The Big Historical Finish, In Photographs

 At long last I can finally announce that we're finished with Haunted Noble County, Indiana!

I mean, of course, until I get edits back from the publisher. Emily finished her go-through, correcting all my small mistakes and showing me the big mistakes to correct. By the time you read this, our editor at The History Press will be shaking his head and muttering, "You had a whole year, and couldn't clean it up better than this?"

Well, I hope that's not what he's saying.

This is the longest it's ever taken me to write a book, with the exception of Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights. In both cases that includes long delays in which nothing got done at all. Not my fault! Mostly.

Then there were the pictures. We planned on about thirty, most taken by Emily and me; we turned in fifty.

Photography wasn't all that easy when John A. Harkless was doing it.

 

That's the tombstone of John A. Harkless, a photographer who should get his own credit in the book. For this book and for Images of America: Albion and Noble County, we depended on several local sources for historical photos. But most of the older photos, at least from the Albion area, originated with Harkless.

It wasn't unusual for us to find the same photo in more than one collection--sometimes from four or five sources. In that case, we credited the first place we found it. Often that was the Noble County Historical Society (which operates the Old Jail Museum), or the collections of Mike Mapes and Grace Leatherman, or the Stone's Trace Historical Society.

The funny thing is that Haunted Noble County, Indiana isn't an historical book, really. It's supposed to be about ghosts and haunted places, and that means places that are haunted today, doesn't it? But I love to research, and I love history. Whenever we encountered a local ghost story I couldn't help thinking: What events let to a spirit hanging around? How long have they been there? What was the place like when they were alive?

We found this photo of the Wolf Lake Onion Parade in three places, although first through the Noble County Historical Society.

Well, if you love researching, and you get a chance to research, what happens? That's right: rabbit hole. A lot of rabbit holes.

It's not the only thing that delayed the project, of course. I've mentioned before our visit from COVID, which overstayed its welcome. We got so delayed that when I finally saw the finish line, I realized I had to make a dash to reach it. Or, to put it another way, the deadline was approaching like Godzilla on a bender.

This photo was in Mike Mapes' massive collection. (Just to clarify, none of the photos in this blog are in the book--they're just examples of what great history people have preserved.)

So once again--I said the same thing in May--sorry to anyone I didn't reconnect with before it was too late. Also, thank you to those I did connect with, and there were many, and thank you again for all those history buffs who helped lead me down those various rabbit holes. Sometimes I ended up in areas that didn't add to this project, but that doesn't mean they weren't fun.

The Stone's Trace Historical Society had this photo of downtown Ligonier.

 

And when will the results of our hard work be revealed to the world? Well ... I did mention that we missed deadlines, right? Our editor was very understanding, but the world of traditional publishing plods on like an old plow horse, and I wouldn't expect to see it before the spring of 2025--maybe later. I'll keep you updated.


 

Remember: Every time you read a book, an ancestor smiles in their grave. Which is actually kind of scary.

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Medicine Mishap Makes Mischief

Note: This was written before our dog Beowulf passed away last July.

 

Most people over the age of fifty can testify that growing old sucks. I mean, older. Growing older sucks.

One thing that sucks is medication. Now, a person can avoid going on a lot of medicine by staying fit, eating right, exercising, meditation, yoga ... all that stuff you didn't want to do, even before you could predict the weather with your knees.

Of all those things, the only one I came close to doing regularly was exercise, if by exercise you mean walking. I always loved to take hikes, and walks, the main difference being how far from civilization you are. I was going to say you could define hiking as walking on very uneven ground, but I've been on some sidewalks that made me think I was returning the One True Ring to Mount Doom.

(Why would someone name a mountain Doom, anyway? Is that where they met their future ex?)

You can see some neat things on hikes, though.

 

The walking by itself wasn't very helpful. First I had to take medicine for my cholesterol, which is a reaction to the human desire to intake things that are bad for you. Apparently there's a thin line between cream-filled donuts and ingesting high-test gasoline. My drug of choice is chocolate, which is the cocaine of foods. I never tried sniffing it through a straw, though.

Maybe next vacation.

Then they put me on a stress pill because of my job, which I couldn't quit because I had to pay for the stress pill.

Then, I discovered I had high blood pressure--while waiting to have a colonoscopy.

Well, duh. Of course I did--a whole room full of people were about to send a sewer router into a place where stuff's only suppose to come out. Just the same, I ended up on a pill to keep my blood pressure numbers below the height of the Empire State building. (In meters. Look it up, I'm not your accountant.)

Then my prostate blew up like a Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.

Eventually an entire shelf in the medicine cabinet was filled with drugs, and not one of them a fun drug. This doesn't include pain relievers ... we have another shelf for them. It seemed a good time for some kind of organization. Luckily, like many men who own homes, I had several stacks of empty cardboard boxes laying around.

No, I don't know why, but apparently it's a thing.

So I liberated a small cardboard box and put it on my desk, where I could spend half an hour every morning taking my meds without disturbing my wife. Well, she's disturbed by all the empty boxes, but never mind.

At about the same time, our dog fell over. Then he continued to fall over. He had developed a nerve related condition called ... well, I can't pronounce it, but we had to rush him to the doggie hospital. He got better, or possibly I got lopsided and he only looked straight. The vet also prescribed Beowulf medication for joint pain because--well, we grew old together, and it was his time. Emily left his bottle of meds where she could easily find it.

On my desk.

"Since you started feeding me those strange hot dogs I've been seeing ... strange things."

 

When I get home from work I race around in a half-unconscious state, trying to get all my 6 a.m. stuff done so I can go to bed and pretend it's night. (See above about stressful jobs.) The meds are an important thing, of course, although unlike Beowulf I don't get mine inside a hot dog. Lucky dog. I mean the dog, not the dog. The meat one. The other meat one. Never mind.

Trying to do three or four things at once, I got one of his pills, filled a cup with water for my pills, walked into the kitchen for a hot dog, then back to the desk where I discovered, of course, that I had swallowed the dog's pill.

The dog's pill is a narcotic.

Now, I should have done what Emily later said I should have done: Called the vet. "Hi, I took our dog's medication ... well, yes, I am a dumbass, but that's not why I called."

But I didn't want a bunch of people laughing at my dumbassery. At least, not until I could get a blog out of it.

Instead, I stayed up to gauge what kind of reaction it had on me. Let me assure you--it did have a reaction. It was, in fact, the same reaction I used to have to drinking alcohol, and illustrates the reason why I don't bother with illegal drugs.

I felt weird. I got drowsy. Then I fell asleep. Then I slept for a long, long time.

"So, listen ... since you got to try mine, do I get to try yours?"

 

It's the same thing that happens when I take melatonin, and that's perfectly legal. It just happened faster, and I didn't have the nightmares. I get half my best stories from nightmares.

So, now I can say I know how the dog feels, except that I can't lick my private parts--and my back is too stiff for that, anyway. Maybe, someday, some doctor will put me on a pill like that for some age-related discomfort I haven't even though of yet. If that happens, hey--the side effects from the other pills will no longer bother me.

I'll sleep through them.


Another note: Ironically, my doctor did, indeed, respond to my increasing chronic pain by putting me on the exact same med Beowulf was on.


Remember: Reading is medicine for the soul.

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The State of My Writing Career

 I used to be a submitting machine ... but now I'm tired.

If a writer wants to be traditionally published, they must submit. Their short stories, novels, non-fiction books, must go out to those publications that accept un-agented submissions, or they must go through literary agents for the other publications. (Independent publishing is a different animal, which some writers swear by to bypass traditional gatekeepers.)

I have an Excel file I've used to track my submissions since 2009. (!) It has 418 entries. Some of those resulted in request for further materials, such as a synopsis and opening chapter that led to an agent wanting to read the entire manuscript. A very few led to publication.

In 2022 I submitted to magazines, agents, and book publishers 77 times. In 2023 I only made 45 submissions, and so far in 2024--zero.

What went wrong?

There are always distractions. This distraction lives next door, and likes to have her belly rubbed.

 

What went wrong is what went right: I got a "yes", and was contracted to write a book. It took me a year, during which time I was too busy to worry about my other projects. Now it's time to play catch up.

That stranded a lot of material, just waiting to go back into the wild, cruel publishing world. On the other hand, I have the advantage of considering most of it fair game again: If no one I submitted to has expressed interest for over a year, chances are pretty good I can move on. That includes, sadly, a couple of exciting requests for fulls.

So I have six completed short stories ready to go out. I'll probably polish them, and everything else, one more time before submitting, since they've grown "cold" and I can look at them with a more objective eye.

I'd really like to see all this done before I grow cold.

 

I have six completed novel manuscripts, and two more that need revisions before they're ready. Oh, and a novella: a Storm Chaser prequel that promises to be a lot of fun.

I have two books, one fiction and one non-fiction, that I started on and need to finish.

Then there's my sudden realization the other day that the nation's 250th anniversary is coming up in just a couple of years, and that might present the perfect opportunity for a Hoosier Hysterical sequel.

I'm thinking "Hoosier Hysterical II: Hoosier Hystericaller". No?

 

This is why sometimes it frustrates me that I could have retired from my full time job two years ago, but can't afford to. Imagine what progress I could make if I sold enough books to write full time!

Well, I guess that's what promotion and publicity are for. They're next on the list.


Remember: Every time you buy a book, you encourage an author to write another one. Enable those poor people.


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