Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 91

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:

----------

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.

NaNo is a No-Go...

Another job got added onto the job in NY, so I didn't get home till today. This job was in Vermont and entailed bringing the shipment back with me to Caladex to pack. It wasn't exactly extensive, just delicate and requiring better care than usual. And it was way upstate in an area with no cell phonage or even GPS. But I did have a supervisor to make sure everything was well-organized.

I was smart enough to keep the trip up on my phone so could just reverse that to get back to a place that would work for me. If you want to see video of part of the drive, check it out on Facebook. But listen with low or no sound; that road is miles long and only packed gravel. It be loud.

So...it was 45 minutes to get to the second location's site, from my hotel. Then I still had to pack the books and daguerrotypes well-enough for transport, which took just over an hour, and hit the road. And it never ceases to amaze me how tired you can get from just driving. Sitting in a car and aiming it while it's on cruise-control.

Well, when I was able to use the cruise. Seems the back roads of Vermont are traveled by people in Subarus who go 5 mph UNDER the speed limit. Didn't have that issue on the back roads of NY. Quite the opposite; I wasn't speeding enough for many of them. It is pretty country, however, Montpelier is a truly ugly town.

So after unloading everything, turning in the car, and packing the shipment -- three double-walled boxes -- I didn't get home till 5pm. I was going to make a burger...only a wave of weariness swept over me so I nuked my dinner. Healthy Choice Steamer of Teriyaki Beef and veggies. And sat at my window and ate and vegged.

No writing done, nor much thinking for APoS. But I am definitely not doing NaNoWriMo. That's all I need is another book to finish, right now.

Not done, yet...

 

Off to a job, tomorrow, so no more writing will be done till I get back. It's a long drive there and I'm getting too old for this kind of work because it exhausts me. I can use the money, of course, which is why I still do it, but eventually I just won't be able to.

Anyway, I'm currently working on the Bloody Sunday section and that has to be exactly right so I'm not rushing it. After that is Brendan taking Joanna to the circle fort and then deciding to leave Derry, forever...both pretty intense...

I guess I can still do NaNoWriMo if I push it, but I've got the second part of this job the second week of November, in NYC, for three days...so I may pass. I'm pretty much written out and this book is taking a toll. I just want to read something light and fluffy.

What was nice about reading Mrs. 'Arris Goes to Paris was seeing how Paul Galico skimmed over so much and yet still built somewhat interesting characters...and enjoying how much better the new film version is.

I also read Once Upon a Tome by Oliver Darkshire about his time at Henry Sotheran's, in London, as an apprentice and then antiquarian bookseller. Very light and easy and pleasant, and he's got a lot of wit behind his style.

So right now I'm building a headache so am signing off and won't be signing on again till Thursday night, at the earliest. Maybe the trees are still turning so I can get some nice photos of Fall colors to share.

Inventive Brendan...

What I worked on, today, in APoS. This is after the broken-up march at Magilligan Strand in January 1972, a week before Bloody Sunday:------
Danny and I guided Colm back to a bus and hopped on. As it filled with wet and angry people, I used an American bandana he had to work up a sling of a sort so it didn't just hang at his side. Done in blue and white, it was, and looked fine against his tan Anorak. 
"You should get this to a doctor," I said. "X-rays and a splint..." 
Colm shook his head. "That could be used in evidence against me, if they want to make a case for rioting." 
Danny chuckled. "Like they need evidence for that." 
Colm had to nod in agreement. "I know someone I can get to check it. No worries." 
The bus headed back for Derry, and Danny stayed on it with us so I asked him, "Where you lodging?" 
"I'm not. I told you..." 
Colm shook his head. "After this, you'll be lucky to get away without being snatched. Better you come with me." 
"Let's to my place," I said. "You can stay there. Clean up. Leave off in the morning, once all is clear." 
"But your ma?" Danny asked. 
I huffed. "She likes you, and Eamonn's not around so you can sleep in the hutch. The both of you." 
Danny gave me a crooked grin. "And miss another day's classes? Oh, Brendan, how could I ever?" 
Even Colm chuckled at that, and from there we only talked about the lovely sport of the broken up demonstration.
The bus let us off at Guildhall and we headed for the checkpoint at William. 
"Do you have some smokes, Colm?" I asked. 
"Just two packs," he 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 Sa'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?” 
Then I noticed that 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. 
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.” 
“Not what me mechanic said. Needs doin’ just right, fasten down just right. Glove repositioned.” 
“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 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." 
That 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 Danny was growing tighter and tighter and his fingers were digging into the bricks and this was going to go so bad...it was going to go so bad...and...and I caught it. He was the same bastard who'd fingered my arse, a few weeks back.
Danny started to shake, his fingers digging tighter against the wall. Oh, shite, oh, shite, oh, shite. 
But then I noticed some older women in the queue, glaring at the fat bastard and without a thought suddenly barked, "What the fuck is this? You stickin' your thumb up my arse isn'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 hours of that shite and that added to my gasps of pain and I was close to whimpering...
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 while he was still in position, staring at the wall as if frozen, his fingers still digging into the brick, he was also still shaking and breathing hard and sharp. Like I had been...in that room...for hours...and I started begging in my mind, Please, Danny, please don't let go, not yet, not now. Please.

Talking too much, too soon...

I was so sure I was rocking along with APoS's fourth draft, it decided to kick me in the shins. Nothing harsher, fortunately, but enough to pay attention. By focusing on Brendan's emotional connections with the bits of this draft, I got lost in the lead-up to when his sister, Mairead, and her husband leave Derry for Toronto. It causes a huge rift in the family, and brings the worst of Brendan's mother out.
She's become something of a Republican fanatic in bits and steps, but when Mairead pushes for the move after Brendan and Turleigh are arrested and physically abused during the arrests under internment, Ma works Eamonn up into a fury over their departure. Sees it as cowardice. But Mai fires back that he and the IRA had run off and left them to be abused by the British and it gets harsh.
What's more, Brendan is scarred by his interrogation but doesn't really recognize the signs until after he, Danny and Colm are almost arrested after the demonstration at Magilligan Strand, a week before Bloody Sunday. He's sharp enough to help them avoid it, but afterwards comes close to collapse in front of his two best mates, both of whom are startled at how calm and cool he was when facing down British troops at a checkpoint.
I don't have this completely right, yet. This chapter. It's still just sort of there because what I had already written was skating past all of this. But it's at this point, just weeks before his 16th birthday, that he figures out he cannot trust his mother about anything, and that his brother, whom he'd idolized, is easily manipulated...and now aspects of his father's brutality are showing up in Eamonn. It's along in here he knows he wants to leave Derry as soon as he can; all he's waiting for is Joanna to decide where she's going for university.
And he has a horrible feeling she might decide on Queen's college, in Belfast, and he doesn't know what he will do if she does...because that's just as bad if not worse for Catholics.

Darian's Point, Vol. One - The Beginning

I'm not going to do Robert's Wife for NaNoWriMo . I'm going to work on the very first part of Darian's Point, which I have not written but only outlined. This is my Irish horror story about harpies that live in the Cliffs of Moher and come out during storms to feed on fish in the sea. Except every 100 years, a young man is sacrificed to them as part of a pact they made with the Clan Ui Briuin 30 Centuries ago.
I wrote a screenplay for part of the story many, many years ago and won awards for it. Almost got it sold. That part was set in 1910, when the harpies break the pact and try to kill the last man in the Ui Briuin line. I almost got it sold and produced. Had a director who liked it. Producers at a company that had development deals with Irish production houses and funding pushed for it. But it got turned down by the head of the company because he already had an Irish script and didn't want another one. That's how arbitrary film can be.
I wrote a followup, set in modern times, where the last young man in the Ui Briuin bloodline suffers a catastrophic loss and decides to kill himself by jumping off the Moher Cliffs. But things don't exactly go that way, and he decided to face his demons. Literally. So those two parts just need to be novelized.
In each one, the story of how the harpies were formed is told, but each time it's a bit different...and not really correct. My thought was to bring them out in reverse order. The modern one, first, then the 1910 one, then the original showing what actually happened is very little like the stories passed down through time. I may, still.
I'm only able to do this because I will be done with this draft of APoS by the end of October. My jobs in NY state and NYC are set, still, but they're looking to be fairly easy. It's just the driving in the first one that will be a chore. Still...I'm feeling good about it.

Aiming to be done by November...

Okay, I'm up to the trip Brendan and Joanna take to Dublin, which leaves about 150 pages to rewrite. When I'm done, I'm going to print it out, again, and this time go through all my notes and information to cross reference before doing the last draft.

I'm thinking of making a book out of an outline I once did for a script -- Robert's Wife. Thing is, I don't know what it's about, yet; I just have it written out. Here's the beginning of what I have...

-------------------

ROBERT Van WARREN (50, better looking than he thinks) wakes on a beautiful morning and rises to take a shower. After a moment, his wife, ANNE (a lovely woman twenty years his junior) joins him and they make love. They are gentle but intense with each other, the steam curling around them and adding to their excitement. 

When done, Robert and Anne discuss their plans for their vacation. "Where do you want to go?" asks Anne. 

"I've never been to Paris." 

"Isn't that expensive?" 

"Money means nothing when I'm with you." 

They almost make love, again, but Robert has a lunch date with Smith Corley, an important client and must finish preparing for it. 

"Isn't he beneath you?" Anne asks, joking. 

Robert chuckles and says, "My father's very words...even after Smith placed twenty million with us."

Anne suggests he could still arrive late to the office, but Robert is adamant. "When your name is on the building, people expect a thousand times more." 

She reminds him they are attending a gala art opening with friends, that night. Robert promises not to be late but only if they can leave early. 

"The Van Warren Company" is an elegant but low-key building in Beverly Hills and the few employees are dressed to business-like perfection. Robert enters and his assistant, JACKIE (pretty in a "Vogue Big Girls" kind of way), meets him to discuss which clients are happy, which are unhappy, whose portfolio is in decline and needs attention, and an upset client named PENELOPE MARSH is on her way over. 

"I couldn't talk her out of it," says Jackie. 

"I know what it's about," Robert replies. "I'll see her soon as she gets here." 

"And your father called from New York; he's been trying to reach you. Since eight a-m. Eastern time." 

Robert nods, tosses off responses on how to handle the few problems without hesitation, takes Penelope's portfolio and enters his immaculate office. The instant Robert's door is closed, he goes to his desk, takes one of the five pencils perfectly lined up on it...and deliberately snaps it in half. He snaps another and another and another. Finally, he sits at his desk to caress a glamorous photo of Anne with a hairstyle that almost seems old-fashioned, then calls his father, STEPHEN AMBROSE Van WARREN, III. 

Stephen never has time for pleasantries; he's "received word" that the Fed is about to raise interest rates, and he wants Robert to buffer some clients by shifting into bonds and certain securities. Robert already has; he anticipated the Fed's actions by a week. Without another word, dad hangs up so Robert buzzes Jackie, tells her he needs more pencils and she tells him Miss Marsh has arrived. She brings in both pencils and a very jittery young woman and makes sure everything in order before she exits (her actions showing she has a crush on her boss). 

Penelope starts in, immediately, on needing an advance on her allowance (Robert manages a trust fund set up for her by her mother). Robert points out she receives her funds on a quarterly basis only, and draws out of her that she owes money for drugs; she had been clean but breaking up with her boyfriend sent her off the wagon. Robert agrees to float a loan if she returns to rehab. Penny (as Robert calls her) isn't sure that's the best idea, but Robert responds, "When have I steered you wrong?" and finally wins her over. 

Lunch with SMITH, a hot young movie star, goes well. They are at a restaurant surrounded by shrubs and traffic so Smith can be noticed without seeming to want to be noticed. Robert is telling the younger man that a particular investment his agent recommended "is just like Enron, more of a Ponzi scheme than a real company," when he hears Anne's voice call, "Eddie." He looks around to find her meeting EDWARD PERRIN (same age as her, good-looking), and she is radiant. They kiss and she says, "It seems like forever," as they walk away arm in arm. 

Robert cannot move, stunned, until Smith says, "Shit, no wonder you froze -- a babe like that." Robert just nods in response. Then Smith adds, "She kind of looks like that picture on your desk, the one of your wife." 

Robert spills his wine then as the waiter cleans up the mess forces himself to keep talking to Smith, convincing him to stay away from the bad investment and ending with his pet phrase, "When have I steered you wrong?" 

That night, Robert pulls into his driveway to find a new Mercedes parked by the front door. He stops behind it, envisions Anne leading Perrin inside and cannot make himself get out of his car until his housekeeper appears at the door and calls to him, "Mr. Van Warren, you have guests." 

Robert heads into the house to find JUDGE and MRS. AMBERSON (a too-too distinguished older couple) in the sitting room with Anne. A huge portrait of Robert's father hangs over the fireplace. The judge and his wife are old friends of the family...and of Robert, of course. Robert greets them then goes upstairs to change. 

Anne follows him and comments on how late he is. He responds it couldn't be helped and asks her about her day. She says nothing about meeting with Perrin. Robert tries to lead her into confessing, telling her, "I saw a young man on the street who looked familiar -- tall, dark-haired, good-looking, a scar on his left forearm. Do you remember ever meeting anyone like that?" Anne says no...but not in a definitive way. 

At the opening, Robert keeps to himself, drinking too much wine, speaking only to people who come up to speak to him and watching Anne talk to an attractive man in the distance. She seems to flirt with him. Robert becomes more and more upset in his usual quiet manner...until he snaps the stem of the wine glass. It cuts his left hand. He hides it by wrapping the cut in a napkin and slipping it into his pocket. Then he goes to Anne and insists they leave. No one says good-bye to them. 

At home, Robert and Anne argue. At first, she denies knowing Perrin but finally angrily admits they are lovers and casts questions on Robert's ability to please her. Her words turn vicious, dig deep into Robert. He hurries up the stairs to get away from her, but she paces him, belittling him until he lashes out at her. She tumbles down the stairs and lies there, motionless. Horrified, Robert races to her...and finds she is dead. He freezes.  

Up to Chapter 20

Made up a bit for yesterday, and am now up to Chapter 20, including the Battle of Bogside, where the local population fought back against the Royal Ulster Constabulary and refused to let them rampage into the Bogside area of the city. 14-16 August 1969. Brendan helps by making petrol bombs, and the fighting goes on for three days until Westminster sends in troops to separate the two sides. For the moment, it looks like victory to the Catholics...for the moment.

Seven or eight chapters left to go; just depends on how I do it.  I want each one to be between 12 and 20 pages, but a couple seem intent on going for longer. The one I'm facing now deals with one of Brendan's closest friends, Danny, dealing with some brutal demons and Brendan not knowing what to do...and it's at 40 pages, right now.

Throughout the story, there have been hints that Danny was being abused by his parish priest.  He's grown more and more moody, and when the priest was sent away, he grew lighter but still problematic. Brendan drew him into helping with repairs and electrical wiring, and there's talk of him being apprenticed for that work. But it finally catches up to him and all hell is going to explode here.

The consistency of Catholic priests molesting boys and girls in their parishes all over the world is far too well documented not to make reference to. Especially since there are studies linking that molestation to emotional and legal troubles for the kids later in life. This reality slipped itself into the story without my noticing, at first. And I still don't address it directly but allude to it....until this section, when it comes out in the open. Still unnamed but obvious.

I've got 4 full days left before I head out to a packing job along the Hudson Vally, between Albany and NYC. Maybe 5; depends on what Caladex needs from me to get ready for this job and the Toronto Book Fair, the following Sunday. But I'm so close to being done with this draft, I'm on pins and needles.

Something I have been doing throughout this draft is emphasizing Brendan's emotion reactions to things. How he feels. When he's angry and why. When he's happy and why. Giving him more and more a hint of a poet's heart. By the time I'm done with this book, he might actually be strong enough to tell me to fuck off.

Isn't that what every author wants his characters to do, finally?