Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 6

Despite my best efforts...

It seems I am going to write a first draft of The People v. Simon Harper. Today, I did another 1800+ words of Simon agreeing to a physical examination by a Dr. Aristian. Paley claims Simon exposed himself but noticed nothing unusual about his genitals. Simon points out he has a tattoo on his penis, thanks to Alain, and the man would have seen it if his claim was correct.

The doctor is going to see for himself and describe it for the record. Well...he's called doctor over and over, but not once does anyone mention that he just has a PhD in Jurisprudence; no medical background.

Walstead and Manville are scrambling with this case. They don't understand how dark Simon is, inside; all they see is an older man who looks gentle and easy to push around. Walstead was certain that if he pulled in another witness to counter Simon's evidence, that would make him roll over. Instead, it only pissed him off to the point he will not talk to the prosecution, again.

I'm letting myself write sections that grab me instead of trying to maintain any form of linear progress. And the story is changing shape, as I do. Initially, I was going to have Dr. Aristian brought down during the first half of the trial to do the examination, and Simon find out in the courtroom that he's not a physician, then toss a fit.

But it worked out so much more naturally to have them break for lunch and give the doctor not only time to get to the courthouse and be filled in on what's happening, but Simon time to research him and be unclear as to who the man is. Until he meets him just outside the courtroom and works it out.

He notes ReShawn has not shown up to witness what is happening and won't respond to texts, so he plows ahead to make the best of it he can. He winds up setting off a bomb with Aristian by suggesting his doctoral committee wouldn't like it if they knew how he was using his PhD to help the DA's office use tricks to convict people.

I don't know if any of this works on a legal basis, but the story doesn't care. And Simon is being helpful if still pulling a bit towards an area I don't want to go to. Guess we'll see how it turns out, because my outline is blown all to hell.

More of Simon's thoughts

Continuing from yesterday:

-----

After that, there was always something he needed from me or needed me to do, so I’d grown to where if I was sitting there I’d get up when I saw him coming. 
I’d been so well-trained, like a dog. 
Since he died, I’ve made certain to enjoy sitting and watching the rain. Almost like an act of defiance. Or a declaration that I needed no one but this to be whole and complete. 
Being alone is considered a failure in too many people’s minds. Like they can’t accept not wanting to be bothered by someone who’s invading your space. Like you can't be happy without a relationship to help you through life.It seems to me that in order to face the world they need a husband or wife or lover...or a man in the sky looking down on them with benevolence...for support, and they cannot understand how someone would not be of the same bent. They cannot accept the idea you’re strong enough to just live on your own, because it’s too frightening to them. 
I finally understood, after many years, that was something Alain was scared of. Being alone. Not having control of himself, in many ways, but also needing to believe he was strong enough to control another. Like me. And I’d bought into that for far too long. 
I hadn’t been strong when I left him. If I had been, I wouldn’t have needed to sneak away like I did. Or even become involved with him to the extend I did. I’d simply grown tired of the games he'd played to keep control of me and himself. He’d been right, years later, spitting at me that I got off on those games. I’d loved relinquishing control and letting him decide my life... 
Until I didn’t. 
And now here I was...God, forty-six years after breaking free. Thirty nine years after he died. And still sitting here, like when I was twenty, watching and listening to the rain the night before... 
Before what? Catastrophe? Reality? Facing the truth that actually you can not do this all alone? 
Yeah, that is reality. That’s why you still asked ReShawn to handle your appeal, just in case. 
And he’d sighed and accepted, saying, “You’re giving me money for nothing.” 
“I hope so.” 
“You’re not a positive-thinking person, are you?” 
“Just a realist.”
I’d almost added, Who learned to trust his gut in situations like this. But that might have led to more protestations and eventual rejection, by ReShawn. And despite my claims to preferring to be alone and facing the world on my own, having this bit of support gave me strength enough to face what might happen, tomorrow. 
Which led to another question. Did I trust ReShawn to back me up, even having given him a retainer? He was another attorney living in this town and having to deal with Walstead and Bush and the coziness between them and the police, and even him saying he'd be there didn't mean he would be.
I’d already gotten the impression from others that they’d have flat out refused. Even though I had the evidence or even thought their ethics required them to give me the best defense possible. Or if they had taken my case, they’d have done the minimum needed, just to keep the peace with those on the opposing side of justice. 
ReShawn had seemed a bit more willing to push back against them, because he’d defended other minorities who'd been abused by the local police. Taken one to the state supreme court and brought about a new trial, for a young man accused of stealing a backpack he’d bought from that store the week before. Which Bush had finally declined to retry. Not a big win, but something. 
The rain was still pouring. Like in Rashomon. Straight down like it was trying to wash existence away. The trees lining the road were bare shadows in it. The lights of the parking lot and along the walkway did their best to maintain illumination. The steady hiss of it hitting the pavement sounded almost musical, like the background to some new opera by Philip Glass. If all went as usual, in the morning there would be few clouds and a soft mist holding in the air, soon to vanish into the heat of the day. 
I was tempted to stay up all night, but that would have made me loose and uncertain in the morning. Easily distracted. And I needed everything I had to fight back and leave ReShawn enough to build an appeal around. 
If he would. 
I still wasn’t convinced of that.

Bouncing back to PvSH?

I let Simon change Doyle to Alain, then bring me more than 1500 words and lead me into the following:

-----

I had sorted my documents and images and notes upon the bed closest to the window. Not because there was any light, from it; storm clouds had rolled in and removed what little was left of the evening sun. It just seemed that looking at them...seeing them there...in order...I hoped they would soothe my worries. 

They didn’t. 

I’d shown them all to ReShawn (an attorney), and he had been very positive in his comments. 

“You should let Walstead know about the school being moved,” he’d said. “Before the trial begins.” 

“Why wouldn’t he already be aware of that?” I’d asked. 

“He may have forgotten, or not really made the connection, yet. It happen fairly recently. He’s sure to agree this is a waste of time and resources and withdraw the charges.” 

“What makes you think so?” 

“It’s just a misdemeanor, Simon. To go through a trial for something this minimal? I don’t think Bush would go for that.” 

“Bush?” 

“Oh, he’s the DA. Very pragmatic.” 

“But Walstead has a one-hundred percent conviction rate before Judge Falwell.” 

“Of cases he takes before him. He’s not averse to refusing to take a case all the way if he doesn’t think he’ll win it. Even in municipal court.” 

It made sense and I would like to have believed him, but something in my gut was telling me this was not a mere misdemeanor charge, anymore. It was more like a challenge of some kind. Like neither he nor that woman backing him up...Manville; Elissa Manville; get your names correct...they were unwilling to allow that a gay man might be innocent. The way they’d been so tense around me. Still and formal, in contrast to how ReShawn described them. 

“Both of ‘em’re pretty easy-going,” he’d said. “I’ve dealt with them in other cases. Bush makes it a point for his office not to try and force a conviction in anything trivial.” 

“Me being arrested is hardly...” 

“To them, something trivial. Misdemeanor, first offense? No enhancement meaning no jail time? Small fine? It costs more to try it than they’d get in return.” 

“That’s a business proposal.” 

“That’s today’s system of justice.” 

There seemed to be a great deal of truth to what he was saying, but he hadn’t seen how friendly Walstead and that fucking cop were. Or how Manville had gazed at the bastard. I had the distinct impression they were all great friends. 

It had caused me to go online, once I got to my hotel, and look deeper into the three of them. Walstead’s bio on the office’s site had him on the debate team in high school, cum laude in pre-law and finishing at Harvard. Paley’s was harder to pin down, but I’d finally learned he had been in high school at the same time as Walstead. Same year. And was a total jock. A big man on campus, I’m sure. Manville was listed as a paralegal and had been two years behind them. I got the impression she’d probably hit law school, soon. 

This only added to my certainty that the case would not only go through, but also be found against me. 

I shut everything down and looked back at the things on the bed...and noticed it had started raining. Hard. I grabbed my hotel key and stepped out on the walkway to watch. 

There was little breeze, so it poured straight down. Smothered the parking lot with water and splashing drops.I always found rain to be cleansing. The aroma of it. The gentle noise, no matter how loud it became. The near tenderness accompanying it. I could let myself be calm and think and my mind would settle. 

I leaned against the door frame and slowly slid to the floor, letting the splashing hints of water drift over to me the from the railing. All they did was dampen the lower part of my trousers. I was wearing socks, so removed them and pulled my pants legs up to let the tiny puffs wash against my toes and ankles, emphasizing the tenderness. 

Alain had thought me mad, the first time he saw me doing this. I was living in a duplex by Breckenridge Park, downstairs, and sitting cross-legged on the tile under the section that was covered. I’d had on shorts, a cut-off tee-shirt and flip-flops, and he’d scurried up from parking on the street. God...in that monstrous Matador he's thought was so cool.

“You goin’ out to dance in it, next?” he’d asked, shaking off the rain. 

I’d just shaken my head. The silence was too nice, at that moment. I didn’t even need to get up and let him in. The door was open, so he’d headed inside, dripping wet.

That was the only time he’d ever left me alone with it.

Maintenance issues...

Couldn't go anywhere because the LED light over my bathroom sink went out, and the only way it can be handled is by replacing it. Completely. They had to buy a new one. Take my medicine cabinet off in order to rewire it. Meaning I had to empty the damn thing. And it took a good hour and three trips down to the maintenance room for tools to get it done.

Then cam putting everything back in order. So I was here till after 2:30...and by that point I wasn't in the mood to go anywhere.

A repeat job popped up in Newport, so that took my attention. And I tried doing some promo work on my new FB page. I also began feeling like working on part 3 of Blood Angel, where Léonidès turns Franz into a vampire...and comes to regret it.

This part would link to what I've already written about him tracking down his sister, Gabrielle, in Korea and asking her to take Franz off his hands in exchange for Dmitriy, her gay BA companion. She agrees...then, of course, betrays him because it suits her.

But as I was pulling everything together, Simon whispered back into my thoughts. Not really apologetic but acknowledging he'd gone a bit crazy and understanding I want a more thoughtful piece. Not the chaos and hatefulness he was revealing, from his past. I mean, that can be there, but not in such a way that it takes over and becomes just about him and Doyle.

So now I'm not sure what to do. Simon wants to tell me a moment when he's in his hotel, the night before the trial, and it's raining hard. And he likes that. Loves the rain. Lets him think about what's going to happen...and reveals he expects to be found guilty, even though he can show reasonable doubt.

That afternoon, he'd contacted a lawyer about handling his appeal, if that happens. Outlined his defense strategy, which raises questions about Paley's credibility, and the lawyer was sure he'd get off. But he knows he won't. And he's thinking about his situation and his life and how he's come to this point.

So now I'm rethinking my plan to chuck The People v. Simon Harper...dammit...

Blueberries can be bland?

I went out to get milk, today, and brought back 2 bags worth of groceries, including frozen blueberry blintzes. A crepe wrapped around cream cheese and blueberry compote. Cooked up some in my toaster oven. And while they tasted okay...they were disappointing. Really more like bland. Not at all exciting.

I didn't go to Niagara Falls. I did a bit of promotion for the Smashwords ebook sale and updating of posts meant to promote it. Rescheduled a doctor's appointment because of another appointment that got rescheduled. Did some cleanup on my laptop. And nothing much else.

Except decide I'm not working on The People v. Simon Harper, anymore. The reason I had for starting it is gone, and I don't feel like going through the process of reclaiming it. I hate to abandon a story I've started, but this one is just plain nuked. 

I'll check into one of the other stories I have on tap -- Darian's Point, Dair's Window, even Blood Angel or Dirc and the Dyarvos Bones. They still have a hold on me, as do the characters, and are much closer to making sense than PvSH could even begin to be.

Of course, DDB hasn't sold anywhere near the number of copies I wanted in order to get me to return to the rest of it. And BA needs a section that will be quiet vicious in order to link it to the other parts of the story I've already written.

DP is going to be a tough one, because I want a lyrical, oral storytelling style for it...and that would take some serious work. DW is probably 60% written...maybe 2/3...I just need to work out the structure of it.

I guess I should read through what I've done and see which one's the most available to me, right now...

Music of my life?

Some silly little survey set up by someone I don't know determined the best music for each Zodiac sign, and mine wound up being perfect. Aram Khachaturian's Masquerade Waltz. I love this...especially since it's performed by the Arthur Rubinstein Music School in Bydgoszcz, Poland as a finals performance.

It's a lovely end to a day of cleaning, laundry, and ignoring the world and the wildebeests who've taken it over.

Of course, Simon's sulking, and I don't care. I'm not dealing with him, tomorrow, either. I may go to Niagara Falls and just watch the water flow, carrying away my nonsensical concerns about a story that has exploded into nothing, on me, and has no right to have fucked with me like it did.

I have other books to write.

Rejection...

Well...seems a young barber I liked doesn't want me as a client, anymore. He's one of those trim, good-looking, slightly hyper lads, in a Persian sort of way, and no question that I found him attractive, but the main reason I liked him was how well he cut my hair. It fell nicely and grew out like it's supposed to.

So yesterday I called to see if he was available. We set up an appointment and he said he's moved locations so will send me the address...but didn't. I texted him to let him know I hadn't received it...and no response. Now looking back, the last time I got my hair cut by him, I almost had to talk him into it. So I couldn't go to my appointment...and no call from him to find out why. Gotta find a new barber.

It's not the first time I've been flat out rejected, not counting the times I was trying to get someone into bed. In LA I lost out on an apartment because one of my potential roommates thought I was too old. I was thirty-eight.

And the moderator of a writing group refused to let me join because she thought I'd be a detriment to the others, with my ideas on writing. For example, talking to my characters and not relying on outlines to lay out every point in the story.

But since I don't beg, this new rejection freed me up to just do my thing, today, and ignore the chaos of the world for a moment. I have that luxury. And it paid off. My blood sugar reading was well-within normal and my BP was 118/70 when it's usually been 145-150/100-110.

I pretty much ignored Simon, today. Found out one of the libraries I sent a set of A Place of Safety to has ordered two more sets. Guess it fits with their catalogue. Probably helps that the books have a Library of Congress Control Number.

Tomorrow, I'm cleaning my apartment...and not doing it just to avoid writing. How very odd, about me.

Simon's Manifesto...

I spoke with Simon, today, and he proceeded to lead me straight into chaos. I've written a bunch of wicked poems over the years, and I was pulling them together to see if he wants to lay claim to any, to enhance his story...and his response was to bring me this manifesto.

I want to write a simple tale about a situation that spins out of control and gets someone killed. A serious story. With a gay man at its center, and as its intended victim. Whose art and writing are used as an excuse to hurt him. But now I'm not so sure what the ending will be.

Simon started telling me about the hate he has for a man who abused him and how he controls that hate with sketches of vicious sexual encounters...mainly rapes. Where he's the perpetrator and the victim. Nothing cute about them, and his poems explain what the story is behind them. And I don't know if I can handle this.

Seriously, it's freaked me out. The poems I wrote are off the wall and meant to let off some emotional steam. What he wants is a fucking dam releasing floodwaters. So I don't know what the story is, anymore. I'm beginning to wonder if I've tapped into some part of my own insanity...

Truth be told, I've never been the most stable of people. I keep a tight control over myself for fear of what I might do...and not to me. I joke with people that I write to keep from becoming what I have written...but it's not all that far from the truth. There have been occasions where my inner self has hinted at what lies dormant within me, and I know why it's there but I don't like dealing with it.

Simon's talk with Doyle as the man is dying, where he admits he's only caring for him because he wants to see the man suffer before he dies...and does...I can't believe that came out of me. I've never done anything like that. To anyone. I can't. But Simon is basically demanding I let go and run with more of it, for him.

To where? I have no idea. And neither does he.

And therein lies my schizophrenia...or is it called bi-polar, now...

Business day...

I have a new Facebook page to promote my books, developed by a sharp young woman named Emily Jackson, whom I've also taken on as promoter. I suck at that and she's already done so much better than I could have. Keeping my original page...and trying my best to cross-pollinate the two...

It's been a strange day. I woke up from a dream that was uncomfortable. Not scary or depressing, just off-putting. I was in an office of open desks working at my laptop while being quietly berated as a leech by a guy who looked like John Barrowman, in his Dr. Who days. Captain Jack Hawking? Harkness...who's pansexual and winds up with Russell Tovey thanks to the Doctor.

When I remember my dreams upon waking, I know they are really supposed to mean something or are warning me...but I'm not sure what or how, in this case. I've been a leech, in the past. Not meaning to, at the time, but looking back I can see how I was. Same for having been an asshole more times than I care to admit.

But in an office setting? Working at my laptop and using the WiFi? Which seemed to really bug him the most? No. I pay for my WiFi...a lot. But I use it a lot. So I can't figure this one out. Symbolic, in some way?

I did finish cleaning up one of the sketches for Simon...who wants to add some to the book, when it's published. I can't do the two I worked up for him...but that does focus me on what is needed...and how he's being rather demanding.

Does my dream have something to do with him????

Realignment...

Didn't go to sleep till 5am and slept off and on till after 11am. Not great...but I just plain wasn't sleepy. I did some diagrams for Caladex and sent them over at 3:40am. Sorted paperwork that had piled up. Ate a lot of bacon and OJ. I don't do that...

Then when I got up, Simon let me know he's changing his last name to Harper. Halloran was just to unwieldy for him. He wants simplicity and clarity. So...the title of the piece is now People v. Simon Harper.

Next we did a couple sketches for him. Both of them are three-character works. The first has a buff man standing with his hands bound behind him and attached to a couple of cables. His shirt is torn open but his pants are in place. A naked young man is half embracing him, his erect dick pressing against the man's left leg. Behind them is another naked man finishing up a shower in an open area, seeming to watch them.

The second has a young man in unbuttoned jeans holding what could be his shirt. He's outside a room where a nearly naked man is undoing his shoe, his foot propped up on a bed, his stance wide. Lyig on the bed, before him...practically under him...is another young man who's been bound and gagged and exposed. Dick and balls, both. A phone is set up at the foot of the bed, on a tripod, to record what's happening.

I'd share them once I scan them in and clean them up, but Blogger would get upset.

Simon wants to make a coloring book of images along these lines. Demented Dreams of Simon Harper's Troublesome Lads. Something like that...though that is definitely unwieldy. But rather like what I did with Demented Dreams: of guys in trouble.

I've got a website, now. Nothing super fancy, but better than anything I could have done.