Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 97

I hate technology...

I found out, today, that sometime in mid-August GoDaddy is changing the platform for my website, and I will have to re-input everything. Won't have a choice. That's fourteen titles, some with multiple covers and at least 3 links for each one. Onto a system I have no idea how to use.  At least they were kind enough to send me links to tutorials to help me.

Motherfuckers.

Now on top of working on APoS and Leonides, I need to learn how to deal with their new site, which won't be available to even practice on, till then. I don't even know if my site address will remain the same. Everything I do until then may wind up being worthless.

I went out and bought a package of cookies, and not the computer kind; Oreo Thins. I've gotten to where I don't like lots of the icing but do love the cookie part. Two pints of Ben & Jerry's non-dairy ice cream, too. The one with Colin Kaepernick on it.

I also got the ingredients to make myself a Hoagie. I've wanted on for a while and can't find a place that offers a decent one, in this town. So...Hoagie roll, beef bologna (the regular packaged kind has chicken in it), cheese slices, lettuce, tomato, onion, mustard, mayo...and the only ingredient that wasn't quite right -- Italian dressing that was creamy, not normal. I already had that at home. Salt and pepper and it was killer.

I did more work on Leonides, earlier today. I now have close to 13,000 words, and he's just become a vampire. Prior Pious, the one who turned him, is explaining the whys and wherefores of his new world. The man was going to kill him and bury him as fodder for the pear trees, but something went wrong...he doesn't know what, yet...and he had to change his plans. Even though he didn't want to. He's the one who turned Leon's sister, Gabrielle, and he fears having two powerful vampires of the Blood Angel line out in the world.

Un-death is so awkward...

Thoughts and irritants...

One of the problems with being diabetic is keeping my diet in check and balanced. Something I am truly crappy at. I usually eat light in the morning, like tea with milk and honey and toast with butter and sugarless jam. Sometimes cereal but not often and not much. Lunch can be just about anything from wieners and beans to tuna on toast to leftover meatloaf in a sandwich. Dinner is my main meal and I try to be careful, there. I also check my blood sugar in the morning before breakfast and then 2 hours after din-din, and so long as I'm under 130 on the first one and 180 on the second, I'm fine.
But today I had an episode, where I suddenly felt very weak and sweaty. I've had these off and on for years. I think the first I remember was 20 years ago, when I was walking past Gelsons on Santa Monica in West Hollywood. I had to go into the store and get a candy bar then sit outside for about 15 minutes until the weirdness went away, after which I was brutally tired. This was long before I was diagnosed with diabetes, and my bloodwork at the time was fine.
That's normally been when they happen, though -- after I've been on a walk or some kind of exercise, and it's not consistent. Sometimes, I can go walking and I'm fine. It's my understanding it's a massive drop in blood sugar. The most recent one I had was in the middle of winter, when I'd walked to Tops up on Sheridan. I was en route home and had to dig into a package of cookies I'd bought because I was already a block away from the store. Again, I had to sit and let myself catch up to myself, and doing the rest of the walk (nearly a mile) was really hard.
Well, this time I'm at home and writing, nothing strenuous. Just out of the blue. So I had a couple bites of cheese and a glass of milk then lay down...and slept and woke up with a headache and feeling really pissy. Fortunately, I'd already done work on Leonides and some reading for APoS, because I got nothing more done. Didn't even really eat dinner. Just had some crackers and DP Zero. But when I checked my blood sugar, 2 hours later, it was over 200. Made no sense.
Anyway, I'm at more than 8000 words on the story, and its characters are firming up. Right now the most important one to Leon is Geoffrey, who seems to really like him. Even gets him to learn how to read and write, over the next few years. But as he'll come to realize, Geoffrey's a vampire and there's no such thing as love or loyalty, with them...
Or is there?

The rest of chapter one...

I actually got 38 pages worked up on this first rough draft, so here's the last part of Chapter One of Leonides. FYI...this is not suitable for work or those of delicate sensibility... 

 -----

It is true that on many occasions I had heard voices drifting through the woods, indistinct but seeming to be happy, and had often tried to find where they came from. But the moment I drew close to their source, they would vanish, like fairies in the evening mist. And I would not have been surprised to find they were.

But finally, near the end of my seventeenth summer, I was seated at the base of a tree near one of the ponds at a time when shade crossed all of the glen. I had finished bringing down another tree with the intention of building yet another table and couple pairs of clogs, so was having a late meal of cheese and bread, with some ale in a skin. I was near a pond surrounded by thick ferns and on a bed of ivy, where I need not think of anything or dream of anything. And it was there I saw them appear, across the pond.

Six of them, all in their robes with their hoods back, revealing their unshaved heads. Chuckling in whispers, jostling each other like the best of friends.

I froze, for I had not heard them approach, and remained as still as I could. I noticed all were but a few years older than myself, and all were remarkably handsome. Each in his own way. Two had the same hair as I, perhaps lighter in shade, but one's face carried the nonstop appearance of laughter, with a pert nose and dancing eyes, while the other had a longer face, nose like royalty and eyes almost sad. The other four were varying shades of the earth or bark on the trees, with faces that were of a slightly darker tone and ranged from round and joyous to sharply-angled and hard, even when smiling.

Then they yanked off their robes to reveal they wore nothing underneath, not even loincloths, and their bodies were all taut and strong and well-formed in ways I found breathtaking.

I will note, by this age I had figured out I was not destined to be wed and bring my parents grandchildren. Running with my male friends, casting sticks, pretending battle with them, wrestling in the glens, splashing about in the streams and ponds, unclothed, these had been my preferred enjoyments. Far more fulfilling than jostling any of the maids of our village, much to the consternation of many, who thought me...well...odd. And looking at these six men convinced me I would, first of all, not change and second of all, there was nothing odd about that. Not to me.

They were not exactly alike, merely close in the sense of them all being young and in top form. The first one with yellow hair was built like he could be my brother, right to the point where he had golden down on his chest and belly and legs. The other one was taller, smoother, had broad shoulders, trim hips and legs that sloped in a smooth line down to elegant feet. The darker ones ranged from round and full...not portly, not fat, not sloppy, but well-proportioned, with little extra weight, who was also laid over with smooth featherings of hair that was almost combed into perfection...to one built solid and powerful, like a knight should be, and almost hairless. The other two's looks fell in between, also devoid of any fat or un-shapeliness, but in fine proportion, and both with sufficient hair to accentuate their form.

As for what was between their legs, those lances ranged from nicely-sized to oh, my God, I am jealous of not only that but their buttocks being so well-shaped and...and...

Oh, hold on, now. I'm growing lost in what I have to tell while trying to remember the names of things from back then.

Which is silly.

From this point on, I will use only modern jargon for what I saw. It makes for ease in telling the story and is so much better in its descriptive abilities. I had forgotten how coy we used to be with references to genitals.

So...two blonds and four brunets, all gorgeous, looking like something out of a modern pornography shoot, with amazing bodies and dicks. Though I had no idea what a porno shoot was, way back then.

I swear.

They all splashed into the pond, dipping under the surface and diving about and grabbing each other in ways I had only seen married couples do. Water whipped from their hair and trailed down their fine forms in ways that were far too erotic for my understanding, washing away any vestige of dirt and grime from their labors, helping their skin gleam in ways almost inhuman. They remained in the shadowy area of the pond, so it was not the sun adding to their bright and startling wholesomeness. And there was nothing female around to cause the expansion of their dicks...which grew larger than I had thought possible. And harder.

Then the smooth blond stood waist deep in the water and kissed the almost hairless brunette one, having to bend over since he was close to half a head taller. Then another of the brown-haired ones slipped up from behind to slide his hands around his belly. The smooth blond stretched up, raising his arms to the heavens, water trailing from them and down them, as the one behind him slipped his hands up to pinch at his nipples, causing him to squirm and gasp for joy.

Suddenly, the blond's legs were up and resting on the shoulders of the one he had kissed, bringing all but his ass out of the water, letting his dick flop back in all its beauty and readiness...and that brunet had dipped down to...to...

He had wrapped the blond's dick in his mouth and was pulling on it with his lips as the blond stretched, even more, raising his perfect ass from within the water and bending his head back enough to where he could kiss the one behind him...and he wrapped his arms around the brown-haired one's head as the man cupped his ass and kneaded his cheeks and...and...

Oh, how I felt so much more than a stirring in my own crotch. I was nearly breathless with wonder and anticipation from the exquisite picture they made...and longing.

I wanted to be that blond.

The other blond, who was sturdy, seemed to enjoy wrestling with the two brown-haired ones as much as I had with my friends, until he broke away from them to swim backwards, face up, his dick fat and hard as water swirled around it and his powerful legs kicked and he called, "First one to catch me, gets me..."

They both splashed after him, but with none of his grace.

Then I heard the first blond groan and looked over in time to see the one sucking on his dick had pulled back...and he was spurting his cum into the air, all but yelling, as the second one mauled his ass and showed his own dick was ready to be treated in the same way and...and...

I scrambled to my feet, in shock.

They all jolted and looked at me, stunned, and suddenly, they were gone. As if they had never been there. Almost like I had been dreaming.

Except...

The water was stirred and washing across the pond to rush up on its banks. Something had disturbed it.

Still...I said nothing to anyone about them. To be honest, I was not absolutely certain I hadn't fallen asleep and dreamed it, it was so joyous to behold.

Oh, but how I wish I'd been part of it.

Leonides...first pass at a first chapter...

Got going on it, yesterday, and kept at it till after midnight. This is the first pass on the first 7 pages:

-----

You know, even before I became a vampire, I did not like priests. Pastors. Paters. Friars. And most especially, Prior Pissant...excuse me, Prior Pious. Always skulking about, when I was a child, begging for money to sink into expanding his small monastery into a house of worship that would reach to the heavens, even as people starved around him.

Well, not around him, per se; my village was closest to his joint, and it was not of a mind to allow such a thing. We had enough to go around and, unlike the church and so many other monasteries and such, we did not hoard it. That was thanks to my father and mother, both of whom were revered for having been part of the Norman conquest of England and built this village from nothing.

For Normans only, of course. No Saxons allowed. One can't be too absolute about treating humanity with decency and respect, despite what Jesus intended. I was long of the mind this was a fine way to do things; I have since removed such nonsense from my trains of thought.

Prior Pious was a Pater, then, but of the right bloodline, from what all could tell. Perhaps a third cousin to Bishop Odo, who held plenty of power in this provence of England. So the previous prior was replaced...and I know this is alliteration, but it is my story so be quiet. I will tell it as I choose.

Anyway...Pater Pious, soon to be Prior, was of the type who liked to pounce on anything female he happened to spy...with rumors that also included more than a few males. Very Catholic in his tastes. Of course, that meant women popping out brats, left and right, that he didn't want to deal with. So once positioned as Prior, he proceeded to place the pathetic few who survived past puberty to other Priests, Priors, Paters and Princes, be they boy or girl, and were never heard from, again. Not that anyone cared; as often as not the mother had died giving birth, and the survivors were so shamed by their situation they had also disappeared. A sort of brutal form of population control, but effective.

Then suddenly the birthing of bastards stopped. Completely. Pater Pious was now Prior, and this is when gossip began about his preference for young men as partners in his bed. Given credence by him now having several youthful monks placed under him...in every meaning of the term, most likely. It did not help that they were never seen in the village, not even during market day. They were barely glimpsed while tending the fields around the monastery, dressed in their robes, even on the warmest of days, their hoods covering their heads as if they were hiding. As it turned out, they were.

Now I mention all of this, despite it being my story, because it was important and, at this time, I was not.

Yet.

Yes, my father was burgher of the village and dealt with the king's men, whenever they deigned make an appearance. And my mother was much-respected for her assistance with King William's canteen during the Battle of Hastings, making certain the troops were fed, watered and cared for at the same level as the horses which, if you know anything about the Middle ages were far more important than a mere lance-man or even an archer. That many of those who settled our land had a story about her making certain their son or father or husband or brother was fed or cared for made her reputation inviolable.

Adding to this, both of my sisters were working on a tapestry for Bishop Odo that was to commemorate the victory at Hastings, and was considered to be of oh-so-very-great importance, while my older brother was in the king's court, though in what capacity I never really did know. They didn't talk to me, nor I them...mainly because I did not know how to contact them, and they never came home. Just letters sent by courier that were read by father.

Very classy.

All three took their appearance more from him, dark of hair and eyes the color of the sky. Also trim and well-formed, like he, so they were considered quite attractive by everyone who had known them. I, however, favored our mother, whose hair was once the color of straw, whose eyes mimicked the color of grass, and who was sturdy and strong. I also wound up taller than most men, able to look any horse in the eye, and well-formed with solid muscle and sturdy legs, weighing just over twelve stone. Like hers, my face was sculpted with a clean chin, fine cheekbones, strong nose in good proportion to my head, and lips a bit on the pouting side, giving me either a sad or a scowling expression, according to those who have been brave enough to mention it. I had more hair than she on my body, though not by much, and people constantly referred to me as cute. Never handsome like my father and siblings. Never attractive. Just adorable. Like a kitten.

People can be so ridiculous.

Of course, my family being well-connected, well-thought-of and well-monied, for the time, and as I was birthed close to the end of when my mother would bring new babies into the world, I was positioned in the category of afterthought. The important roles in the family had already been taken. So I was not even worthy of learning to read and write, my destiny being to learn my father's trade as carpenter. Which I did not mind. I enjoyed working with wood and took great pleasure at building a stool, and later a table. I needed neither words nor numbers for that.

It's hard to believe I was once so simple and easy to please.

What's even better about being an afterthought is, I was also allowed a great deal of freedom and quickly made the nearby forest my second home. The trees were of solid girth and thick as they wandered up and over hilltops, between which ran a fast brook of clear cold water that filled ponds made by the neatly-constructed dams of beavers. Ferns and ivy covered the few glens, and creatures of every kind lived there. If any of my friends wished to find me, once my chores and work were done, they knew to seek me there.

And it was there I learned all of the young monks with Prior Pious, without question, were male.

Quite by accident. I swear.

It is true that on many occasions I had heard voices drifting through the woods, indistinct but seeming to be happy, and had often tried to find where they came from. But the moment I drew close to their source, they would vanish, like fairies in the evening mist. And I would not have been surprised to find they were.

But finally, near the end of my seventeenth summer, I was seated at the base of a tree near one of the ponds at a time when shade crossed all of the glen. I had finished bringing down another tree with the intention of building yet another table and couple pairs of clogs, so was having a late meal of cheese and bread, with some ale in a skin. I was near a pond surrounded by thick ferns and on a bed of ivy, where I need not think of anything or dream of anything. And it was there I saw them appear, across the pond.

Six of them, all in their robes with their hoods back, revealing their unshaved heads. Chuckling in whispers, jostling each other like the best of friends. 

I froze, for I had not heard them approach, and remained as still as I could. I noticed all were but a few years older than myself, and all were remarkably handsome. Each in his own way. Two had the same hair as I, perhaps lighter in shade, but one's face carried the nonstop appearance of laughter, with a pert nose and dancing eyes, while the other had a longer face, nose like royalty and eyes almost sad. The other four were varying shades of the earth or bark on the trees, with faces that were of a slightly darker tone and ranged from round and joyous to sharply-angled and hard, even when smiling.

Then they yanked off their robes to reveal they wore nothing underneath, not even loincloths, and their bodies were all taut and strong and well-formed in ways I found breathtaking.

I will note, by this age I had figured out I was not destined to be wed and bring my parents grandchildren. Running with my male friends, casting sticks, pretending battle with them, wrestling in the glens, splashing about in the streams and ponds, unclothed, these had been my preferred enjoyments. Far more fulfilling than jostling any of the maids of our village, much to the consternation of many, who thought me...well...odd. And looking at these six men convinced me I would, first of all, not change and second of all, there was nothing odd about that. Not to me.

They were not exactly alike, merely close in the sense of them all being young and in top form. The first one with yellow hair was built like he could be my brother, right to the point where he had golden down on his chest and belly and legs. The other one was taller, smoother, had broad shoulders, trim hips and legs that sloped in a smooth line down to elegant feet. The darker ones ranged from round and full...not portly, not fat, not sloppy, but well-proportioned, with little extra weight, who was also laid over with smooth featherings of hair that was almost combed into perfection...to one built solid and powerful, like a knight should be, and almost hairless. The other two ranged in between, also devoid of any fat or un-shapeliness, but in fine proportion, and both with sufficient hair to accentuate their form.

As for what was between their legs, those lances ranged from nicely-sized to oh, my God, I am jealous of not only that but their buttocks being so well-shaped and...and...

Oh, hold on, now. I'm growing lost in what I have to tell while trying to remember the names of things from back then.

Which is silly.

From this point on, I will use only modern jargon for what I saw. It makes for ease in telling the story and is so much better in its descriptive abilities. I had forgotten how coy we used to be with references to genitals.

So...two blonds and four brunets, all gorgeous, looking like something out of a modern pornography shoot. Though I had no idea what that was, way back then.

I swear.

Here we go...

Reading through my stack of paperwork for APoS, an idea came to mind of how to let Brendan hear his father sing or tell one of his stories. Not long before the man was killed, a student from Queen's University came to town to record folk tales and caught some of Eamonn Sr. weaving a story about Grianan an Aileach on his tape recorder. Reel-to-reel, at the time and of okay quality, but still obvious in how well the man was doing with it.
An off-hand remark from his mother leads Brendan to seek it out, which means a trip to Belfast in the middle of the situation surrounding the hunger strikes...so that may not be feasible. We'll see. But I can still put a hint of it in this first section, something Brendan doesn't remember or think much of.
The reason I don't think this will happen before his return is because he still hates the man and is angry about anything that puts him in a better light. It's not till he's been in Houston some years that he grows willing to accept his father was not a monster but hurt and angry at the world, and had no way to handle it except through drinking and violence.
This also brings in Brendan being told his aunt Mari has met with a couple who claim to be his grandparents. Initially, he shrugged them off, since they had cut his family out of their lives. Now he will want to meet them...and they inadvertently give him more of his father's background. They worked at an orphanage just outside Belfast, run by the Catholic Church, where boys were treated hideously by the priests and nuns, and some even molested. They won't actually admit that happened, but there will be enough to read between the lines for Brendan to figure it out.
The Catholic Church's administration of orphanages and unwed mothers homes was really vile, up till the 80s and maybe even 90s, when it all started to come out. The Magdalene Sisters were notorious for selling off the babies of girls who gave birth but weren't married, and they treated the girls there like slaves. It was even called an asylum. Once stories like this got out, it started the collapse of the Catholic Church's influence in Ireland, to the point the country has finally codified the right to abortion into law.
Better than America is doing...

My brain hates me...

Got all my paperwork and IRS crap done, today, and then made enchiladas, rice and beans for dinner. Also got some very nice feedback on my writing. Feeling very self-satisfied. For a moment.

Then...as I'm about to shift my focus to APoS and the foot-deep stack of papers and info on my table to read through, what should come knocking at my door but a new MM storyline? About a vampire. Who's gay. Named Leonides Heroleon. And is brother to Gabrielle Bayeux, the vampiress in my screenplay, Blood Angel. He also looks like Derrick Davenport, being of a strong Anglo-Saxon/Germanic background.

Both of them were turned in the 11th Century by the same vampire. Both have the smarts to not only survive in a world that hates and fears them but also build great wealth. And they pretty much hate each other. She blames him for taking a potential mate from her by revealing he preferred men. He's always considered her a snotty brat who insisted on being the center of attention. And both have been looking for love in all the wrong places.

This is only the first germ of the story...though as noted, I do have a full screenplay written for Gabrielle's part in it...but it was not expected. In fact, it kind of ticks me off. I just got done with CK and the turmoil of writing that. I want to focus on APoS...but Leonides is tickling all the right feels, the little shit.

He knows I've always had a thing for Derrick Davenport, even though he's pretty much the opposite of the kind of guys I like -- AKA: Chris Evans. If I had the two of them side by side and could take either one to my bed, I'd go nuts trying to choose. I can't explain it; it's just me being me.

To add to my psychosis, I really do wonder if I actually was a vampire in a former death and this is just me wanting to tell my story. Does that sound nuts enough, yet?

Back to the grind...

Did some more reading and taking notes on APoS as well as working up an ad for Instagram, with a similar one for Twitter and Facebook. The only difference between them is I removed the line at the bottom about the link being in my bio; Instagram is difficult when it comes to embedding links to outside sites on your feed images.

This is quick and dirty but efficient. It's posted on Facebook and Instagram, but as I was about to add it to Twitter, word came in bout the school shooting in Uvalde, and that took some of my focus. Eighteen elementary school kids and three adults, as of now, thanks to the NRA helping sow death and chaos in the US.

I've been doing a lot of political commentary on Twitter, regarding Roe v. Wade and Ukraine and the hatefulness of Republicans, so held off with the ad. I posted demands for some form of gun control -- like background checks and prevention of people with mental health issues and a history of violence from being allowed access to guns. It didn't seem right to throw in my self-promotion, too, so I'll post the ad in the next day or two.

I also used my old MacMini to open some documents I couldn't get into on my MacBook Pro. A lot of photos of the Bogside during the Troubles, most shot by Eamon Melaugh. Copies of background information on the region, regarding policing and housing and employment an d the like. Also some early drafts of moments in the story. It's interesting to see how it's developed since 2009...like when Brendan was crossing the Foyle from the Waterside, after curfew, and gets accosted by British troops. In the first draft, it reads a bit cute; in the current one, it's far more dangerous...more threatening. The outcome is the same, but the intensity is ratcheted up.

I need to do some running around, tomorrow, including bringing some boxes back from storage because I need paperwork that's there. Irritating, but the IRS makes demands and one must follow or go to jail.

Assessing...

I don't know what it was that sent me crashing into a bleak, black rabbit hole, yesterday, but what kept it going was memories from shit that happened to me when I was twelve. That's the year I learned I had no control over my life. None. It happened in El Paso, which is why I absolutely loathe that city and when I would drive from LA to San Antonio, I would not stop till I was past it. No matter what.

I'm not sharing any of that, but I will say on the two occasions afterwards, where I did try to assert some control, I got shot down, totally. First was in Grand Forks, ND where I decided I was going to be part of the little theater group, on base, and make as many friends as I could. I was tired of being a loner, and El Paso had shown me having friends would be useful in many situations.

Well, we lived on base, 30 miles from town. I'd be in a new school around no one I knew. I could become as open and outgoing as I wanted. Instead, my mother was hospitalized, again, and we wound up being shipped back to San Antonio. I wound up attending a school where I knew everyone and they knew me, and there was no chance of me reimagining myself.

The second time was in Hawaii, where we were going to stay for 3 years. I pushed myself to make friends, again, and decided I was going to take a boat back to the mainland, not fly. I got my Social Security card, even though I was still 15, and went looking for a part-time job so I could start saving for my trip. Instead, I got corralled into babysitting my brothers and sister so my mother could work, because that damn state was so damned expensive we needed the extra income. And we still wound up moving back to San Antonio after a year. No option.

These experiences colored my view of how life works. And it set me on a path of just meandering through life. Trying this to see if it works and if it doesn't then trying that. Unable to focus too hard on anything for very long and losing interest the moment I sense I'm going to be kicked to the curb, again.

The one thing that amazes me through all of this is how long I've kept pushing at A Place of Safety, even though the whole of existence seems to be screaming at me that I will never make it work. I keep trying to figure it out...and do feel like I'm stepping closer and closer.

But as I was reading Eamon McCann's book I became so overwhelmed with a sense of futility, the only thing I could do to avoid throwing everything in the trash was to just shut down. So Saturday evening was spent watching second-rate murder mysteries on BritBox and Acorn. And Sunday I took hours to prep my expenses and invoice for time spent on this job...and just grew more depressed at what I was trying to do.

Then today I went into the office to drop off paperwork from the two jobs, gave everyone a little gift I'd bought in LaPorte, IA, the home of Buffalo Bill, and bought some groceries and came home and had a book I'd ordered from Kenny's Bookshop in Dublin waiting for me. I didn't expect it till next week. That managed to snap my mood and I've already read through some of it; it has an article by Martin Melaugh, who'd once told me I'd never get the sound of Derry's people right, but he'd also said I should try...and it seemed like a sign that I should keep working.

So I am...and I will...even if it takes another 20 years.

No posting...

I'm in a bad place, right now, and need to recenter. Not sure what or what's going on...just not feeling good and unable to do anything about anything...

I hate it when I get like this.

Road trips begat road trips...

I'm going to add a chapter to Book 2 of APoS, where Brendan, Everett and maybe a couple other people do a road trip from Houston to Austin to see a San Antonio-based punk band called The Next. They play as a punk club called Raul's, just off the UT campus, on Guadeloupe. Pronounced Gwa-de-loop. Don't ask me why; when I lived there it took me forever to get used to how they said names. Like Manchaca was pronounced Man-shack. Drove me nuts.

It's during Brendan's drugged-out phase -- about 1979 -- and they go in Everett's 1974 Chrysler Imperial, which can easily seat a dozen people, it's so damn big. Bren uses this to break out from his high-end ennui...even buys a cassette of their music and plays it when back in Derry to jolt a cross-cultural party into life. Just before he sees a ghost and begins to question his sanity.

But my main focus is still the first book, Derry, and it's slowly working its way around to me. I'm debating adding a moment were Brendan finds letters written from his father to his mother that are almost poetic. He's learned his aunt in Houston has been sending money in her letters and packages to the family, something his mother never once mentioned, so he wants to know more. And what it leads to is him having to start re-evaluating his father's anger...but this seems like such a literary device, I'm not so sure about it. So Victorian. So Edith Wharton.

I can't just have him overhear the man spinning one of his tales or singing one of Ireland's songs inside a pub while Brendan's outside; I don't want him to know any of this until after the guy's dead. It's gonna be tricky...

Maybe even Brendan''s stumped at figuring out how. Maybe that's why he's been so quiet on this trip...