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A Toy Soldier Story

 As a kid, I had to use my imagination. No cable, no video games, no Anarchist Cookbook on the internet. If I’d tried to buy the ingredients for a bomb, the store clerk would have been on the phone to my parents before I reached the door.

Then I’d have to cut my own switch, ending my bomb-making aspirations.

Instead I wandered, literally, over hill and dale, made dams in the creek, plodded through swamps. I had a handful of favorite toys, dogs for companionship, and imagination. Any place was a playground, any object a toy.

Every now and then I still check out the toy aisles, but today’s toys just aren’t interesting. You can’t play with today’s toys. You sit and look at them while they play themselves.

I'm old enough now that grandkids and pets are the best gifts. Not that I'd turn down 60s era Marx toy soldiers.


 

Oh, you might press a few buttons, but they do all the rest. They make noise, flash lights, speak to you, move around, until they need recharged. I’m not talking just about video games, which at least give you hand-eye coordination. But on that subject, what do the game makers brag about most? Better graphics and sound, and realistic cut scenes.

Heaven forbid you should imagine any of that.

We generally got toys twice a year, for Christmas and birthdays. My parents never bought me toys because I got a good grade, or cleaned my room, or avoided juvenile hall. I did that stuff because if I didn’t, I’d have to cut a switch. Getting a switch used on me was bad; having to take that long walk out to the bush to cut one was much, much worse. I’d rather pull my teeth out with pliers and use them to chew off my own ear than get sent out to the bush.

Don’t get me wrong, I got some great toys, it's just that I played with them.

I got a scale model of the Starship Enterprise. I didn't push a button to make it fly: I held it out and whooshed it past my imaginary planets. How did my Enterprise make that “whoosh” warp sound? By me saying, “Whoosh!”

I had to use my – say it with me – imagination.

I've had this fire truck for fifty years; it never moved on its own once. If it did, I'd freak out.



Have you ever played World War II video games? The realism is amazing, and if you’re not playing with someone, the game console itself moves the other characters around.

I got a Marx "Battleground” play set. Plastic tanks, cannon, flags, landing craft – and get this, landmines, wounded soldiers, and stretchers. I had German, Japanese, British, and Confederate soldiers from several wars. You can’t have enemy troops these days, because the soldiers of Politically Correctness would pitch a fit. You'd probably get in trouble for pitching things, too.

Eventually I learned war is a terrible thing, even when made necessary by various bad guys, but I still loved my play set. My parents, you see, taught me the difference between fantasy and reality. For example, fantasy was seeding my battleground with firecrackers; reality was them finding out and sending me to cut a switch.

Fake battles led to my lifelong love of history, and I've never invaded Russia once, so I think I did okay.

I had a few remarkably “real” guns, meaning they were my size. No one imagined using one to rob a bank, or being mistaken for a gang member. My favorite was a Thompson machine gun, with which I defended our barn many times. No computer program was needed to produce my attackers – they came from my – wait for it – imagination.

Another favorite gun was my Kentucky rifle, a muzzle loading weapon used in the Revolutionary War. My mother called it her mop handle.

But with the mop taken off, it was the perfect size and shape to win our independence. I fought off entire regiments of Englishmen with that rifle, alongside a company of Minutemen that was very much real to me and my imagination. I’m sure I looked ridiculous in the field behind our house, stabbing with the bayonet on my mop handle, getting hit and falling to the ground, then getting up to defend Lexington and Concord yet again. What did I care?

 

My favorite toy gun. If it was good enough for both Sgt. Rock and Sgt. Fury, it was good enough for me.



Not that fake warfare was my only interest – not with Frisbees, Matchbox cars, and paper airplanes available. My single speed Schwinn bicycle doubled as a spaceship and police car; walkie-talkies were useful for spy missions; and a beach towel was sufficient to make a superhero costume.

I could go on and on (as my regular readers know.) Two chairs and a blanket made a great tent; small sticks and stones could become a city, waiting on an attack by Godzilla; and oh – what we could do with a cardboard box. The possibilities were endless.

I can’t help thinking today’s kids are missing something important … and I’m not talking about the switch.

 

 

Remember: Books make great bases for your toy soldier battles.

 

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Valentines Day poem ... well, maybe poem

 


I love you more than chocolate, more than a cold Mountain Dew. (You know who you are.)
 
 
More than ice cold water on a hot day;
more than hot chocolate in January.
More than all the biggest library’s books.
More than the a three-book writing contract.
I love you more than the newest, most powerful Mac,
more than an all-astronomy channel on satellite,
more than a visit from the Prize Patrol,
more than another season of Firefly.
My love is taller than Everest,
wider than the Great Wall,
longer than a congressional funding bill,
and deeper than Bill Gates’ pockets.
My love is hotter than Mercury,
bigger than Jupiter,
brighter than Venus,
and longer than Pluto.
My love gets 200 mpg,
could heat 5,000 homes,
power the Las Vegas strip,
and make the Mississippi run backward.
And that’s a lotta love.  Enough to conquer
troubles,
worries,
sickness,
and distance.
 
 

 
It might not be able to crack politics, though.
 
 

 
 
 Remember, love is one thing that, when you give it away, comes back double.
 
 


 
 
 
 
 

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Book Selling Report For 2023, or: Why I Cry

 An interesting thing about the publishing industry is that it takes great pains to make sure an author never knows how many books he's selling.

Meanwhile, at certain points in the process, that's the only thing authors want to know.

Actually, the traditional publishers I've worked with have been good about giving me sales reports--every three or six months. But it can be hard to read their reports, in the same way it can be hard for the janitor at a college to understand a blackboard full of physics equations. Well, maybe they can sometimes. A better example would be someone giving me the full schematics on how to wire an electrical system into a house, then expecting me to actually do it.

"Gee, he seemed smart enough to manage. I'm gonna miss him."

When it comes to places that sell your work, such as Barnes and Noble or the elephant in the room, Amazon ... good luck. Most of my books are independently published, so there is no publisher trying to keep track of my sales. You'd think the bookselling websites would do that, but ... well, you'd think more people would read, too.

Maybe I could sell them like donuts. "I'll take a white one, and a blue one, and ...."

 

I'm telling you all this to explain why, while I've come up with an estimate of my 2023 sales, I have no idea how accurate it is.

Fairly accurate. I think. Within reason.

So, in 2023 we sold 624 books. I think. 482 were e-books, and 142 were print copies. (In 2022 I actually sold a hardcover copy of Images of America: Albion and Noble County. I mention that because, before then, I didn't think you even could buy hardcover copies of our books.)

Our 2022 total was 539 sales, so we're up by 85 books. It's a good number, considering we haven't done an author appearance since the beginning of Covid. Now that I've actually had Covid, I'm not thrilled about going out into crowds in the immediate future, either.

Our best sellers:

151 copies of Coming Attractions.

145 copies of Hoosier Hysterical: How the West Became the Midwest Without Moving At All.

104 copies of Storm Chaser (which was re-released with some fanfare early in the year).

51 copies of The No-Campfire Girls.

The other books were, shall we say, not great sellers. All sold at least a few copies except for Slightly Off the Mark: The Unpublished Columns, which has the disadvantages of having been out for several years, and of being a humor book by someone who isn't already famous.

 

"Dude, these are stale."
 

 

Still, good money, right?

Well ...

I also experimented with advertising all last year. Online ads did indeed increase our sales, but they didn't lead to a profit. For every dollar in gross sales we made, I spent about two dollars. ("I" because Emily wasn't involved in that pile of commercial misfortune.)

But wait--there's more. Depending on how they were published and where they were bought, our profit was between 60% and 6% of each book sold. The 60% ones were the books Emily slaved and sweated over.

Do that math, and for every dollar we made, I spent five dollars in advertising and promotion.

This is fine for a hobby. I could collect toy trains, or fix up antiques, or bend my elbow at the bar every night, for a similar amount of money. It is not, however, what anyone would call a sustainable business model. It's more like trying to sell your product by screaming out the brand name as you leap off a cliff.

"Losing the house is no big deal, I can write in the car."

 

So, I have two goals when it comes to selling books in 2024. One is to sell a thousand copies of our various books in the space of one year. There are a couple of years when I may have done that, but I'm too lazy to go back and do more math--I'd rather think of it as a new obtainable goal.

My second goal is to do that while making more money than we spend. I don't know ... maybe my goal should be to sell the same number as last year, but without taking a loss. Many authors manage to do this.

Not many manage to make a living at it, but if I wanted an easy job I'd be a physics professor.

 

 

Remember: Every time you buy a book, an author can buy a cup of coffee to keep him awake while he's writing his next book.

 


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