Slightly Off the Mark

 

 I want to apologize again for how slow I've been with the Haunted Noble County, Indiana  project. I've collected most of the photos and written half the manuscript, but haven't been getting back to people about their individual tales as I should.

It's the same old story, to an extent: injuries, sickness, death, Covid, chores I couldn't put off. Basically everything except writer's block, and at least that hasn't been a problem. In addition, I hadn't anticipated how much time all the research would take. I've done this before, with Images of America: Albion and Noble County. But while history research gets time consuming, extra digging is required when it comes to the supernatural.

Not literally. Well, not usually.

 

There's also the fact that I'm an introvert, or suffer from social anxiety, or whatever the kids are calling it these days. Among other things, I hate talking on the phone. Do you know what I do for a living?

Yeah, I talk on the phone and radio for 12 hours a day. For thirty years.

I know what you're thinking: Why does someone who hates talking do it for a living?

It's because I used to work in factories, and also in the service industry. That's why.

I get off my night shift not only tired, but seriously stressed (which is not uncommon for dispatchers, overall). The last thing I want to do is talk on the phone, or be otherwise social. Between that and my weird schedule, I have real difficulty picking up the phone.

That's the long winded reason why I'm so far behind in calling people about this project. It's also why I much prefer talking about it by e-mail or messenger, and have difficulty finding a time to talk when either I or the other person isn't asleep.

So ... I'm sorry. My deadline is looming, so I'm back on the horse and working, and I will call the people I promised to. I hope the rest of you will contact me online, especially if I forgot about you, which after so many months is possible. I want to make this as good a book as I can, but man--it's been a slog. And that's not the fault of the material!

 

 

It's possible I won't have time to track down all the details, or include all the stories, especially if the details are nebulous. I mean, the photo above is pretty spooky, but there's no actual supernatural event behind it! But I'll do my best.

 

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Remember: Keep plenty of books around for ghosts to throw off the shelves.

The latest of my stories featuring the main character from "The Notorious Ian Grant" as he begins a cross country trip toward the events of the novel. My next might be delayed for about a week and a half due to a wedding and a book contract (!); I have one more fanfiction crossover done (everyone's welcome to suggest another one), and also an all original short story we'll be giving away later on my website.


 Title: A Poor Choice of Alias
Author: ozma914
Summary: Determined to drive to Indiana and make up with his family, B-list celebrity Ian Grant is barely out of L.A. when he runs into two cops in a diner--and, as is his nature, decides to mess with them. Which might not have been so bad, but this time around the Winchester Brothers chose a very unfortunate pair of fake names.

 Rating: PG
Length: 1,600 words

 A Poor Choice Of Alias

            Could he call it a road trip yet, when he hadn’t even made it out of the city?

            Ian Grant pressed his back against the outside of a diner door, desperately signing autographs, if signing autographs was something one could do desperately. He’d managed to gas up the Mustang and pee before the paparazzi found him—the pee part, especially, was a relief. Now, somewhere on the outskirts of L.A. just off the freeway, he’d been found by half a dozen bored photographers and what were probably the only dozen Ian Grant “greatest fans” on this side of the city.

            “Yes, thanks, here—love the Mohawk. Who’s it for? How do you spell … ah, Krysanthemum with a K, your mother must be very proud.”

            His new adventure had not started off well. He’d had to stop and pick up some toiletries—no way was he going back to face Bethani in that hotel room. The pop star was probably still throwing furniture around to protest the very idea that anyone would dare break up with her before she did it first.

            Nobody recognized him at the dollar store. When he realized the Mustang was down to a quarter of a tank, which would certainly not get him to Indiana, he made another stop and was again not recognized. A guy’s luck had to run out, sooner or later.

            “Gotta go, sorry—thanks!” Ian managed to squeeze through the door and, much to his surprise, no one followed. The fans were apparently content after he signed napkins, breasts, and the side of one head. The photographers were apparently disappointed that he wasn’t drunk and drag racing Justin Bieber, the cheating little bastard.