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Four Of Our Books Are Now Audiobooks, Or So I Hear

Four of our books are finally up as audiobooks! Do you hear me?

I know what you're thinking: "But Mark, you can't afford to engineer an audiobook!"

What's that? You're actually thinking, "I wonder if white socks have to be dyed, or if colored socks have to be bleached?" Fine. But just the same, they're up on that audiobook powerhouse, Audible.com.

https://www.audible.com/search?searchAuthor=Mark+R.+Hunter

The books, not the socks. I guess the socks would be in the category of Sole Music.

Amazon's Kindle Direct Publishing, in one of those cases of "We should have seen it coming", is offering authors a chance to use Virtual Voice to make their works into audiobooks. I was contacted to beta the service, as was, I suspect, every other writer on Amazon. But audiobooks have become a big thing, and I can't afford a service, or the equipment and time to do it myself.

The first one I tried was Storm Chaser. I found the process easy, and the voice acceptable. It is a virtual voice; the term "virtual" has become a dirty word among artists, but this one isn't stealing from someone to make something. Anyone interested in trying it should read a sample first, to see if they're okay with the voice.

https://www.amazon.com/Audible-Storm-Chaser/dp/B0CYB9RHFS

Pay no attention to the voice behind that book!

The second I converted was The No-Campfire Girls. Since the book is mostly from the POV of a teenage girl, I chose a female narrator for that one. The price I used for all four books is $3.99, which is low for an audiobook but within reason. Amazon's "free" service gets a cut of that, of course.

https://www.amazon.com/Audible-the-No-Campfire-Girls/dp/B0CY9TVJKC

Seriously, there's no one there. You're imaging those legs.

The other two are my straight humor books, Slightly Off the Mark and More Slightly Off the Mark. (This is as opposed to books like Hoosier Hysterical, which are a mix of humor and other things. But they're still funny. Trust me.)

https://www.amazon.com/Slightly-off-Mark-Unpublished-collected/dp/B0CYP4SR1J


https://www.amazon.com/More-Slightly-off-Mark-reconditioned/dp/B0CY7WWQPK

I'd love for these books to get popular enough to generate a series--I have lots of columns to go.

It was only, oh, this week that I found out Audible is now an Amazon owned service, so ... yay!

Of our other books, some I can't get converted to audio right now due to technical problems, which we're working on. Some I just don't think would work as audiobooks. Images of America: Albion and Noble County is a photo-heavy book, and I'm not sure I could do this without permission of its traditional publisher, anyway. Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights is a toss-up, but being a local history book on a niche subject, I'm not sure there's any point in trying.

Listen to a sample and let me know what you think. If it works, it's a great chance to expand our audience. If it doesn't ... well, all it took was a little time out of my life when I would have been watching "Resident Alien".


 

Remember: If you're going to hear voices, it's better to know where they're coming from.


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Being Allergic To Allergies

 When I complained to my surgeon that I was still having symptoms of sinus problems, he stuck a big metal tube up my nostril and worked it around for half an hour. Then he stuck it up my other nostril.

And now I no longer complain to my sinus surgeon--about anything.

Then he asked me how long it's been since I was allergy tested. It turns out people with allergies should be tested every few years or so, because in some cases allergies come and go, such as when you get older and your body starts to break down. Not that I'm describing me. Nope.

It had been ten years, so the next week they used up their entire supply of needles on me. If something swelled up and turned red, it wasn't a rebellious pimple: It was Mother Nature thumbing her nose.

 

Mother Nature has a big nose.

My entire arm, upper and lower, looked like a Braille dictionary. I was allergic to everything on Earth, half of everything on the Moon, and dust from Mars.

Okay, so that wasn't really true. For instance, I'm not allergic to Timothy Grass, who I'm fairly sure is the lead singer for Three Dog Night. Much to my shock, I'm not allergic to ragweed. Also, although I once had an allergic reaction after fighting a fire in a pine woods, I'm not allergic to pine. There must have been some cottonwood, birch, ash, red cedar, walnut, oak or hickory among those burning pines.

My cat allergy was confirmed, but--surprise!--I'm no longer allergic to dogs. We still aren't getting another one, though: We had the perfect dog for a decade, and he's not so easily replaceable.

Beowulf was very cuddly, and it turns out he never got his dander up.

Otherwise it was all the usual: molds, grasses, dust, politicians, and those dirty, nasty bed mites, which are much like politicians but with higher morals. Plants? Russian Thistle, English Plantain, Bermuda Grass--none a problem as long as I stay here in the good old USA.

Now, all but two of these tested at a "moderate" level. Only two read as severe and one of those was, naturally, Aspergillus, which can cause infections all over the place--including the sinuses.

It's a mold, which is a type of fungus, and (I learned) it can be really, really nasty. Being allergic to Aspergillus is like being especially susceptible to the Black Death.

Then came the real shock, and the second allergy testing at the "severe" level:

Horses.

If you know my wife, you get why hearing that was like being ... well, kicked by a horse.

An entire horse-sized battlefield, loaded with Mark-seeking guided dander.

 Emily is what's known as a "horse person".


Wait--she's wearing my hat!

And what are we going to do about this? Well ... nothing. I mean, sure, Emily will clean up as soon as she gets home, but it's not like I'm going to demand she gives up horses. It would be like telling me to give up chocolate, something I'm NOT allergic to. You gotta do what you love.

As for me, I have to choose between allergy shots and trying to get rid of mold like Penicillium, Eicoccum, and that wonderful Asperigillus, all of which can be found on ...

Books.

Guess I'll take the shots.

Hey ... are those books on my dusty carpet?


 

Remember: Every time you don’t buy a book, I start sneezing. Save my sinuses.


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Old Firefighters Never Die: They Just Smolder

 So, I'm retiring. Not from my full time job of dispatching to become a Gentleman Author, as I wanted. (It's like a Gentleman Farmer, a rich person who just farms as a hobby. No real farmer is a Gentleman Farmer, especially considering their ungentlemanly language while going through bills.)

At my full time job we got an email pointing out, now that one of the Sheriff Department detectives has retired, I have the most seniority of anyone there or in dispatch. By six years. Maybe in the entire Noble County Government, although I'm not motivated to find out.

Nor will I retire from writing, until they pry my fingers from the keyboard. Maybe not even then, if I can manage text to speech. No, I'm retiring from what I've done longest (other than biological functions) in my adult life: firefighting.

 That's Phil Jacob standing beside me, holding his pin for being a firefighter for 55 (!) years. I remain unconvinced Phil will ever retire. In fact, I should put off working on my Haunted Noble County book, because fifty years from now he'll be haunting the Albion firehouse. When I look at him (or Tom Lock, who joined up six months before I did), I realize I'd never have the most seniority on the Albion Fire Department.

I don't know how they do it. I beat my body down too badly. After working a fire, I'd be in so much pain I couldn't function for days. My back pain goes all the way back to back to back fires way back in the 80s, where I wore a steel air tank for longer than even a young pup should. It got progressively worse, and I slowly realized over the last few years that I was threatening to become another victim to treat at an emergency scene, instead of contributing.

The tanks are a lot lighter now, but I'm a lot heavier. And I have less hair.

 

In the last year I developed shoulder problems. Recently my knees started acting up, in a temper tantrum kind of way. (And they make strange noises.) I've got arthritis in my big toe, for crying out loud. Ever since Covid, it's been all I can do to get through a day without falling asleep on the couch. Okay, maybe six decades of living has more to do with that than Covid.

I'm not complaining so much as explaining. I loved firefighting. The guys and gals who volunteer at the AFD, and our neighboring departments, are my brothers and sisters--they're family. But I couldn't even go to the station much, especially between those murderous 12-hour night shifts in dispatch that wouldn't happen if I was a gentleman author.


But I put it off. I didn't want to admit I can't do something I used to be able to do. When I finally told my wife I was pulling the plug, she wasn't a bit surprised. Most likely no one was.

So I wrote the membership a letter, and a few weeks later, when we walked into the annual AFD Appreciation Dinner, I saw my name tag and a helmet with my number on it. It was real. I had by then reached the depression stage of grief. I'll let you know when the acceptance stage arrives.

Here's Brian Tigner, a hard worker for the AFD, giving me my stuff and telling me they'd just as soon I left through the back door. Kidding! The reconditioned barn where we had dinner was awesome.

Wow, this turned out to be more of a downer than I'd planned. It's not all bad: I'll stay on as an honorary member, doing the Facebook page, taking pictures, doing public information stuff, and so on. I'm also halfway done with that new AFD book, which keeps getting put on the back burner for one reason after another. But I'm thinking of going to this year's Fish Fry as a diner instead of a server ... that concrete floor is hell on my back.

I look good in red flannel. I do, TOO.

 

To this day, I don't know how I worked up the courage to walk into that firehouse door on my eighteenth birthday. Me, the shy, antisocial introvert with no interest in being on a team--except this one. Every time I headed up to the station, I stepped outside my comfort zone. If I hadn't I'd have missed most of the events of my life, and I wonder then if I would have ever had anything to write about.

And for every bad thing I experienced, there were a dozen great things.

Forty-three years. I'll carry them forever ... in a good way.

 

 

Remember: If you send a book to every retired person you know, they might not complain that you never come to see them.

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