Vaughn C. Hardacker

Winters up here in The County are long. Here we are near the end of our forth month, with two and a half left to go (I don’t care what some groundhog in Pennsylvania says, his six-week forecast is closer to ten here). Since October, the only time I spend outside is when I use my snowblower to clear the drive and the front walk.

So, you may ask, “How is it that you spend your time?” I read a lot of books (I am nearing the end of book 9 in a 10-book series about the effects of 10 Civil War battles on a Virginia family). I watch sports (I don’t have much interest in television programs, especially series. I don’t want to spend eight weeks watching episodes only to discover I’m on season 1!) If I want that, I’ll start watching the soaps. Tell me a story and finish it!

Unfortunately, my favorite pastime is diving into my head. I contemplate all the crazy shit that bounces off my skull. In a few months, I will complete my seventy-eighth trip around the sun and embark on my seventy-ninth. Even I’m amazed at some of the stuff in my head.

For example, there’s death. Many people my age feel they are at their last rodeo (This winter alone, I’ve lost close to ten family members and friends). I’ve come to the conclusion that death can’t be all that bad. I’ve known a bunch of people who’ve died, and none came back. Not a single one was the type who would stay someplace if they weren’t having a good time. I’ve done some research on people who have gone on and miraculously returned. Most, if not all, of them passed over again. Now, would you go back to someplace where you didn’t have a good time?

Then there’s the other question. When I get to the gate, will they let me in? I believe I can’t lose. If I am allowed in, I’ll have all the dogs I’ve ever known waiting. I’m not so sure about some of the people I’ve known. On the other hand, if I’m cast down to the other place, I won’t be bored–I’ll be too busy shaking hands and hugging people that I hung out with.

I’ve already mentioned blowing snow. Has anyone out there who uses one of these cursed machines noticed that no matter what, the wind always blows at you? Every time I do the drive I understand where the inspiration for Frosty, The Snowman came from.

On a more serious note. You may notice that I did not say writing. Last month, the publisher of my last two books returned the rights to them to me. Since then, I submitted the third novel in my Houston & Bouchard series to my other publisher. The publisher of them has, by contract, the right of first refusal for sixty days. I sent the manuscript to them and waited. No reply, either way. After 60 days, I sent an email telling them that I assumed there was no interest and that I would be submitting elsewhere. No reply. The other publisher (who returned the rights) informed me that he was changing to a hybrid publishing model. I was unfamiliar with what that was, and he explained. “It’s where the author shares the expense of publication. For instance, I would need you to pay $4,000 for me to publish your book,” I replied, “I haven’t made that much money on the total royalties of both.” So, now I have to find another publisher or self-publish. I am not looking forward to the whole agent/publisher thing. What I know about self-publishing you could shove up an ant’s hind end, and it would rattle like an iron ball in an empty boxcar.

So, what was that section about? Inside my head, I’m asking: “Why bother?” I worked in hi-tech for over forty years, and those companies had no retirement plan. They had stock options, and we were all going to retire with millions of dollars. Then all of them went out of business or were bought out by a company that would not honor the options. If it were not for social security and a VA pension (I am rated 80% for type 2 diabetes–thank you, Agent Orange–and PTSD–all of you who thought I was a bit mentally imbalanced were right). I’d be pushing a stolen grocery cart and living under an overpass (located much further south than here). Thus far in my not-so-illustrious writing career, I’ve spent more than I’ve ever earned. Every day is an internal struggle. Do I continue on or just say F— it and move on? Kaitlyn’s post a bout phishing emails, AI-generated, was terrific. Just this morning I received four. All were deleted. One, however, was different. It supposedly came from a published author, which she was. We corresponded for a couple of days, then I got the sales pitch (carefully hidden to look like she was offering help). She has a friend who does PR and promotion. Did I want her put me in touch with her? I responded: “It will do no good. I am not in a financial position to take on anything more.” I’ve not heard from her since.

In closing, what I really wanted to write about was the last item. I am considering throwing in the towel. Memberships to writing organizations, running back and forth across the state, buying copies of my books to sell (I am my own best customer) has me seriously thinking about giving it up.

See you next month?