Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 83

Forward, again...

I've gone through Book Two's Chapter 3, working it down into a brief description of what's going on, and it seems longish. It's 32 pages, double-spaced in Courier 12 point...so I may be getting picky. The first two chapters were short -- 15 and 17 pages -- and cutting Chapter 3 in half would correspond to that...but I dunno...

Screw it, I just did it. And wound up adding more to Brendan's emotional state. Made sense. I should listen closer to my instincts on this book. I'm being guided through its final stages by those who know the story and their character better than I ever could.

Right now, Book Two is 484 pages, 108,000 words. And while I tell myself I'm not going to do a new draft, I'm making changes as I go along to align it better with Book One...and it's going to wind up a third draft, anyway.

So here's the last of Chapter One, AKA: Rebirth.

-----

“Bren?” asked the kindest voice one could imagine. “Are ya all right, son?” 

I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think of words to say. 

A woman wandered into my room, looking about, short and round and hair black as coal, with eyes as kind as any you’d see. I'd not seen her since Da's wake but remembered her enough to know she was Ma's sister. But what’s this? Aunt Mari was in Houston. In America. 

What the bloody hell was this!? 

She saw me in the bathroom and came over, wiping her hands on a dishrag. “Are ya all right?” 

I made myself nod, afraid of her, for some reason, and tried to pull myself back to my feet. 

She came over to help me. “Come along, me boy; back to bed. You’ll need a bit more time to rebuild your strength.” 

I backed away from her. She seemed not to notice, just took me under the arm and guided me from the washroom. 

I finally managed to croak out, “Aunt Mari? What...what’s this?” 

“Don’t ya remember, Bren? Do ya recall anything?” I shook my head as... 

Ma slapped me, screaming, “What have you done? What have you done?” and Eamonn pulled her back and Father Jack joined them but I hit him and Danny was to one side to whispering and I’d never seen him so white and afraid and near weeping, but why was he in my home when he was in Armagh, and how was I here when I was in the Waterside waiting for Joanna and...and... 

I coughed. Over and over until finally...

“Where...where am I?” I asked as Aunt Mari put me back in the bed and pulled a sheet up to cover me. Then she turned to set a small circular fan to going. I hadn't even noticed the bloody thing. 

“Good. Two coherent questions in a row. There were some feared you’d never come out of it.” 

“...Aunt Mari...?” 

She gave me a look that could mean a thousand things, then she said, soft and easy, “You’re in my home. In Houston. They sent you here after...well...” 

After... 

White filled the air with smoke and debris and a single child’s leg flipped through the air twisting over and around like some form of ballet and Joanna fought to free herself as the flames danced, danced, danced closer and closer and filled the world and the sound of someone screaming in my voice crushed my ears and... 

I gasped. Gulped in air. Sharp hideous whimpers burst from me. Aunt Mari wrapped me in her arms. Held me close to her. Smoothed my hair. 

“Shh-shh-shh-shh-shh, me boy. You’re all right now. You’re safe here.” 

It took me some moments to stop breathing so fast and sharp, but her holding me did much to slow my pain so I could whisper, “I'm not in Derry. I'm gone from Derry. I'm here. Here. How long?” 

She hesitated. I pulled away from her, my eyes begging, so she murmured, “Just over five month.” 

Five months? 

Five bloody months gone to nothing? 

Five months since...since... Joanna was no longer. 

I had seen her die. I tried to fight off the horror growing within me, for a deep part of me acknowledged I could do nothing to change it. She’d be long buried by now. Food for those bloody fucking ants and other creatures that feasted on the dead, with no thought of them who’d dreamed with us and hoped with us and prayed with us and loved us and...and... 

Joanna kissed me by the door and smoke enveloped us and flames laughed around us and... 

That god damned hideously awful blinding white filled my world with silence.

Sidetracked...

This was an interesting day. I was working right along, doing my step outline for Book Two and suddenly I could not figure out where Brendan's room is in his aunt's house. So I went looking for the diagram I thought I'd worked up to show it, but couldn't find it. So went online to look at house layouts from 1970 and started trying to work it out, again...and got totally lost. Because it also matters where everything is on the main floor, when he finally comes downstairs.

After a couple hours of working up diagrams and hating them after thinking they were okay because they sort of worked and finding nothing online that could even begin to fit into the story, I began storyboarding it.

That helped me work my way back through and make up a new diagram that worked. Here it is...though I see I forgot to allow for the chimney on the right side. But I know it's there.

This picks up immediately after Brendan's annihilation of the ants --

--------

Then I heard...

"I'm telling you, he's not all there. The accident hurt him bad, and considering what he saw..." with eyes cold and hard under a policeman's cap glaring straight into mine as words growled, "I think he's just drugged up" in a Dublin accent that made no sense even as it did...it did...it did. 

I spun in the chair to catch up with my spinning mind. Then I chuckled and stopped it, for I didn't know if I was spinning in the right direction to do it. I wound up facing away from the window. Silence wrapped around me and the steadiness of it all was driving me mad. I looked about the room, seeking an anchor, my breath fast and hard. It was larger than Ma’s, with a massive bed and frame against the wall, diagonal to my left. Bigger than the bed I'd shared with Eamonn. 

Eamonn. 

His face almost as white as his eyes, shaking and fighting with Ma to pull her away from me, and me fighting over nothing for nothing could be done and I wept howled and screamed and cursed and...and... 

I wrapped my arms around me and jammed my eyes closed. 

Tight. 

Gasping. 

Gasp... 

Breathe in. 

Soft out. 

Slow. 

Steady. 

Over and over and over until I finally...finally could open my eyes, again, and slowly let more of the room become visible. 

The space was dark and light, both. Tables beside the bed held lamps and one had a digital clock that read 1:42. A unit of shelves to the other side of it was filled with books that looked like they'd never been read. To this side of the bed were a door and a comfortable chair next to a pair of sliding doors that I think opened to a closet. I turned back to the books and finally noticed a writing desk was jammed the other side of the window, across from the foot of the bed. 

No...windows. Two windows. Me seated by one; the other over the desk. Letting soft beams of light dance in with little flickers of dust to make it seem happy and carefree and late in the day. 

But it wasn't late; the clock said early afternoon. 

I looked at the walls. Paper with soft lines of golds and browns and oranges and greens covered them while plain tan paper swept across the ceiling. Picture-prints in black frames hung here and there, with areas around some of them faded, as if there had been larger items in their place. Most of them were of skies filled with clouds and... 

Clouds passed below me as I hummed and could not believe the beauty of it all, even as I sang "The Banks of Claudy" and walked in the night, Joanna beside me...but no. No, I'd not met her yet, and... 

I grimaced. 

Did not move. 

Did not breathe till my lungs were bursting for air. 

This room...it made no sense. It tore at my mind in little ways that I didn't understand. Over and over and...and... 

I ran my hands through my hair and rubbed the back of my neck. 

Just look. Don't think. Just look. Just look. 

I opened my eyes and took a view of the desk. On it was a typewriter under its own cover. A cup of pens beside it. A lamp behind it. A light layer of dust on them, showing they'd not been touched in a while. 

I turned back to the bed. Its covers were mussed. Slippers and a robe lay on the floor. That is when I noticed I was in pajamas. Bottoms only, and it was good they were. The air was warm and thick, not at all like early winter... 

But like milk fresh from a cow pouring into our tea, in Malcom's tender farmhouse, and Joanna sipping it so much like a lady as children laughed in the distance and a boy and girl chased each other from a shop, dancing about in full happiness until the boy fell against the car and... 

I bolted from the chair to pace, my breath harsh and sudden, my arms wrapped around me. Panic filed my entire body and I put my hands to my ears but the laughter haunted me. Mocked me as I walked the length of that room, back and forth... 

And back and forth... 

And back and forth and shaking and coughing until the sound faded and I could slow my pacing and let my arms curl down so my hands could cup my face. 

I noticed a smell that came from my skin. A scented soap so clean and fresh and... 

My shirt was removed by two men, one my age and one twice as old, and I was sat on the toilet to remove my boots and socks then guided to my feet for one set of hands to tug at my pants as the other held me up and... 

I turned to look at a door beside the closet. I knew it was the loo before I crossed to open it. 

Which I did. 

Slowly. 

Carefully. 

The door creaked, and I thought, Could use a touch of oil, then I looked inside. 

It was a room far too bright and long and narrow and happy to be real, with a massive tub and shower curtain to the left side. A pair of wash basins below a tall mirror were opposite. Two small windows in the wall flanking above the mirror let in light and there was a door at the far end that I knew...somehow I knew...would be locked. 

I slipped in and saw the toilet was behind a partition on the far right corner. Everything was in perfect condition, save for towels that hung haphazardly from neat little bars affixed to the wall by the sinks. I smelled one and it held the same lingering aroma of that soap and... 

The older man rubbed me down with one, wiping away warm trails of water and talking in a voice that made no sense, as the younger one brought in the pajamas and robe and my hair was toweled off then combed, as if he’d done it a hundred times before and... 

I drifted down to sit on the edge of the tub, not so much from confusion as from dizziness. I was still breathing quick and unsteady, and that bastard cough would pop in every now and then...but the panic and fear were less. 

I was not in Derry, anymore, I was sure of that. But I had no sense of the time. Was it the day after? Two days? A week? Was I in the Republic? Down to the south? Did it grow warmer, down there? No...no, the weather was warm to the point of hot and the stillness of it oppressed almost to where you couldn’t breathe. This could never be winter in Ireland. Nor even summer. Was I in the tropics? 

I made myself rise and lean against the sink to look in the mirror. Looking back was a hollow-eyed fellow with scruff as a beard. Well, scruff in the places it would grow. My hair was long to my shoulders and ratty with curls. My skin was grey and my bones showed on my sides. Like twenty years had passed. I began to shake and my knees gave out and I dropped to the floor and... 

I flew through clouds of the finest mist molded into perfect playthings, with the sky above them as blue as blue could be as seen through a small window with rounded corners that distorted everything but I didn’t care because the clouds were my prayers and wishes filled them to bursting and hopes danced in the shadows of their billowing tufts as they soared past like dreams and a hand touched me and I looked around and... 

Someone entered my room, without knocking.

Opening to Book Two of APoS...

This is pretty much settled as the beginning of A Place of Safety - Houston. I'm thinking of changing the subtitle to New World for Old...but could that be too cute or obscure? Still thinking on that.

Brendan was caught in a horrific bombing in Derry and injured not only physically but emotionally.

-----

Rebirth 

A thick line of swirling black crossed my eyes. 

Slowly. 

Slowly. 

Slowly drifting into focus. 

Silently cutting straight through the middle of the horrible white...white...white evil smothering me. Hot and vile and holding me in a place from which I could not move. 

Slowly. 

Slowly. 

Slowly the dark line expanded. Took shape to finally reveal it was an old windowsill before me. Paint weather-beaten, dried and bleached by the sun. Curled into little shreds. Creviced lines, gray and deep and dark, that used to be the grain on a sort of wood. 

I think. 

But what else could it be? I could see now...that bits had been shredded away by rain and wind. Maybe someone’s careless pulling at the splinters. The gray was not consistent in tone. Maybe it was me did that. The thought 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. And all this for a mere sill to a window. 

How perfect. 

The beauty of it brought tears to my eyes. The exquisite care taken in placing each line exactly right next to its brother. But what added the finest compliment was a steady line of ants scurrying back and forth across a half-straight section to swirl over and dismantle what was left of...of a half-eaten sandwich? 

Oh...and crisps on a dish. Greedy little buggers wanted those, as well. 

Both were set in the corner of the window, just to my right. Looked like some sort of fish salad on light bread. Not dried out or so very old. Part of a crust lay next to it. 

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 at The Diplomat were so smooth in the mixture of gentle and tart and real, and she loved it 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... 

I finally opened my eyes. 

Looked at the window sill. 

The black and gray was still there. The ants still swirled and raced back and forth. The sandwich and crisps were still a mass of busy little beasts. 

I coughed. And drew in a deep breath. And let my heart slow its racing.

I was seated on a chair. One that swiveled back and forth with a gentle creak.

My anchor. 

I needed it, for by looking outside the window, I was floating well above the ground and...and I saw...no, I just noticed...no, realized...I was actually on the first 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, with grass forcing its way between them in ragged strands. Clumps of leaves and twigs were scattered about. A large rectangular swimming pool held the other half, more bricks and mortar encompassing it. At the far end was a small house built of similar bricks, with its windows trimmed in black and a slanted roof made of tin. 

How curious...I'd not seen a building like that in Derry, before. Brick, yes. Roof, yes. But the windows were of a modern type that seemed wrong for my part of the world. 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 to a covered porch. A wire fence laced with deep green vines of thick, drooping, leaves and fragrant yellow and white flowers extended from it to surround the yard and wander 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 that porch. An old bicycle, rusted but repairable, was propped up against the other post. It was all dark and still and felt almost like a little hideaway. 

A large, ragged clap-board shed was to my right, before one of the trees, standing unto itself. Also under a tin roof...and much in need of painting. This was growing more and more curious. No, confusing.

No...no...frightening... 

Two large wide doors faced a well-tended gravel drive that led up to the shed. No...it must be garage...maybe...for an old Volvo was parked to one side and... 

And that bloody para with the shifting column fingering his gun and snarling, "Where'd you come from and tell us why's your mate hurt there and did you really come from workin' a car an' not from tossin' stones an'...and...?" 

Deep breath. 

Long and slow. 

Long. 

Slow... 

And 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, like those bloody ants were taking the last of my meal without so much as a by-your-leave, the bastard things, and... 

I used that coke bottle to crush half of them in the line. Spilling some over the greedy little fucks. No care for anything but their own belly. They scattered and scurried about, and I chuckled, deep and angry, and brushed more off the sill into the air. Sent the sandwich flying with them, still on its plate. I heard it break as it hit the ground, far below, and I smiled, thinking, Take from that, you bastards...

APoS - Book 2 - Houston

I've started building the outline for Houston from the second draft, while going through it and updating bits in it that reference back to Book One. For example, in Book Two Brendan has a memory of taking Joanna to Wee Johnny's for a lemonade but he never does that in Book One. There'd be too much chance someone he knows would see them there and word get around that he's dating a Protestant girl.

Of course, word does get around, eventually, but he's covered by no one knowing for sure what religion she is until Danny mentions some IRA guys recognized her mother as being the wife of a Protestant paramilitary group leader. Then Colm tells him to end it or else, convincing Brendan he has to leave Derry to protect Joanna.

I've gone through the first two chapters. I'm not rushing this, but I'm also not doing a real rewrite of the story. Just making sure I have the info right. Plus, those two chapters are more about him coming out of a psychotic break and back into the world than any sort of story really happening. He's still going to be dealing with PTSD, which wasn't called that, back then. It was just battle fatigue and applied only to soldiers in a war, like Viet Nam.

Houston was really starting to explode in the early 70s. The city's size is already overwhelming, as is its wealth. The city was working up a master plan for the downtown area that included developers and corporations and politicians all on the same side. Which actually worked; a lot of the skyscrapers downtown actually fit together nicely, unlike Dallas' downtown. His uncle is a successful owner of a couple bars and about to buy another one. His aunt's family is in River Oaks, the rich area. But Houston is still very small town in attitude, as is revealed as the story goes along.

Something this outline will help me do is work out where to add sections I want in the story. Like when Brendan and a couple friends go to Austin to hear a punk rock band from San Antonio play at a bar called Raul's. It's needed because it factors into a moment in Book Three, when Brendan returns to Derry.

Trying to think ahead as well as behind.

What a fun day...not...

Seems I got too pleased with myself so the fates slapped me down. KDP sent me a notice that they would not accept CK for distribution. It violated their terms and conditions. No further information. Bastards.
So I've done my usual thing of asking why and pointing out to them that they accepted it last week and that all I'd done was correct some typos so wondered what the deal was. I also pointed out they've already sold one of the uncorrected copies. Now they're doing the usual, We'll look into it and get back to you, next week.
If that doesn't work, then I'm going to push for a detailed explanation and use the violation of contract aspect. After all, they did accept the book and they have sold a copy, showing intent. It's a ludicrous long shot to get Amazon to pay any attention, but you never know.
It's probably just some grunt in their New Haven office who decided what I wrote is pornography because it has sex in it, and never mind it's not as detailed as you see in 50 Shades of Gray or 9 1/2 Weeks, or even a Jackie Collins novel. But...Carli does kill some people after sex. Like what happens in half the teen horror films of the 70s, 80s, 90s and since. The capriciousness of it is infuriating.
TBH, if this goes against me I'm tempted to just leave it in ebook. I sold more through Smashwords and it's just not worth the $45 it would take to set it up on Ingram, again. The cost would not because I've removed it from there; it's because I've changed the text and altered the cover, so both would need to be uploaded as fresh, anyway.
This is another reason I'm going to push really hard to set APoS with a mainstream publisher. Amazon won't pull this crap with them, nor will Ingram.
Anyway, tomorrow starts Smashwords' latest sale. Hope this does well. I could use the money...and the verification that my books can still sell and be read. I just wish people would give me some reviews. I refuse to pay for them. 

Done in time...

I went through Carli's Kills and got the typos corrected...the ones that I found. To my horror, I'd actually placed a period in Dr Pepper. Unforgivable. I'm sure there are others hiding from me, even now. But it's really fucking irritating. I had this thing proofed and edited and it still happened. Anyway, it's re-uploaded onto KDP and into Smashwords in time for the sale that starts on the 15th. Whether or not I shift CK to Kindle depends on how things go during that sale.
If the sale does well, I may keep my ebooks at $0.99. Sales have been declining over the last year so maybe that will boost them. That or my books are at the end of their retail life. I'm also waiting to see how CK does with KDP before I decide on shifting The Alice '65 over to it, though just in paperback.
But that made for a couple of long days at the laptop. Tomorrow I need to get milk and some things, and shift my focus back to APoS Book Two, but may take the day off for that part. Let my head clear.
It's funny, but reading CK backwards made it seem even more like a long-form screenplay than a novel. It's nowhere near as rich in detail as APoS Book One is. That's not a criticism or self-put-down. I've been working on APoS, overall, for nearly thirty years, much as I hate to admit that. So small wonder it's got details out the ass. I'm writing the biography of a fictional person who's become so very real to me, I want to make sure I do him right.
CK is more a fun erotic-horror-thriller-romance kind of genre mashup that skates along. There's some character depth, but not in a novelistic way. Only as much as it takes to keep the story going. I guess I should throw in it's kind of pulp-fiction-y, too. Like Elmore Leonard or John D MacDonald. Quick cheesy sleazy fun.

A truth is proven...

It's long been said that if you want to find a typo in your book, have it edited, proofed, published and then, when you get your copy, open to a random page and there it will be. Well...that actually happened to me, today. I got a print copy of Carli's Kills from KDP and opened it to check the printing and formatting -- all good -- and then I looked at the next to the last page of the next to last chapter...and there it was. His instead of This.

I howled.

Then noticed a second typo -- a missing "." partway into the last chapter. So working on APoS went out the window and I am now going through the book, backwards, zoomed into 400% on the text and checking all the way. I'm at the mid-point, now, and my eyes are crossed, but it did help me notice one step I take did not go through, and I know I did it.

I sometimes cut off dialogue with a - " to indicate the following speaker interrupted the person speaking. Problem is, Times New Roman reads the quotation mark as being at the beginning of a sentence instead of the end, and puts it in backwards, as is evident on the image, midway to the left, in comparison to one just above it. I usually do a replace all to correct that...and I'm 99% sure I did it on CK, bit it didn't take. And I didn't notice. So I'll be re-uploading the text to KDP, once I'm done. That's too many to ignore.

The one issue with going through the story like I'm doing is it takes a long time and is rather tedious. Of course, it also makes it impossible to get caught up in the story. I do about 1/5 a page at a time, on my laptop's monitor. But now I'm so paranoid that I have more typos, I'm pushing through the whole book.

Partial-page-by-partial-page.

Social media isn't

Got myself into a couple of fights on Twitter and Instagram with rightwing trolls, something I told myself I'd never do...and I reminded myself why I should have stuck to that attitude. Those fuckers are so full of hate and anger, they are incapable of rational thought. Just rabid dogs, nothing more. It's too bad euthanasia isn't allowed for their type; the only alternative is to isolate them.

So today was spent clearing the fuckers out by blocking them. Did some on Tribel, too. But reality is, it's a lot of effort for very little actual payoff...except in not having to deal with their bullshit.

To clear my brain, I watched a couple of Charlie Chan movies on YouTube -- ...in Monaco and ...at the Opera. Both classics. Warner Oland is always going to be the best Charlie Chan. He has Asian features thanks to his Finnish lineage and had the gentle demeanor down pat. Sydney Toler is okay, but his voice is close to whiney and he acts too superior. Warner Baxter's version is unwatchable.

I also worked out my financial situation and got truly bummed. I'm deeper in debt at the end of this year than at the end of the last, though only by just under a couple thousand dollars. I guess that's okay. But it's another year of no giving to anyone. I've got to reverse this slide into poverty. Good thing is, I'm getting a bump from Social Security that might help a little. It'll mean an increase in my rent; that's a percentage of my SS and will still be less than when I was in a smaller apartment.

Part of the issue is I'm supporting my youngest brother, financially...and will be for another year until he reaches the age where he can get early SS. That'll just about wipe my savings out, but it's that or he's homeless and that's unacceptable. My sister in Texas is helping with him, but my other brother isn't. No further comment on that.

Tomorrow I'm getting back on APoS and doing the outline for Book Two, then comes Book Three.

Brain dead...

Today was a frustrating day trying to get GoodReads listings straightened out and not succeeding. So I'm just putting up another song by Wardruna...a group bringing forth ancient Norwegian songs that cut deep into me.

I listened to them when I was working on the first part of Darian's Point, for they bring that ancient structural vibe out so beautifully. Turn on the CC and catch the wording...

Changes...

Okay...first, I've input red pen correction of the long-form synopsis and only added 200 words. Doin' good. I'm not going through it, again; I could do that for the rest of my life, changing a word here and comma there. Not worth the hassle.
That was emphasized to me when I went into the Word file for Carli's Kills to change the ISBN and note it's a 2nd edition...and did a minor polish on the first chapter. I actually had to force myself to stop, save, save as a PDF and turn to updating the cover. I removed the barcode (Amazon provides their own)...and then adjusted the tag line on the back page and started to rethink the synopsis on it...and did a major kicking of self.
Meanwhile, notice finally came in that Ingram has removed CK from distribution. I had to send in a second request. So I uploaded everything for the paperback to KDP. I got an almost instantaneous proof to go over and am now awaiting confirmation that it's acceptable to them. There's some intense sex in it, so I made sure to note it's erotica as well as a suspense thriller.
I'm not deciding about shifting it to Kindle until after the first of the year. Smashwords is having a year-end sale from December 15-31 and I want to see how that goes. I've lined my books up with it, so all are at $0.99 each during that time.
If this turns out okay, I'll shift The Alice '65 over, next, in paperback. I'm still leery of Amazon and its quirks, but hell...if Ingram is going to start pulling the same shit I may as well go with the big dog.