Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 85

Freak out time...

I had one of my emotional downturns, now that this draft of APoS is done. Telling myself it's a mess. That it's got too much going on yet is still shallow and doesn't reflect the time period or the people of Derry. On and on, starting as I went to bed, last night, and keeping me half-awake. Kind of rough and sent me spiraling into depression.

So I woke up, irritable, and decided I'd run some errands -- bank, PO, buy Christmas cards and a few groceries, pick up a prescription, face he insane traffic of Black Friday -- instead of anything else. That helped minimize my tendency to tear myself to pieces.

What also helped put me back on the road to control was, on a whim I went to Talking Leaves Book Shop to get my cards. I prefer those that are unusual and found a great set that will do nicely. But I also found a new translation of Miguel de Cervantes' Don Quixote, done by Edith Grossman. It's been years since I even tried to read that book and I only got through part of it, but the first pages of this one caught me so I got it.

It reminded me of how I hadn't liked Gone With the Wind the first two times I tried to read it. And how I'd found War and Peace to be thick and dull the first time in my first attempt at that. But both of these were solid works of literature that have lasted, and both of which I did like when I tried, again, to read them at later points in my life. Now W&P (and Anna Karenina) are two of my favorite all-time books, despite Russia's current atrocities in Ukraine.

Then I recalled how John Fowles, who's not exactly a lightweight literary author, published a revised version of The Magus in 1977, 12 years after it was first published and despite it having received critical and commercial success at the time. Those memories led me to one where Rob Reiner, who directed The Princess Bride, which was a huge success, supposedly went to William Goldman years after the movie was out and told him that he had shot one scene all wrong and had just figured out the right way to do it.

It's kind of silly, I know, but these snippets helped get me back on track. If John Fowles and Rob Reiner are second guessing themselves, I shouldn't be so freaked out that I am, too.

Tomorrow, I'm starting on a full outline of the three books as they currently stand. I think I'll need that to show a potential agent. It will also help keep me on track and consistent with the characters and story. I think I have Brendan, Colm, Danny, Paidrig, Eamonn and the rest set up properly...but I probably have more work to do on his mother to make her motives more settled. But that's fine. Feedback is coming.

So now I'm also going to read all of Don Quixote, to the end.

More writing done...

 As is my wont, I realized I hadn't written one section of APoS correctly so went in and redid it...which led to another part needing to be adjusted...which led to another rewrite and polish of other areas, and now I know I'm doing a draft 5. It's 29 chapters, at the moment, still at 582 pages, and now closer to 133,000 words.

BUT...I got a couple of friends whose opinions I trust to say they would read it and give me feedback. So now I'll be waiting for them before I do any further work on it.

So made Thanksgiving dinner -- turkey with craisins, mashed potatoes with homemade gravy (you can tell by the lumps), sweet potato and creamed corn. With a Guinness. Then I sorted through a pile of paperwork and most of it's sorted away. Had more of my Wolfenoot cake a bit ago, with some milk and am now feeling very sleepy. I may go to bed early; I'm braving Black Friday to pick up a prescription refill, hit the bank and the PO. Such fun.

Over the weekend I'll be pulling together more agents to query about the book. I've decided I'd rather not self-publish it through Ingram. They've become difficult to deal with. If I ask for a report of how many copies of each title I've sold for 2022, I'm sent a blank Excel Spreadsheet. No figures in it, at all. If I ask for the report in a PDF, they send me one that tells me the total sales only, doesn't break them down by title.

If I contact customer service and tell them that their reporting system isn't working, they tell me how to get a report...through the reporting system that isn't working. It's like they don't read for comprehension. So I have to go back and forth with them, over and over, till they finally get me what I'm asking for. It's irritating.

That on top of them withdrawing HTRASG from distribution without telling me then getting angry with me for demanding an answer as to why suggests it's best if I avoid them. Once I'm done with APoS, I may look into another home for all my titles. I own the ISBNs so can take them anywhere.

Too bad; Ingram used to be so good.

Draft 4 of APoS is done.

 I've got a budding headache from eyestrain, but the fucker is through this draft and ready to sit for a while to give me some space. I am so written out, right now.

I've also asked on Facebook for someone to read it and give me feedback on whether or not it's actually working. I'm way too close to be objective. Dunno if I'll get any takers. It's over 132,500 words long.

I guess I may need to renew the copyright on the story. I set that up some years ago, when it was in 2nd draft...but we'll see. I need to dig into my paperwork to see and right now I just can't think. But Thanksgiving is going to be great. I'll watch Miracle on 34th Street (1947), again.

I had some fun with a little holiday made up by a 7 year-old boy -- Wolfenoot. The attached image has an explanation of it. I made a pot roast with potatoes and carrots that was cooked to perfection. I dumped a chuck steak, onion, french onion soup packet and water into a crock pot and let it cook for 12 hours, on low, before adding the potatoes and carrots.

I also made a cake for the first time in years. I'd tried to make it white, but I used whole eggs instead of just egg whites so it came out yellow. Still...I licked the bowl.

However...the frosting was chocolate fudge and I managed to work up something of a design of a wolf howling at the moon on it, using a tube of something or other. Tasted good, every bit of dinner...as it better have because it was not cheap.

But I have leftovers.

60 pages left in APoS...

 I got through Bloody Sunday, making sure to keep it a bunch of impressions and not a blow-by-blow account, since it's all from Brendan's POV. He's with Colm and is almost hit by a bullet. When it's calmed down, he wanders away, in shock, runs into a lady who's worse off than him, emotionally, and makes it home. Has no idea where Colm is, and finds out his mother saw some people killed as well. But it doesn't bring them together. They have a quiet vicious argument because Brendan's decided to leave Derry.

He also finally finds out why his mother has treated him poorly -- because he was like none of her other children, more an alien creature because of his calmness and focus and unwillingness to bend to her will, like Eamonn is doing. It's cold and harsh and only comes out because all emotional barriers are down.

Next comes Brendan taking Joanna to the circle fort and then getting his papers set to leave. He's sixteen so can legally do what he wants, and his aim is to join with a cruise ship. All he needs is his mother's permission, which he forges. His plan is to build up some money until Joanna finds out which college she's going to then settle there to be with her.

Something that's come up during this draft is a question in my mind as to whether or not Joanna is as caught up in this relationship as Brendan is. Sometimes it seems like she is; other times it's like she's just playing at it. I may leave it that ambiguous, but I do need to know for myself which way it is, and she's being coy.

You never know with women...or even most men...

The rest of yesterday's chapter....

 I'm working on the Bloody Sunday chapter so here's the remains of what I posted, yesterday.

-------

Danny's voice was soft. "The way that fook was...was grabbin' at me an'...an' we almost...almost got...almost got snatched...and...and...Jesus, Bren..." 

Cough. 

"But we didn't, did we?" Danny continued. His voice had strength growing in it, again. He rubbed my back; it helped some. "That was some punch you took." 

I could only shrug, my throat was so raw. 

"And that story you pulled..." 

I shook my head and tried to crouch down, to end the aching and the coughing and to hide the slashing memories of that interrogation that cut into me and not let myself get lost in understanding just how close I'd come to it happening, again, but Danny stopped me. 

"Lean back against the wall," he said. "Flat. It helps more." 

I didn't want to, but his eyes were gentle and far too sure as he pushed me by my shoulders. It was cold, even through my coat, but he was right. I could feel the ache become manageable and my coughing slow. 

And the memories slow. 

And fade...fade...fade to nothing. 

My Chinas just stood by me. Kept watch for me until finally I managed to choke out, "That...fat bastard...he pulled the same...with me. Even more. Just used it...back...on him." Then another fucking cough...but only the one before I could stop it. 

"Even more?" said Danny. "You...you better, now?" 

I nodded. Cough. Soft but still...DAMMIT! 

"Colm," I garbled, "the...the story about you...it...it near happened to...to (cough) to Diarmaid. Being a bloody eejit. (Cough.) I just...changed it a little." 

Colm ran his good hand through his hair, eyeing me like I was a stranger. "I'd never have come up with something so simple and believable. By now I'd be down Strand Road." 

I could think of nothing more to say. I was still bordered on madness from near going through that interrogation, again, and I couldn't stop thinking of how much harder they'd been on Tur and what it did to him, a full-grown man and...and to think of Colm and Danny...Danny!...going through that, as well...it had my brain caught in a spin, and I started to shake, again. 

Colm finally noticed and his face grew gentle, then he calmly said, “C’mon, me China, let’s to home.” 

His bad arm was at his side so Danny helped him put it back in the sling. I managed to start walking, that bloody cough still popping up, but only now and again. Colm and Danny paced me. My shaking eased... 

Till we turned onto Clíodhna. I saw Ma looking out the door and she saw me and her face screwed into something that told me I was for it, again. She'd gone back to her old self, now that Mai and the wains were gone, picking and angry and demanding. So out she burst to slap me. 

“Where've you been?!” she screamed. "I've been looking for you for hours and..." 

Colm got between us and said, “It was the checkpoints, Mrs. Kinsella.” 

“What're you doing beyond the Bogside! Why would you need to be through them and what's this with your arm?!” 

“You’re lucky we’re home, at all, and not off to Long Kesh. Bren kept us from arrest.” 

“You and your lyin' ways, coverin' for each other! What could any of you know that they might want?” She slapped the back of my head and grabbed my collar to yank me inside and... 

“Mrs. Kinsella!" It was Colm's voice, but sharp and cold. A man speaking, not a boy. We all jolted and looked at him, startled. “I’ll ask you not to hit Brendan, again.“ 

Other women had come out to see the commotion and if it could make for some good craic, and all were focused on us. Christ, this curiosity could go both good and bad for any. 

Ma glared at Colm. “You’ll mind your own business, me boy, or...” 

He took a step closer and his eyes were dark and dangerous. 

Ma fell into silence and stepped back. For the first time since Da died, I saw fear in her face. 

That stopped my shaking, and I said, “Colm! Won’t...won't they check my story? Do you know if...if McClosky’ll back us up? He knows me but not you.” 

Colm's voice was like ice. “He will. Once Diarmaid knows.” 

“Best get to him," Danny said, back to being quick and cool. He was firing up a Marlboro. I'd forgotten we had those. "Set it straight," he continued, smoke whispering from him. "They always move fast when we don't think they will.” 

Colm nodded, his eyes locked on Ma. 

Danny noticed me eyeing the smoke so pulled out a fresh one, fired it off his and handed it to me. I inhaled, and it was regular tobacco. I could have wept from gratitude. If we'd been snatched and the illegal found on us, we'd have been at Long Kesh till I was seventy. I saluted him, saying, "I owe you a pack," as I let the smoke out. 

He shook his head, smiling. "Bren...you're me China." 

Colm gave me a pat on my shoulder. “You’re a cool one, Bren. I’m glad you’re with us, not them. Danny?” 

He looked between Ma and me then nodded his head. "Thanks for the offer, Bren, but I've much to discuss with Colm. May not even sleep before tomorrow's bus. Another time?" Then he winked at me. 

He was our Danny, again. 

I nodded back, sort of smiled at them, and they quietly vanished into the darkness. 

Which shocked me. I hadn't realized night had fallen. On top of it, the women had already returned inside their homes, which I'd not even thought about. I needed to start paying better attention to my surroundings. I was getting too focused on nothing, of late. 

That's when I turned to Ma...and fucking coughed...and said, “I...I’d not call Colm a liar, again. I don’t think he’d like it.” 

Then I went up to my room and sat in my bed and gazed out the window at that ugly bloody yard, behind us. It was clouded up and dreary, so no stars available, but still I did not move. I tried not to let myself think. But the whole situation came crashing in on me and all I could see was how easily that one little encounter could have gone to hell had Danny freaked out and fought the fat bastard, with those soldiers and their batons and gun, he could've been just another dead Irish punk, to them, all three of us could have been and...and...I had to fight to make those thoughts leave my head. 

And fight. 

And fight. 

I had no tea, that night. Just sat on my bed till I lost all thought and woke, the next morning, still in my clothes and facing the window. With my brain finally, blessédly blank...except about that record player I needed to finish fixing. 

To no surprise, McClosky actually was contacted by the RUC and he backed us up. As a way of thanks, he was allowed to skip one week’s payment for protection. How kind of our betters. 

Mr. Devlin wasn’t so well-treated. I learned later that some men from Belfast had forced him to give over a fine, of sorts, for Tur leaving. It gave out the wrong idea that they couldn't protect their own. 

Eamonn's fucking words, and even more worthless. And stupid. 

Those who knew of it figured they just needed some extra coin from him and that was their excuse. But all that did was convince him he should close the shop and join his sons. He was in the process of preparing to do so when, three days before my sixteenth birthday, the hell I'd feared came knocking at the door. 

Again, courtesy of the stupid fucking British.

I will have draft 4 done by Thanksgiving...

Deepening the emotional aspect of the scenes is working for me. Today, this is one I redid -- after Brendan, Colm and Danny were at the Magilligan Strand demonstration, not far from Derry. Colm was hit in the arm by a rubber bullet and he can't use it. Brendan suspects Danny was molested by a parish priest and still suffers PTSD from it.

------

The bus let us off at Guildhall and we headed for William. 

"Do you have some smokes, Colm?" I asked. 

He shook his head. 

"Two packs on me," Danny said, wary. 

"Marlboros?" He nodded. "That should be enough." 

And normally would have been, but the checkpoint was manned by a pack of very angry soldiers, none of whom I'd seen before. Save one...maybe. They slammed us against a wall, telling us to put our hands up on it and to spread our legs so they could maul us with full abandon. But Colm couldn’t raise his hurt arm. A Sergeant grabbed it to look closer at his injury, making him cry out from the pain. 

"What's this?" he snarled at Colm. "Bloody rioter?" 

He started to rip Com's Anorak off, causing even more pain to him. 

I was still in control, for we were outside, not in a room, so gave a small laugh and shot in with, “Me mate? Rioting? Couldn't throw straight to save himself. He was just playin’ the cod, is all.“ 

“Shut the fook up, ye fookin’ taig.” 

I shrugged. “Call me what you want, but I was workin' on a car, at McClosky’s, and me mate went actin’ stupid and got under it to play and kicked it off its block. This is from the rear wing hittin' him as it fell. Me boss tied his arm and it took the three of us to set the car right.” 

"On a St'ruday?" 

"Who said it happened today?" 

“Ye fookin’ liar! Ye fix cars? A nobody like yerself?” 

I snorted, this time. “I can fix any car there is!” 

He smiled at me, cold and hard. “Yeah? I got a Defender leaks oil. Nobody can tell me why. All the seals are good and no cracks in the block. What the fookin' shite is wrong wit’ it?” 

“What’s the year?” 

“...Sixty-one.” 

“Model” 

“S-4.” 

“Is the head tight?” 

“’Course it fookin’ is.” 

“Sure of that? If you put a normal jointing on, it needs to twice be turned, to be sure. I used double joints and compounds when I fixed Dr. Wiler’s; went hard on the fastening. Colm helped me with the last turn of the spanner, didn't ya?” 

That's when I noticed the one ugly mug who looked familiar was running his hands up and down Colm, slow and grabby. But me China stayed cold as ice and said, without hesitation, “It was bloody hard. Bloody thing won’t come off without major surgery, for certain.” 

“Hasn’t had a leak since,” I said, making myself smile. Christ, that bastard groping Colm looked more and more familiar.

Then I saw Danny was watching him, his eyes wide and wary, and I felt my heart drop.

Another soldier came up. “What 'bout a Volvo 122? Shifter comes out the gear box.” 

“That’s the bloody car’s design," I said, keeping my voice light. "Put it back in and screw it closed, is all you need do.” 

Danny was starting to shake. Oh...no...no...no... 

“Not what me mechanic said. Needs doin’ just right, fasten down just right. Glove repositioned.” 

I barely kept my voice normal as I said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, and how much’d he hit you for?” 

“...Ten quid.” 

“Each time?” 

“I...I didn’t say it was more’n once.” 

I saw that same bastard was now shifting to Danny, and me China was starting to breathe heavy and I was growing wary. I had to make myself chuckle. “Next time it comes out, put it in yourself and see what happens.” 

“So you do know cars.” 

It was a Sergeant speaking, from behind me. I shrugged. "I fix things." 

The soldier began his mauling, up one of Danny's legs, grinning and growling like a hyena, then shoving his hand up around Danny's arse and...and then I caught it. He was the same bastard who'd fingered my arse. 

Danny was shaking, his fingers digging into the wall. Oh, shite, oh, shite, oh, shite, this could go so bad, so easy. Danny freaks out. The soldiers pile on and we're all snatched and...and... 

And then I noticed some older women in the queue, a couple of whom I knew, glaring at the fat bastard and without a though suddenly barked, "What the fuck is this? You stickin' your thumb up me arse ain't enough, you wanna do it to me mate, too? Lookin' for dreams to wank off to, when you're alone?" And I was loud with it. 

The bastard spun to me, snarling, "What the fook're you sayin'?" 

I noticed other ladies were casting glances our way so grew louder. "What the fuck, yourself, arsehole. It's not enough you grab my bollocks and stick your nose up me arse, you're gonna do it to all of us? Fuckin' poofter! Gettin' your jollies off goin' up boys' jacksies?!" 

The bastard howled and punched me in the kidney and fuck did it hurt. I cried out. He grabbed the collar of my coat suddenly I'm back in Strand Road and I just know I'm going into that fucking room, again, and that added to my gasps of pain and I'm about to spin into the very howling beast I was afraid Danny would've become... 

But that queue of women heard me. 

They heard me. 

Saw what the bastard was doing. Saw him hit me. And they began spitting furious curses on the man. Words I'd never heard come out of a woman before, not even Mrs. Keogh when she was in a lather. Spitting at all of them. Beginning to close in on them. "What're you doing to them boys, you cunts?" "You bastards gonna try anything with them?" "Big fucks with toy guns beating up on little lads?" "Motherfuckin' bastards!" "Keep your fookin' paws to yerselves, ya sick fucks." 

Colm burst out with, "That fookin' bastard groped me! An' he was grabbing me mate's arse. Me mate's an altar boy! Never a stitch of trouble to him and this ape's gonna drag him off for his sick fun!" 

Oh, did the ol' cows howl even more. Poofters and Homos and Nancy Boys, and I'd swear I heard a few cocksuckers in there. It was glorious. Others began to come over, from Waterloo, both men and women, to see what the noise was about. 

The paras started to get nervous and now held their weapons at the ready, in case this hoard of middle-aged ladies took it upon themselves to attack. If I hadn't been so winded by the bastard's punch, I'd have laughed at the cowardice in them, but then I looked at Danny...and he was still in position, staring at the wall as if frozen, his fingers still digging into the brick, shaking. Like I had been...for hours...and I started begging in my mind, Please, Danny, please don't let go, not yet, not now. Please. I held on. I held on. You can, too. 

That's when an officer of some kind quickly put himself between the howling women and his men and snapped at the bastard who'd been mauling Danny, "What the devil's going on, Collins?" 

"No idea, sor," he said, his voice suddenly weak and cowardly. "Just sorchin' the little fooks." 

I noticed that comment had jolted Danny, and he was now looking at me. And he seemed much calmer. Oh, thank the heavens. 

Colm was still against the wall, as well, but also watching him. 

Another soldier backed over, eyes on the snarling crowd, his fingers itching to pull the trigger of his rifle. "We sendin’ 'em off or snatchin’ ‘em?" 

The big bastard was fool enough to say, “Sir, I’d swear these little bas'ards was slingin’ stones at Magilligan.” 

That made the officer sigh and shake his head. "Collins, how the devil would you know that? You weren't even there. Christ." Then he turned and walked away. 

The soldier who'd asked me about the S4 said, “Off wit’ ye.” And he called, "Thanks." 

As if that made everything fine. 

Colm pulled me up by my collar and kicked Danny, jolting him back into this moment, and off we went. 

Fast. 

So fast, we were halfway down Fahan before I had to stop, I'd started coughing mad, and not from that punch. 

Colm pulled me around a corner, behind a tin wall, Danny right with us. I noticed them both looking at me, their eyes lost in confusion as Colm murmured, “You didn’t cough once in front of that fat bastard.” 

I couldn't speak. Just coughed.

The Good Earth

 I'm reading Pearl S Buck's story about a poor farmer in China, Wang Lung, who buys a wife/slave, O-Lan, and treats her like crap even as he slowly accumulates wealth and respect thanks in no small measure to her. He manages to keep his land despite famine and flood, she bears him three sons and two daughters and builds him a stable home, including taking care of his elderly father, and his repayment of her service is to buy a pretty girl named Lotus and install her in the same house so he can sleep with her. He's a real shit...and a typical man thinking only about himself.

I'd seen the 1937 movie version, where Paul Muni played Wang Lung and Luise Ranier played O-Lan, and it's interesting to find how massively they changed the story from the book. It's basically the same plotline, but the thrilling moments in the movie are all but tossed off in the book. Like the plague of locusts. Takes up 1 1/2 pages while in the movie it's a breathtaking scene. And in the book Wang Lung never loves O-Lan but is consistently wondering at her plain features and silence.

But what's most interesting about this is...I actually prefer the movie, because the book seems to have an...I don't know...a layer of reserve to it, even as it's talking about Wang Lung lusting after Lotus and O-Lan dying a slow and agonizing death.

I brought the book with me to read on the plane and in the evenings because packing jobs make me weary and I never like what I write if I make myself sit down at the laptop at the end of the day. And it is engrossing. Pearl S Buck has a disarming style that glides along and keeps its telling on the level of Wang Lung's ability to understand. He's illiterate but crafty and very much a man of his time caught in superstitions and awareness of social strata as well as how to handle selling his crops for a better price. It reminded me of Harper Lee's style, in many ways.

I'm almost done with it, and I'm finding that old adage is true -- in order to become a better writer, you need to read. It's given me hints on how to better tell Brendan's story, even if his is in first person instead of third.

I'd gotten away from that because several of the modern books I'd read just weren't up to speed, for me. The last time I truly enjoyed a contemporary writer was Jay McInerny's Story of my Life, and that was a few decades ago, when I still lived in Houston.

Damn...time is disappearing around me.

Off to NYC

Not going to get anything done till Wednesday, at the earliest, thanks to this quickie trip. I'm flying down, tomorrow and coming back Tuesday night, I hope. It's to pack about 350 books into 25-28 cartons, which should go fairly easily. Start at 9 on Monday...except packing materials aren't coming till 10 so that's irritating. But I can work till 6, and get it done the next day. Flight home isn't till almost 9pm.

Upper East side so God knows what I'll find to eat that isn't $50 to walk in the door. Old hotel with small rooms. Should prove interesting. Also going to be in the 40s.

Wednesday, I think I'll talk with the powers that be at Caladex and let them know they need to find someone for me to train to do this job. It's not really hard to plan out, but it is tiring when I'm doing it. Right now, we're giving a vague estimate for packing some mystery books for an exhibition, but not until this time next year. I'll be 71 then. I don't want to work till I'm dead.

Good thing is, Democrats may have beaten back the GOP in the House and Senate; won't know for a few more days. If so, no end to Social Security or Medicare, just yet, so that's good. I'm the sole support of my brother in San Antonio, but he'll be 62 soon and can get early Social Security...which will bring him more than I'm able to provide. If he'll actually set it up. He had mental and emotional issues that cause problems so I may have to go down and help him do it.

I can't say much about that; I have a couple of the same issues. Saying I'll do something then suddenly hours are gone by and I haven't even started trying. My excuse is I'm a writer and procrastination is one of our tools...but it is just that -- an excuse. With him? He was born with issues that limit his ability to cope. On top of it, his self-confidence was cut down so badly by his father, it amazes me he's still able to function at all.

I'm using a hint of that in APoS...but I'm not sure I'm doing that just right, yet. I may need to go through this thing line by line to make sure they do what is needed...after I figure out what the hell that is. I have a feeling I'm missing something in the setup of the story.

First agent contacted...

Aevitas Creative Management. Sent off a query by the form on their website. Filled it in with my info. Query letter. Short synopsis...which I did not have and for some stupid reason had not thought of. So worked one up right then. As follows --

Brendan Kinsella is a lad who just wants to live his life, but being born and raised in Derry, Northern Ireland, means history will interfere with his plans. Beginning in 1966 when he is but ten years of age, Brendan fights to maintain his own path through the turmoil of the time, from the vicious murder of his father to being caught in the middle of an IRA bombing to a growing relationship with a Protestant girl that must be kept secret for fear of reprisals...from both sides. But with chaos exploding around him, Brendan begins to wonder if his hopes and dreams and prayers and promises will ever find a place of safety.

Not great but workable. I also included the first chapter...which I edited a bit as I was going through it, again, and found a fucking typo! I'll be editing till the damn thing's published. They give no indication as to when they'll get back to me, but I figure 6-8 weeks is acceptable, especially during a holiday period.

Then I dug in and reworked chapter 2...and started thinking I'm letting Brendan chat around too much. He sort of scoots back and forth in time for events, though not massively so. He introduces his brothers and sisters and talks a bit about his mother's and father's history, showing he knows little about it. And he reveals it's suspected Kinsella is not his father's real last name. However, all the children are in the registry of birth as Kinsella so it definitely is his.

This is the kind of house they live in, albeit near collapse. These were built throughout the UK in the 18th and 19th centuries as quick, cheap easy dwellings for factory workers and their families. It's not like the terrace house we lived in when I was a child, in Ruislip Gardens west of London. (Next to the last stop on the Central Tube Line; my stepfather being stationed at Ruislip AFB, not far away.)

In ours, the stairs were against the wall directly in front of the door, with the parlor to the left, a dining area and a hall back to the kitchen. Upstairs were 2 bedrooms and the bath. It wasn't a big place, but mom didn't have my youngest brother until we were back in the States so only had to deal with two kids, at first; my sister was born, over there about a year before our return.

I packed up a library of books on humor in Reading a few years ago in a house similar to it, just everything on the opposite side. It was somewhat disconcerting...but I did the majority of my work in a shed in the back while my associate ferried books into me and boxes into the parlor, for staging, so it wasn't a big deal.

The house I lived in is still standing. If I do get back to London, I may stop by and ask if I can come inside, just to see it, again.

Hello to nothing changes...ever...

 Well, the election's over and it looks like 2 more years of the same shit. A senate that's 50/50 with two potential whores angling to shift from Democrat to Republican if offered the right price. A House that's still in play but looking more and more like it will be a GOP led one. Meaning the second they're in power they will impeach Biden for some bullshit. It's not a serious threat; just junior high school nonsense of, I'll show you! in response to 45 being impeached twice.

I spent all my time on Twitter and Tribel doing what I could to get the vote going blue, but it did no good. People went from it's a blue tidal wave to at least it's not a red wave in no time. And a huge swath of the electorate just plain did not bother to get counted. So far as I'm concerned, that means they voted Republican, by proxy. No excuses. But at least it wasn't, officially, a red wave.

So it is what it is...and I'm back on APoS. I meant to just go in and add a description of Derry to the first or second chapter, but it turned into another draft...so I'm numbering this one 5. It's just under 130,000 words and will expand.

I'm going to start sending out query letters, tomorrow. As follows:

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My three volume novel, A Place of Safety, is the story of Brendan Kinsella, a lad who just wants to live his life. But he was born and raised in Derry, Northern Ireland, and history interferes with his plans.

The first volume runs between 1966 and 1972, beginning with the murder of his father when Brendan is ten years of age. It sweeps through: 

• the 1968 Civil Rights demonstrations in Derry 

• the attack on peaceful marchers at Burntollet Bridge in early 1969 

• the lead-up to The Battle of Bogside in August of that year 

• the re-introduction of internment 

• Bloody Sunday 

• and witnessing a horrific bombing 

Woven through it is a relationship with a Protestant girl that is kept secret for fear of reprisals. From both sides. This section is in fifth draft and currently undergoing revisions to clarify characters, events and various details. 

Volume 2 is set between 1973 and 1981 in Houston, Texas. Brendan is sent there in a catatonic state, to live with his aunt and try to rebuild his life. Volume 3 calls him home during the hunger strikes of 1981 and ends with him accepting his destiny. Both are in second draft. As of now, all three volumes total more nearly 1500 pages and 330,000 words. 

 I should add, this is not based on my own life; it is completely fabricated. 

I have been working on this novel for several years, and have self-published 14 other books in both print and ebook. However, I would like to situate A Place of Safety with a mainstream publisher to avoid the many obstacles that are part of self-publishing. I am hoping your agency can assist me with this. 

I am open to sending you the first three chapters of volume one, or the first chapter of each volume. I could also send you a copy of The Alice '65, my romantic comedy, or The Vanishing of Owen Taylor, my gay murder mystery, to show my abilities in writing a complete novel. Just let me know.

Thank you for considering A Place of Safety. I believe it would be a great match with your agency's interests.

I look forward to hearing from you.