|  “Let
no man be forgotten!” That was my motto once I committed to writing
a book for Arcadia
Publishing about my hometown, Farmington, and its counterpart
Farmington Hills, Michigan.
Signing a contract
is an exciting moment for any author, but preserving your community’s
past is a tricky job. For better or worse, I took on an elusive
project armed only with my laptop and my ability to put words
on paper. I had no idea there would be days when I wanted to tear
my hair out, not to mention sleepless nights, endless research
and pictures, pictures, pictures.
As a freelance writer
who specializes in history, I've written my share of articles
ranging from the obscure to the famous. So how hard could it possibly
be to tell the tale of two Michigan cities founded almost 200
years ago?
Believe you me --
it was way more than I bargained for. For starters, there was
an overwhelming amount of information to sort through, but I quickly
learned to look for those odd facts and forgotten people that
breathe life into stories of the past. Amazingly, hundreds of
interesting incidents and countless colorful citizens shaped Farmington
and Farmington Hills—all deserving to be remembered. I was determined
to work in as many of them as I could. But that was the easy part.
 In
between writing the text, there were pictures along with a coordinating
spreadsheet. Choosing between hundreds of old photos was an overwhelming
task, but once they were scanned, each picture took on a life
of its own. The computer screen revealed fascinating details that
couldn’t be seen in the photographs themselves. The little girl
holding what we thought was a school bag turned out to be posing
with her little brother—a tow-headed boy. The street sign we couldn’t
read wasn’t even a street sign. It carried a public warning: "Look
Out For the Car". Evidently, one could never be too careful
in those early days of automobiles.
As amazing as they
were, however, old photos weren't enough. We had to throw some
new ones in the mix. My photographer and I spent several afternoons
running all over town lugging camera and tripod. Our last outing
was by far the most memorable. We were up at North Farmington
Cemetery where a veteran from every U.S. war (including the Revolutionary
War) is buried. We needed a shot of a specific World War II soldier’s
grave. Of course this was Michigan and it snowed that morning,
but we were on a mission with a fast approaching deadline. We
parked the car, jumped out and with broom in hand, we swept our
way through the cemetery. The worst part? The grave we were looking
for was directly behind the spot where we started. If only we
had turned around, it would have saved us from sweeping the entire
cemetery!
 And
did I mention the cover? I needed two old photos—a small one for
the back of the book and a well-preserved sharp image for the
front. How hard could that be? HA! The back cover? No problem.
The front cover? A major issue. I submitted picture after picture
and the editor nixed each one. Too faded. Too damaged. Too dull.
At the eleventh hour and starting to panic, I ran across an 1899
group shot of local Civil War veterans posing with their spouses
underneath a welcome sign at city hall. Still I wasn't sure. Would
it work? So far I had struck out, but the editor declared this
one ‘picture perfect’. Another hurdle crossed with little time
to spare! Whew!
Then as my mid-January
deadline drew near, disaster struck. I somehow managed to scratch
my eye, requiring a trip to the emergency room and an eye patch.
There I was, in the middle of my last chapter and out of commission
for two weeks. The timing couldn’t have been worse. With only
one good eye, I found myself on a collision course with the holidays.
As I wrapped every gift and hung each bulb on the tree, I kept
thinking: "I should be writing…I should be writing…I should
be writing."
Finally, the holidays
passed and with my deadline only two weeks away, the rush was
on. What I didn’t count on was another crisis. On the January
morning my son was due back at college, he woke up doubled over
in pain. Another trip to the emergency room—the first of three
that week—not to mention the doctor’s visit, and the outpatient
appointment that Friday. The diagnosis? A kidney stone. He missed
the first week of class and now that dreaded deadline was just
around the corner. I had less than one week to get my act together.
One final round of editing, a table of contents, an index, those
darn pictures and their captions. Finally, I mailed the manuscript,
pictures, spreadsheets and cover letter to the publisher and breathed
a long sigh of relief. It was finished just under the wire! My
job was done—or so I thought.
Within two weeks,
the first package came from Arcadia. The editor’s draft—a word
document with all of the editor’s notes and changes. I had only
a handful of days to get it back to them. Carefully, poring over
every word, I red-penned the entire package from front to back.
After all this was my last chance at perfection. Then just as
I was catching my breath from that ordeal, the galleys arrived
giving me one final shot at editing, checking pictures and revising
captions. Another mad dash, but this time was different—it actually
looked like a book! Maybe all this hard work would actually amount
to something! I marked up the galleys and returned them knowing
that this was it. Good or bad, my words were off to the printer!
I never really thought
much about publicity, but now that the book was written, we had
to sell it. Arcadia sent their publicist to Farmington where he
spent an entire week knocking on doors and advertising the book.
He did his job well, drumming up interest with our area schools
and businesses. Arcadia sent press releases and the local newspaper
asked me to do an interview.
It struck
me as odd. Since when did anyone care about anything I had to
say?
Nonetheless,
I was game. One way or the other, the book had to be promoted.
The interview turned into an informal chat. I declined, however,
when the reporter asked for my picture. Being a bit on the shy
side, as many writers are, I quickly suggested an alternative—run
a picture of the book instead. After all, knowing what the book
looked like was much more important than seeing me!
 Next
came the book signings. I anticipated these events somewhere in
the hazy future once the book was published, but I never really
gave them a whole lot of thought. After all those months of working
alone, I suddenly had to worry about my hair, my make-up and most
important—what to wear. Do I dress up? Do I go casual? Do I try
for the ‘serious writer look’ or the ‘elegant executive’?
I consulted the fashion
experts—my daughter and her girlfriend. They fixed my hair, helped
with the make-up and loaned me some ‘cool looking’ clothes so
I wouldn’t embarrass them.
The radio interview
was easier. It didn’t matter what I had on—especially since the
radio station called me at home. Lounging with a cup of coffee
on my own couch early one Saturday morning, I answered the phone
wearing my pajamas and fuzzy slippers. When the producer told
me I was going live in ninety seconds, panic seized me. Before
I had a chance to think, the deejay was firing question after
question and I was rattling off answers. It’s all a blur to me
now. Good thing my husband taped it for posterity.
Seeing your name on the cover of a book is an amazing sight. The
blood, sweat and tears fade from memory as you linger over each
page. Incredibly, people you don’t even know actually take an
interest in your words. Personally, I deemed it a privilege to
share all of the fascinating facts, I discovered. Best of all,
I reintroduced a whole cast of long-forgotten characters who were
once vital members of the community. As a writer, I had the chance
to tell their stories—maybe for the final time.
After all, it was
my responsibility to make sure that no man was forgotten.
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