...

 I can't handle life, right now, so here's this...

Something to take note of, not once does he address his drug use and drinking during the time of his main creativity. It's been said the best films and books of the early 70s came out of a coke-induced haze. Maybe I should snort a couple lines...

Down, down, down...

Got my stitches out. The scar starts at that little bump and goes straight down. Can barely see where they cut into me, half because I really need to shave. I've got a crap beard that is as patchy as a mange-ridden cat's pelt but harder to see.

Still it's healing good. The NP said all I need to do is put a little Vaseline on it to protect it, now. The face is from being on this earth a whole 71 years. Vaseline won't help that.

Blew off the enchiladas and had slices of pizza, afterwards. Don't know why; just...did. Then I got to the shop and turned over my car, and as I waited I dealt with some irritating aspects of the upcoming job. Like emails responding to my questions that still don't provide definitive answers to them. At least I got photos and what I think is a complete list. 71 titles.

Turns out my car is getting old and will need about $1200 in repairs. Brake linings, new tires, shock absorbers, thermostat housing. All of which are correct; I've had those tires for years, and the last time I had the brakes handled was...when I lived in San Antonio with my mother? Damn, not sure, but it has been a long, long time. The rest are original equipment, so finally wearing out after 26 years.

My little Civic's been a damn good car, and I've done my best to take care of it. I can't afford a new one, especially since this bullshit will kick me even deeper into debt. I guess my hopes of paying it down were silly. I currently owe more than I make in a year from SSI and Caladex.

I was getting it down until Covid hit and I went onto unemployment. I've tried to keep it from spiraling up, and did manage to pay my Visa off as well as all back taxes, but it's exploded again. Mainly because I was sending money to my brother to keep him off the street. He's about to get early SSI so that will remove that expense.

I'm not sorry I helped him, but I'll never get out of debt. I guess all I can hope to do is maintain till I die. I need to keep my credit good; it comes in handy when dealing with the needs of APoS and other books, in publishing.

And when going on jobs. Can't book a flight, rent a car or get a hotel room without a Visa or Mastercard; many places will not accept debit cards, anymore. Too many issues. Something of a trap.

Too bad my books don't make a lot of money...but I've never been able to write like Stephen King. I am what I am.

No breaks allowed...

It seems to be a law that the second I take a break from APoS in any way, something happens to extend it. I'm driving down to Tarrytown, NY to pack a collection of books that includes a Shakespeare 2nd folio and leafs from a Nuremberg Chronicle. Hopefully not framed, but I'm still trying to get a real answer or photos from the client. I'll be driving down in an SUV with packing materials on a 6 hour drive that, thanks to probable snow, will take more like 7-8 hours.

So there goes Sunday, Monday and Tuesday as well as much of Wednesday, to do followup. I'll now have have sufficient time to think about NWFO in many ways. But not write on it. Though, instead of making notes by hand, as I usually do while driving down that direction, I'll record them on my phone. So I'll need to transcribe them when I return.

I finished the edit of my friend's piece and sent it off to him to see what he thinks. I was pretty light with the notes and only fiddled with formatting and grammar...but knowing how sensitive paranoid authors can be...

Tomorrow the sutures come out of my cheek, and I'm taking my car in for servicing. BUT...with my laptop in hand I can work on APoS while waiting for it to get done. And supposedly it's only going to take 10-15 minutes for my bit at the doctor's. Gonna rain all day. I think I'll get an enchilada lunch plate from La Tolteca to eat while waiting. It's serviceable Mexican food, and their guac isn't bad...

Aside from family, good Mexican food is the only thing I really miss about Texas. Well...that and good BBQ. And by good I mean really messy, lovely and all over the place so that you need a dozen napkins to keep clean. This is from Taco Cabana. I ate there, twice, while in San Antonio.

Disgustingly good.

Break...

I took some time away from chapter four of APoS-NWFO to do some proofing and editing for a friend of mine, in London. He's thinking of posting some stories, or possibly publishing them, and I said I'd go over them for anything that's glaring in the way of errors or confusion.

The MC's name is John, and he's a 40-ish ex-Army man who did time in Afghanistan with Her Majesty's Forces. He's now in IT and doing well, but his history in that country is beginning to break him apart, personally. He becomes very OCD...and it's fascinating. That's all I'm going to reveal about it.

I'm keeping in mind, grammar is a bit different in British English as opposed to American, meaning I'm going to go delicately, here. There are some spots where sentences are strung together with nothing in the way of punctuation that I'm reworking. And a couple of times I've noted (in red type) where some more detail or explanation might be useful. But I don't want to interfere with his vision or telling of the story.

It's not very long, yet. About 23,000 words. But it intrigues me. I'm hoping he will expand it some more.

I'm not really comfortable with Brendan's emotional reaction to realizing he's cut off from Ireland. His dive into thinking he's free almost immediately after he asks himself how he can live with the thought that he might have been responsible for Joanna's death. It doesn't sit right, so this break is also giving me time to rethink it. Maybe move the I'm free thoughts to later, when he's reading his sister, Mairead's letters to Aunt Mari and seeing how carefully she's letting him know what's going on in his home town.

We'll see how it goes, tomorrow.

Some of APoS-NWFO Chapter Four

This bit happens as Brendan has drug some of his situation out of Aunt Mari, and is reeling at the understanding he no longer is who he is, that he was snuck out of the country under another name. Flashes of memories hit him from nowhere, verifying what his aunt is telling him...

----------

I had to grip the kitchen counter to steady myself. No words came to mind. nothing to say.

Aunt Mari continued with, "Try to understand, that is how it had to be, and how it needs to stay, not only for yer own sake but our family's. That's why ya are now--yer name is now Brennan McGabbhin, my third cousin. From a farm in Donegal. I learned of him through my brothers. Seamus and Michael. Seamus is in Toronto and has met my niece, Mairead. Seamus is in Sheffield and knew the McGabbhins and heard of the accident..."

Accident?

ACCIDENT!?

My brain spun into chaos. What she was telling me made absolutely no sense. Seventeen years on this earth and I was not who I claimed to be? And I had not seen what I saw and...and... 

Danny looked around at me, startled, his eyes wide and I turned and started to run for the shop but I slipped on the wet pavement and the world vanished in a cloud of white smoke and fire and silence and I was lying on the ground and that leg was in front of me and its blood covered me and I was screaming from the pain and horror and Danny was grabbing me and forcing me to my feet and holding me as Colm punched me and... 

I was staring at the ceiling, a cold rag to my head, my heart pounding like the devil. It took me a moment to realize I was stretched out on the kitchen floor. Aunt Mari was kneeling over me, a portable phone held to her ear by her shoulder as she tried to shove a pill in my mouth. 

“...When he just keeled over,” she was saying when I half-choked on her fingers and she noticed and shifted to, “Wait-wait-he’s comin’ ‘round. Bren? Listen, son, can ya hear me?” 

Hear her? It’s as if she were screaming at me, my head hurt so. But I nodded. 

"Here, take this. Take this. Under yer tongue." 

I accepted the pill as if I'd been trained to do it. 

“Can ya get up?” 

I’d rather have done anything else but, only something told me I had little choice. So I forced myself to rise, slowly, to where I could sit. The rag fell off and it was bloody. 

“Aw, shite, I hit me head?” whispered from me. 

“On the counter.” She turned to the phone. “We can make his appointment, if ya think we should.” She nodded. “We’ll head straight over so Carla can check him. See ya soon, doctor.” 

She hung up and turned back to me. “Can ya stand?” 

Again, I’d rather not, but now it was a case of damn me if I'd give into it. So I took hold of a chair and pulled myself up, Aunt Mari hovering over me in case I fell, again. 

“I’m a right mess, aren’t I?” I croaked, almost laughing. 

She wet another towel and pressed it to my head. “I should’ve held off tellin' ya all that. Put it in a way that wasn't so confusin'.”

“No, it's not you. I understand, now. I'm just not me.” 

“Don’t be sayin' that,” she said, her voice quick, soft and tender. "Ye...yer here as Brennan McGabbhin, yes, but this isn't forever. It's only to protect ya. For a while." 

Protect me? Protect me by making me a lie and... 

I sat in a chair, my shirt so clean and starched it cut into my skin, and hands held me in place till just before a photo was taken, when they released me and I wavered and the click-click-click of the camera laughed through the silence before I tumbled over and... 

And Aunt Mari was still talking. "It was the only way we could get ya away from all that--all that horror, by it not bein' you. It's true, some people were very unhappy about this, that I grant." 

Unhappy? 

"He belongs in a grave." 

"He didn't know anything about it." 

"He was there to warn 'em! Little traitor!"

"He's already half-dead. Finish it off." 

And Ma screaming, "You do anything to him and I will make your lives hell." 

Ma? Fighting to keep me alive? Why? You'd think she'd be happy I'd be gone, never to vex her, again. 

"I flew over to accompany ya here. Just a lad needin' medical care for his heart and mental health, and glad I could help, is all. Fortunate enough to have family in a city with the best in heart specialists. And physical and mental..." 

My head was reeling as I tried to look around and... 

I slipped on the wet pavement and the car vanished into whiteness and I flew back and hit the wall as dust and filth and bits and pieces of metal and engine rained down on me and I was in a dark room on a bed, sweeping, as the pillow came over my head and I could hear Ma's voice snarling, "This is what you want, isn't it?" 

I felt ill. Stomach slamming hard against my insides. Glad it had been hours since having that sandwich. Or had it been? 

Aunt Mari was telling me, "Then with Brendan havin' already left, there was nothin' to connect the family to that--to what happened."

Already left. My note. The rail ticket. I had gone...and the remains of me were now taken away. Like refuse.

The whole of Ireland spread out below and wind whipped through the golden silk Joanna called hair and her cheeks were as bright as rubies and she took my face in her hands and kissed me and surrounded me with the scent of spearmint and it felt like home. 

Home. No home.

I had to grip the counter to keep from falling, again, as I murmured, “I’m not to go back.” 

“Now, that’s not what I said, Bren.” 

I managed to chuckle. "Bren. Always called Bren, here. Now i see why." 

"It was just to keep it as simple as possible," she said as she removed ice from a tray. Then she wrapped it with a small rag and held it against my forehead. "But things'll work out and soon ya’ll be home. Once memories are settled and cleared." 

Memories settled? In Ireland? 

I must have laughed, for she smiled and said, "Much better. So till that happens, it’s best if we focus on makin' ya well and strong, again. Now give us your shirt and put on another. I’ll set this one to soaking, see if I can get the blood out.” 

As Mrs. Kieffer took Danny's bloody jumper and he pulled on my coat and... 

It probably would. Many a mother in Derry had experience with doing that for their sons and daughters. Especially of late.Even for Danny. 

Bloody fucking Danny. 

He'd brought the car. Driven it with explosives delicate enough to go off if bumped wrong. Parked it there. And I was sorry it hadn't gone while he was behind the wheel.Me China...and I was sorry he hadn't been killed.Oh, God, that hurt so deep. 

I made myself focus and slip out of the shirt, held the ice to my head and started for the stairs. I needed to be to myself. Needed to think. Needed to understand. 

But Aunt Mari followed me so I had to tell her, “I’m fine, now. Thanks. I’ll be down in a moment.” 

“Are ya sure?”I gave her half a smile. “If I’m not returned in ten minutes, then you can panic.” 

She swatted me arse and headed back to the kitchen. 

I went up the stairs. 

All the way up. 

Slow, like an elderly man.My world spinning as I mounted each step. A stark despair whispering around my heart. My head pounding as much from the fall as from the realization that my past was now a danger to me and my family, and those I'd considered my best mates had brought it about and nearly got me killed. 

And had killed Joanna. 

A part of my mind told me Danny was not stupid enough to drive with any explosive that unstable. There'd have been a safety switch or latch or something that he would set once the car was parked.Which made his actions even more deliberate. 

Which only made my hatred of him worse. 

And Colm being there to collect him. He knew. And they both knew what hurting Joanna would mean to me. Yet still went along with it. May even have volunteered, in order to cut me off from her. For there was no question in my mind that if her Da had been killed while she was seeing me off at the train depot, I'd no longer have been a part of her life. 

Which brought up the thought that it had happened because of me. Never mind her Da was UVF, and they were responsible for Catholics being killed. Never mind the growling, howling, screaming anger between both sides, now. Then. Always. 

Maybe she was dead because I'd loved her. 

How in God's name could I live with that?How?

My usual expansion...

I'm working on chapter four, blandly titled Awareness, where Brendan finally learns he is no longer Brendan. It's kind of a mess, but that works well at the moment because his mind is in chaos. And Aunt Mari's explanation is somewhat incomplete. She wasn't intending to tell him till after he got a clean bill of health from the cardiologist he's been seeing. But out it comes and he forgets to breathe so collapses.

When he comes to, he's feeling not only confusion and embarrassment, but anger at finally understanding that two of his best friends, both of whom knew he was involved with Joanna, deliberately parked a bomb-laden car in front of her father's shop. Which leads him to begin to feel guilt, thanks to him wondering if his relationship with her was the reason they focused attention on her father.

He knows, intellectually, that it was really because her father was in the UVF and rumored to be helping kill Catholics. But in his heart, he thinks if he hadn't been friends with her she'd have been spared. But what's worse? Once he realizes he's been cut off from not only Ireland but also his immediate family, he feels relieved. Happy. He'd been trying to escape Derry when the bomb went off, intending to leave it all behind. Now he's completely free.

And conflicted. He holds his two best friends responsible for Joanna's death, and he is confused as to why his mother kept him from being killed by pissed off members of PIRA, since he was sure she hated him and would have welcomed his death. On top of this, he's only been back to himself for a couple weeks so is still fragile, mentally and emotionally. And physically, really.

The rest of this story is going to be interesting to write.

Back to life, back to work...

I dove back into APoS-New World For Old and am pumping up Brendan's sense of loss, dislocation and confusion when he regains consciousness in his aunt's home in Houston. I'm through chapter three, so far.

He's ensconced up in an attic room and it's six months after the bombing. Step by step, he's returning to normal, back to smoking, regaining his need to repair things in order to feel in control, and finding his aunt's two daughters are holy terrors.

Bernadette and Brandi. Ten months apart, in birth, but seeming like twins. They argue with each other all the time, except when they're harassing Brendan, whom they call Bren. Everyone calls him Bren. He thinks nothing of it, but in the next chapter is when he finds out it doesn't stand for his actual name.

I'd been dancing around him being told everything, but that's nonsense. He needs to know who and what he is in America so he can maintain the pretense. He's now a third cousin to Aunt Mari who was in a horrific accident in Donegal that set off heart trouble. He's in Houston to be treated by a specialist, on a medical visa under the name Brennan McGabbhin. Also orphaned, thanks to the accident.

This was done as an agreement to keep Bren alive. Mairead, Aunt Mari and Ma forced a deal down the throats of PIRA, with Uncle Sean's reluctant help. But part of that deal is Bren must be kept away from Derry because the British are seeking him for questioning. They believe he knows who set the bomb that went off. It's that or he goes in a grave, and there are some in PIRA who would prefer that.

So he's given a new name, removed from Ireland, completely, and the word is Brendan Kinsella left Derry before the bomb went off. Which no one really believes, despite his note saying that was what he was doing and the train ticket he bought. He's exiled...and it thrills him.

APoS is up and soon to be running...

Ingram must not have anything happening, right now, because I've already gotten my e-proof and gone over it and authorized it for printing. I also ordered 3 copies to make sure it will come out all right. Date for publication of the hardback is still January 16th, but the e-book is available.

I went over it and found one error -- a missing period. I'm debating going through the trouble of replacing it over that, because it doesn't affect the meaning of the two sentences...

And by writing that last sentence I decided to redo the e-book, as well. Now they match, completely. It just puts me at the back of the line for final acceptance into a couple of providers. Not sure which--Apple Reader??--but that normally takes just a few days.

To center myself, again, I made potato soup, and it turned out pretty good. My one issue with it is this time I used cubed ham instead of the thin deli slices. That did not work so well. The taste is fine, but having lumps of ham to chew in the middle of the soup just isn't the right way to go.

I've also watched the last episode of Shetland-Series 8. Ashley Jensen seems to be taking over from Douglas Henshall as the DCI of the islands, which I wasn't so sure about. I'm used to seeing her in comedies like Ugly Betty and Agatha Raisin. She is on the lightweight side, but she gained ground as the story went along...through 6 episodes.

I made a note to myself that if the person I thought was the killer (by episode 2) did it, I'd be unhappy. And I was, dammit. Seems the British have lost the art of making a murder mystery a real mystery, like Agatha Christie and Ruth Rendell did, so they keep using the same outs, over and over. I've seen it in Midsomer Murders and Vera, as well. No one will ever think THIS person did it. And sometimes it's just plain stupid as well as irritating.

That said, it was a better series than the last two, which were padded to a ludicrous degree to make them series-length, and which became so predictable it lessened my respect for the characters.