Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 82

Writer gripes

Sometimes it's close to impossible for me to make myself sit down and just do the work on my stories that I know I need to do. Distractions pop up, like tweets about Ukraine and the latest GOP travesty (AKA: George Santos, who claimed to be Jewish but swears he only meant he's Jew-ish, or something dumb like that) and then I get going on tweeting and deciding to make a meatloaf...just crap stuff. So I'm lucky if I make it through a chapter a day.

Which I did, today. Chapter Three of APoS-New World For Old. That also went off on a tangent when Brendan discusses his two female cousins and how they harass him. They actually suggest he's not really part of the family because he looks more like Jeremy, their brother, Scott's Jewish best friend. I had to follow through to the end and found it actually added to Brendan's turmoil, at the time...so will probably keep it.

This brings the full story up to 110,000 words and that's before I get into the parts that need expanding. However, there will also be some cutting with the new direction the story is taking so it may not be too bad.

What's fun is, Brendan suddenly revealed he's never had a cheeseburger, which I hadn't realized. But Jeremy admits he doesn't keep kosher because he loves them too much, and promises to bring Bren one from Champs. He would just take Brendan there but Uncle Sean won't let him. First indication that the man is hiding something and doesn't want Brendan out and about.

Doesn't help that I've built up a near-headache and I seem to be diving deeper into a form of dyslexia. I keep reversing letters in words or flat out scramble-spelling them. Which may be old age or simple lack of focus. I haven't left my apartment since Friday, except to take out the trash. I'm fine with food and such, and don't really feel the need to go anywhere, but I am tired of cooking my own meals.

Baby Steps...

Small changes make for great ones. I think. Here's the opening of A Place of Safety-Book Two...which I do think I will subtitle New World For Old. If you want to compare it to the first version I posted, that was done on December 16th.

-------

Rebirth 

 A thick line of swirling black crossed my eyes. 

Slowly. 

Slowly. 

Slowly drifting into focus. 

Silently cutting straight through the middle of this horrible white...white...white evil that was smothering me. Hot and vile. Holding me in a world from which I could not move. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly the dark line expanded. Took shape to finally reveal it was the sill to a pair of narrow windows before me. Paint weather-beaten. Dried and bleached by the sun. Curled into little shreds. Creviced lines in the wood, gray and deep and dark, that used to be the grain. Bits had been shredded away by rain and wind. And the color was not consistent in tone, with some fresher-looking and the rest almost dirty. Maybe from 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 patterns. Each line exquisitely positioned to add to its gracefulness. 

The work of an artist at his peak. 

The exquisite care taken in placing each line exactly right next to its brother. 

The flow of it poured into my soul and brought tears to my eyes. A flow emphasized by a steady line of ants scurrying back and forth across a half-straight section to...to swirl over and dismantle what was left of...of...a half-eaten sandwich? It looked like it could be. Glimpses of it appeared under those swarming creatures and it was on a dish. With crisps. Greedy little buggers wanted those, as well. 

They were set by the center post between those two windows. Looked like some sort of meat salad on light bread. Part of a crust lay next to it, neatly bitten into. 

Had it been mine? 

Possibly. There was a taste in my mouth that was rather fishy. And in my hand was a short bottle of Coke. Sweaty and half gone. Barely chilled. If it was me who sipped it, I didn’t remember but... 

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... 

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God... 

Eyes closed. 

Eyes closed. 

Deep breath. 

Long and slow. 

Long. 

Slow. 

Long... 

Slow... 

Until the moment passed. 

Until I could open my eyes, again. 

Look at the window sill, again. 

See the black and gray was still there. 

See the ants swirling and racing back and forth. 

See the sandwich and crisps were now just a mass of the busy little beasts. 

I coughed. And drew in a deep breath. And let my heart slow its racing. Let myself think 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 and polished. And creaking when I moved. But solid enough to be my anchor. 

I needed it. Needed something to brace myself with. 

The windows were narrow and near tall, and half of both were raised to let in a breeze. I looked though it and I...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 sliding glass 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? Up the Strand Road? Except...there was nothing new about it. Thick strands of ivy twisted up its corners and along the top of that porch, also enmeshing 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. The fence surrounded the yard, and those flowery vines wandered cross the earth to wind up a pair of trees that flanked the little house. Trees offering such a 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 bicycle, rusted but repairable, was propped up against the other post...and it was all so quiet and dark and still, it felt almost like a hideaway. A place to make over like was done for Mairead and Tur and where you could live and not have to think ever again...ever... 

No, Brendan, no, don't think, don't think, just look. 

Look to the shed to your right, the other side one of the trees, standing unto itself. Large and well-kept and also under a tin roof. A second hutch? 

This was growing more and more curious. 

There were two large wide doors facing a well-tended gravel drive...so it must be a garage. Maybe. No, certainly, for an old Volvo was parked in front and... 

And that bloody para snarling "Ye know cars," over his shifting column while fingering his gun and snarling, "Where'd you come from and tell us why's your mate hurt there and did you really work on a car an' weren't tossin' stones an'...and...?" 

Deep breath. 

Long and slow. 

Long. 

Slow... 

I coughed...and almost chuckled. 

Tossing stones? 

Who didn't on this side of the Foyle and why were people always wanting to know that and pushing in on you and demanding of you and not happy with your answers no matter how true and taking from you...and taking and taking, without asking if you wanted to talk and not caring about your worries and hopes and dreams like those bloody ants that were taking the last of my meal without so much as a by-your-leave, just taking it, the bastard things, and... 

I used that coke bottle to crush half of them in the line. Spilled some of it on them. 

They scattered and scurried about, and I chuckled, deep and angry. Greedy little fucks. No care for anything but your own belly. I brushed more off the sill into the air. Sent the sandwich flying with them, still on its plate. Watched it float out of sight then heard it break as it hit the ground, far below, and I smiled, thinking, Take from that, you bastards, as... 

Ma dug at me, screaming, "What's this? What's this?" waving fifty pounds before me as Da grabbed my hand and near crushed it to make me hand over the five pound note I got for my birthday and it was mine and...and... 

I bolted up from the chair to catch my spinning mind and smacked my head against the ceiling. For a moment, I saw stars. Beautiful stars, gleaming and sparking...and wondered if I was flying...then dropped back in the chair and the stars slowly drifted away. 

Brendan, Brendan, Brendan, the window is in an alcove cut into a wall and...and it slants forty-five degrees from the floor and...no, not the floor; two feet up from the floor. A gable window in a roof, and the ceiling keeps that angle halfway up then cuts across to the other side of the room, nice and flat and...and... 

Oh, bugger.

I'm in an attic.

Small changes make for great ones. I think. Here's the op...

Small changes make for great ones. I think. Here's the opening of A Place of Safety-Book Two...which I do think I will subtitle New World For Old. If you want to compare it to the first version I posted, that was done on December 16th.

-------

Rebirth 

 A thick line of swirling black crossed my eyes. 

Slowly. 

Slowly. 

Slowly drifting into focus. 

Silently cutting straight through the middle of this horrible white...white...white evil that was smothering me. Hot and vile. Holding me in a world from which I could not move. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly the dark line expanded. Took shape to finally reveal it was the sill to a pair of narrow windows before me. Paint weather-beaten. Dried and bleached by the sun. Curled into little shreds. Creviced lines in the wood, gray and deep and dark, that used to be the grain. Bits had been shredded away by rain and wind. And the color was not consistent in tone, with some fresher-looking and the rest almost dirty. Maybe from 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 patterns. Each line exquisitely positioned to add to its gracefulness. 

The work of an artist at his peak. 

The exquisite care taken in placing each line exactly right next to its brother. 

The flow of it poured into my soul and brought tears to my eyes. A flow emphasized by a steady line of ants scurrying back and forth across a half-straight section to...to swirl over and dismantle what was left of...of...a half-eaten sandwich? It looked like it could be. Glimpses of it appeared under those swarming creatures and it was on a dish. With crisps. Greedy little buggers wanted those, as well. 

They were set by the center post between those two windows. Looked like some sort of meat salad on light bread. Part of a crust lay next to it, neatly bitten into. 

Had it been mine? 

Possibly. There was a taste in my mouth that was rather fishy. And in my hand was a short bottle of Coke. Sweaty and half gone. Barely chilled. If it was me who sipped it, I didn’t remember but... 

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... 

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God... 

Eyes closed. 

Eyes closed. 

Deep breath. 

Long and slow. 

Long. 

Slow. 

Long... 

Slow... 

Until the moment passed. 

Until I could open my eyes, again. 

Look at the window sill, again. 

See the black and gray was still there. 

See the ants swirling and racing back and forth. 

See the sandwich and crisps were now just a mass of the busy little beasts. 

I coughed. And drew in a deep breath. And let my heart slow its racing. Let myself think 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 and polished. And creaking when I moved. But solid enough to be my anchor. 

I needed it. Needed something to brace myself with. 

The windows were narrow and near tall, and half of both were raised to let in a breeze. I looked though it and I...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 sliding glass 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? Up the Strand Road? Except...there was nothing new about it. Thick strands of ivy twisted up its corners and along the top of that porch, also enmeshing 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. The fence surrounded the yard, and those flowery vines wandered cross the earth to wind up a pair of trees that flanked the little house. Trees offering such a 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 bicycle, rusted but repairable, was propped up against the other post...and it was all so quiet and dark and still, it felt almost like a hideaway. A place to make over like was done for Mairead and Tur and where you could live and not have to think ever again...ever... 

No, Brendan, no, don't think, don't think, just look. 

Look to the shed to your right, the other side one of the trees, standing unto itself. Large and well-kept and also under a tin roof. A second hutch? 

This was growing more and more curious. 

There were two large wide doors facing a well-tended gravel drive...so it must be a garage. Maybe. No, certainly, for an old Volvo was parked in front and... 

And that bloody para snarling "Ye know cars," over his shifting column while fingering his gun and snarling, "Where'd you come from and tell us why's your mate hurt there and did you really work on a car an' weren't tossin' stones an'...and...?" 

Deep breath. 

Long and slow. 

Long. 

Slow... 

I coughed...and almost chuckled. 

Tossing stones? 

Who didn't on this side of the Foyle and why were people always wanting to know that and pushing in on you and demanding of you and not happy with your answers no matter how true and taking from you...and taking and taking, without asking if you wanted to talk and not caring about your worries and hopes and dreams like those bloody ants that were taking the last of my meal without so much as a by-your-leave, just taking it, the bastard things, and... 

I used that coke bottle to crush half of them in the line. Spilled some of it on them. 

They scattered and scurried about, and I chuckled, deep and angry. Greedy little fucks. No care for anything but your own belly. I brushed more off the sill into the air. Sent the sandwich flying with them, still on its plate. Watched it float out of sight then heard it break as it hit the ground, far below, and I smiled, thinking, Take from that, you bastards, as... 

Ma dug at me, screaming, "What's this? What's this?" waving fifty pounds before me as Da grabbed my hand and near crushed it to make me hand over the five pound note I got for my birthday and it was mine and...and... 

I bolted up from the chair to catch my spinning mind and smacked my head against the ceiling. For a moment, I saw stars. Beautiful stars, gleaming and sparking...and wondered if I was flying...then dropped back in the chair and the stars slowly drifted away. 

Brendan, Brendan, Brendan, the window is in an alcove cut into a wall and...and it slants forty-five degrees from the floor and...no, not the floor; two feet up from the floor. A gable window in a roof, and the ceiling keeps that angle halfway up then cuts across to the other side of the room, nice and flat and...and... 

Oh, bugger.

I'm in an attic.

My favorite Christmas movie, bar none...

This discussion is absolutely right.
 

KISS...

AKA: Keep It Simple, Stupid. I got so lost in trying to find a workable way to get Brendan snuck into the US and to live with his Aunt Mari, in Houston, I lost sight of the simplest way. His sister and his aunt. When everything happens, they hear about it and put a hold on the rush to judgement. Aunt Mari is able to do that because Uncle Sean gives money to NORAID. Mairead gets Eamonn to work with the guys in PIRA to give Brendan time to physically heal. Then one day they simply take him away.
And keep him in the attic. Because he's still in a virtually catatonic state thanks to the trauma and the drugs he's being fed, and he doesn't come out of it for months. By which time, things have moved on from the bombing. Later, he thinks his rucksack with his passport were found at the bombing site, but that will turn out not to be the case. The only connection he has to the bombing is he was injured by it. People in PIRA know he was seeing Joanna, but her family, while suspecting she was being sneaky about a boyfriend, don't know.
So it was by removing all the dancing I had going on around getting Brendan to Houston and just kicking it back to minimal that helped me get past the meltdown. He still vanishes from Derry in a way that could lead people to thinking he was killed and buried, but it's only ever supposition. Not even Eamonn knows it all, because he cannot keep a secret.
I've gone back through the first chapter of Book Two and changed it to reflect that, and somehow it's become more emotionally complex. It's also given me a simple explanation for why he needs to remain underground -- he's overstayed his visa and is subject to arrest.
Jesus, Kyle, sometimes you can overcomplicate things to the point of absurdity. 
And now it'll be a very Merry Christmas...

Into the valley of death...

Ah, the joy of writer's block. You never know when it's going to hit you or why or anything until suddenly -- WHOOP! There it is. And I've got it. Over a logical issue with A Place of Safety that I can see no way around. Not right now.
Again, at the end of Book One, Brendan witnesses a horrific bombing gone wrong and is seriously injured by it. This inadvertently brings attention to one of his Chinas and wreaks havoc within the Provisional IRA. The easiest way to minimize the situation is to make him vanish...let him die of his wounds and bury him. No one need know what happened, and there's no trail for the British Army to follow.
Instead, I have them go through a huge rigamarole to set him up with a fake identity and have him brought to the US on a medical visa, because he's gone into an Akinetic Psychosis. And there is no reason they would do that. I cannot find any excuse. It's too dangerous to everyone, and too obvious a setup...unless I have him hidden in an attic like something out of Jane Eyre. But then, how do I get him into the country? Across the Texas border with Mexico? Yeah, right. And again -- why? It would be expensive and dangerous.
I've tried a number of possibilities and nothing works. None of it. Tying it into his father's mysterious past is even sillier. I tried to make it so Da was part of the IRA's 1956-62 anti-British campaign, but that was a flop and besides, it didn't even start till after Brendan was born. It would have to have been something in the late forties or early fifties...and nothing much was happening then.
I sat at my window with a note pad and watched the snow roaring down, and it was blowing hard, and tried to find a way back into the story, but got nothing. So I gave up, joined Netflix, watched a couple episodes of Derry Girls, season 3 and then Glass Onion to clear my head. Normally, I'd go for a drive and do nothing stuff to let my brain settle, but it's whiteout conditions thanks to the Arctic Bomb. All day...and still going.
God, I hate it when this happens. But i guess it's better than having it published and someone pointing that out.

Collapsed...

My head is a dumpster fire, today, thanks to Book Two of APoS, in Houston. All of a sudden I started wondering, Why would the IRA or anybody involved with it go through the trouble and expense and danger of transporting an injured boy from Derry to Houston? He had messed up an IRA operation, which caused some of their members to be arrested and imprisoned by the British. Not deliberately, but that wouldn't matter. His actions exacerbated a bad situation.

He got carted off by Danny and Colm so he wouldn't be arrested, sure, but then why would they go through a lot of trouble to get him set up in the US under an alias? By rights, he should have wound up in a shallow grave in the middle of a forest. It's not like his mother would make an issue about it. Same for Eamonn, who's been rather weak, so far. They could say he died from his injuries, and that would be the safest, easiest way to handle the situation. So suddenly the whole of the Houston section was shattered. 

Same for Book Three, when he returns. I have things happening because they need to, not because it makes any sense. Everything is fine up to the end of Book One; everything after it...I don't know. What's sickening is how long it took me to wonder this. I've reworked the last two books several times and it seemed okay...until now. Working up the outline jolted me into understanding the setup is fake.

I spent the day trying to figure out how to make it work, again...and may have a possibility, maybe, using Brendan's father's murder or his mysterious past. I don't know if that will make any better sense, and it will require some reworking of Book One, but I can't let this story fall apart. It's become too enmeshed in my DNA. Brendan is also nudging me to keep going with it.

I just need to know it's going to make logical sense...and I don't, right now.

I have nothing to say, after this man's speech....

 

Slava Ukraini

KDP is still being puritanical

KDP is pulling the usual boneheaded thing of repeatedly sending me the same message when I ask them why Carli's Kills was refused. We don't publish anything that violates our terms and conditions. I point out my book doesn't, and they ignore that. It's like I'm not dealing with people but an algorithm that is unable to adjust to the moment.
I'm not really going to fight on this. It's too fucking exhausting to do this over a book that isn't really selling and is still available in ebook. It was different when they pulled the same damn thing over HTRASG. That was doing very well when they banned it in both print and Kindle, and the 10 week lapse before they reinstated it killed the sales. Never recovered, not fully.
This time? I haven't even hit a hundred total sales, between paperback and ebook. So I'm being more of an asshole about them pulling this shit on me, and I will keep it up for a while. And let people know. That's about all I can do.
I'm also working on quoting another job, one that entails travel, so did no more writing or condensing, today. Tomorrow, I have to call the UK, but that should be it. I'd like to get back to working on APoS, but I don't feel a major sense of urgency, right now. I've been involved with trying to help Ukraine in their war against Russia's terrorist army, what little I can do. That's also kind of exhausting.
And there's Elon Musk's destruction of Twitter in a narcissistic stunt that is also destroying Tesla. I finally had enough and now I don't deal with trolls on that platform; I block them. I even blocked Musk, himself. I can't handle anymore of his shallow, self-serving tweets. My attitude has extended to tother platforms I'm on, as well -- Instagram, Tribel, Facebook, Tumblr. I'm too old to have to put up with the bullshit of children.
Hell, that's why I never had any.

Busy day...

Got to working on a shipping job from the UK to the US and guiding the people doing the packing on what to do to make it better...all of which they chose to ignore. But we're going to crate the boxes so I can live with it.

I did manage to get 60% of the information I needed to better prepare our people at Heathrow on what to do. I'm hoping to get the rest of it, tomorrow.

So no writing done...but here is what I wrote for the outline of chapters one and two of Book Two. 

------

Rebirth

Brendan slowly emerges from a stupor, focused mainly on a window sill, a line of ants scurrying across it, and the remains of a sandwich he realizes he was probably eating. He crushes the ants and throws the plate outside. Memories crash in on him and send him into a painful panic mode. He has a mantra to calm himself and has to use it, over and over. 

He describes the room he's in. He does not recognize where he is or understand why everything is so different from Derry. The back yard and pool. Garage and pool house. He manages to go into the bathroom and recalls being tended to by a couple of men. Looks in a mirror to find himself haggard and his beard patchy. Overwhelmed, he collapses. 

Aunt Mari finds him, takes him back to his bed and lets him know he was brought to her house in Houston. He has been there for five months, much of the time in an akinetic catatonic state. Hit with memories, he realizes Joanna is dead and passes out. 

Rejoining 

Brendan wakes late in the day. Luxuriates lying the bed and forgets where he is, for a moment, then hears voices and smells food and is very hungry. He makes himself get up and go to the bathroom to freshen up. Just brushing his teeth exhausts him, and the taste reminds him of Joanna kissing him at the circle fort. 

Wary, he tries to creep downstairs but his met by his uncle Sean and the family dog, Angus. Brendan realizes Uncle Sean is one who bathed and dressed him. Has a slow Texas way of speaking. He's taken to the living room to meet his cousins, Brandi and Bernadette, both around ten years of age and always arguing. He remembers them complaining about his crying, and recalls a son named Scott who helped Uncle Sean. 

Brendan learns he was brought to Houston in October, and it is now April, 1973. More memories jolt him until Scott returns with a friend, Jeremy, both with a hint of pot's aroma on them. Jeremy leaves and dinner is served. Then the girls try to mess with Brendan by claiming to be each other, so he snaps at them that he's mad as a march hare so be careful. They grow quiet. He's given a small amount of food on his plate due to not having been eating much, told he has a doctor's appointment in 10 days, accepts what has happened and says a prayer for those long dead.