The Read/Writer

Thanks to the association's aggressive development incentives, "the Heights" evolved into a city on the make, an important manufacturing center for two world wars and a choice destination for immigrants. The location was prime, featuring the best railroad shipping facilities in the country and the junction of the intercontinental Lincoln and Dixie Highways (hence "Crossroads of America").

Chicago Heights acquired appropriate ornaments for its prosperity: a columned Andrew Carnegie library; an elegant art deco high-school building that is now a national landmark; a lavish movie palace; and the Louis Sullivan-designed Victoria Hotel, originally built to house overflow crowds from the 1892 Columbian Exposition. Chicago Heights suffered after heavy industry declined, but remains a pillar of the greater South Side.

Area preservationists curated the photos for the 1998 Images of America book. Subjects include railroad depots, old-time butcher shops, diverse and lively neighborhoods, the 1960 visit of Eleanor Roosevelt, horse-drawn fire engines, and...wakes and funerals. (A century ago, it was customary in the local Italian community to take pictures of the deceased and send them to relatives back in Europe.)

The co-authors are Dominic Candeloro and Barbara Paul. Candeloro, a historian who taught at Governors State University in south suburban University Park and worked in the Chicago Heights mayor's office, is now the library curator for Chicago's Casa Italia. Paul was the director of the Chicago Heights Public Library for forty years until her retirement in 2007. She died in 2009.

Chicago Heights is one of several local history books in the Read/Write collection from Arcadia Publishing's Images of America series. According to the back cover, the series "celebrates the history of neighborhoods, towns, and cities across the country. Using archival photographs, each title presents the distinctive stories from the past that shape the character of the community today."

--Justin Sengstock

He had to do something, but what? At first, Martin considered publishing the diary as-is. But by the time he returned to his native Chicagoland as an English teacher, he was reworking it into a novel.

It went through a multitude of drafts and three agents, but nobody wanted historical fiction. Martin got a foothold with a small publisher in Wisconsin, but the house eventually backed out.

So at the turn of the millennium, and after two decades of writing and waiting, he took his product, Push Not the River, and decided to go it alone.

Martin, now in his twenty-eighth year at Marian Catholic High School in south suburban Chicago Heights, says his motivation was basic. “I had to get it off my back. My mother was the only one to read it.”

At the recommendation of his mentor, sci-fi novelist Piers Anthony, Martin looked into Bloomington, Indiana-based Xlibris. It was one of the first print-on-demand publishers.

Before then, a typical press would make self-published authors purchase an initial “print run” of perhaps $5,000 worth of merchandise. The unwary or unlucky ended up with garages full of books they couldn’t move.

Xlibris, on the other hand, capitalized on new digital technology and only printed individual copies of a book when a customer ordered them (literally “print on demand”). The result was a relatively low starting fee (Martin remembers $300 for a paperback contract and $500 for both paperback and hardback), great for authors with uncertain prospects. Xlibris also innovated by helping with book construction: covers, layouts, and the rest.

Martin went with Xlibris, which released the book in January 2001, but remained ambitious for Push Not the River to get picked up by a major house. By now, though, he realized what publishers told him was a liability was really an asset.

“I was lucky enough to have a niche market,” Martin said. “I would go to Polish clubs, Polish fests.”

He subscribed to a slew of Polish-American publications, finding leads to events where he could table and mingle. He did fliers and mailings. He sold books out of the trunk of his car.

And the ball began to roll. “The word of mouth was tremendous from the first day,” Martin reflected.

At his first book signing, two of his customers were his illustrator and the head of the local Polish Falcons. Both called back with effusive praise in less than three days. “They were just amazed that I’m not Polish,” Martin said. He started getting a lot more feedback like that.

Martin negotiated with area bookstores, including Barbara’s Bookstore and a couple of Borders outlets. They took copies of Push Not the River on consignment. By early 2002, he had sold 2,500 copies.

Now Martin made a grab at the next rung up. He created a profile at Publishersmarketplace.com, a paid social networking website for editors, agents, and writers. There, Martin described his initial success and promoted Push Not the River as “Poland’s Gone With the Wind.”

Martin snagged a reply from a senior editor at Random House. But Martin’s agent, who knew better which publishers would be truly receptive, suggested St. Martin’s Press.

A month later, St. Martin’s bought Push Not the River, releasing it in 2003 and requesting a sequel. The sequel, Against a Crimson Sky, was published in 2006. Polish-language editions of both books were runaway bestsellers.

Push Not the River was also optioned for a screenplay, and though the option expired, Martin says he still communicates with interested parties. Right now, he is working on a final installment in the Polish series, tentatively entitled The Warsaw Conspiracy.

Although self-publishing made Martin a success, he counsels caution. “Don’t self-publish unless you have to,” he said. There are procedural pitfalls, like bad editing, much more common with print-on-demand publishers than traditional ones.

More importantly, unscrupulous parties hover around newbie writers, especially agents who charge you for representation before getting a publishing contract. “When they sell you, then they get their share.”

Above all, Martin believes too many people try to get published before they have a product. He spent years participating in writers’ groups and mastering his genre. “Hone your craft. Read lots. Write lots.”

That’s a lot of cautionary advice, but encouraging nonetheless. After all, it comes from a guy who went from working Polish fests to dabbling in Hollywood.

You can go to James Conroyd Martin’s website for more info on purchasing Push Not the River and Against a Crimson Sky. [Update: the conclusion of Martin's Poland trilogy, The Warsaw Conspiracy, has since been published. His site has info on purchasing that book as well. --Ed.]

--Justin Sengstock

The selection suggests that "straight" is shorthand for much of what society considers good, admirable, and efficient. (See "straight forward," "straight shooter," "straight away," or "straight and narrow.") At the same time, "straight" imposes confinement and restriction. (As in "straight laced," "straight jacket," or a "straight face" that "shows no emotion, especially no amusement.") Meanwhile, "straight" can also be violent ("straight razor" = "cut-throat"), especially toward those who step out of line (to "straight arm" someone).

H. Melt is a poet and artist who documents Chicago's queer and trans communities. The Read/Write collection contains several of their works, including the autobiographical volume SIRvival in the Second City: Transqueer Chicago Poems, and the first issue of Second to None: Queer and Trans Chicago Voices, a curated collection of nonfiction pieces by various authors.

--Justin Sengstock

And then there were the guests who wanted to know who that nice old priest was who sat in a back parlor, near the bathroom, smiling cheerily as they went in to do their business, and then disappearing.

It bore the imprint of the Right Reverend Peter James Muldoon, builder of St. Charles, and first bishop of Rockford, Illinois. Life took him far from his old parish, but his death thirty years ago must have brought him back. That was exactly when the weirdness started.

So who was Muldoon? What accounts did he have to settle? Facchini spent 40 years—even after leaving the priesthood—observing, researching, and talking with anyone who knew anything. Finally, with the help of his family, he wrote it all down, and Muldoon: A True Chicago Ghost Story is their product.

Facchini was a stone-cold believer in the ghost. He argued that Muldoon had reason to be agitated: a stalled career and a neglected parish.

Muldoon, son of Irish immigrants, was born in 1862 and ordained in 1886. Within two years, he was secretary to Chicago Archbishop Patrick Feehan and archdiocesan chancellor—an explosive rise.

In 1895, Muldoon became pastor of St. Charles Borromeo, and this without giving up his other jobs. He loved his flock, and they him. He tore down the makeshift church at Roosevelt and Hoyne, replacing it with a towering neo-Gothic monolith. In 1901, Archbishop Feehan asked the pope to make Muldoon his auxiliary bishop.

Then the gates of hell swung open.

Feehan offended many of his clannish, Irish-born clergy by choosing an American-born “narrow-back.” About thirty of them formed a coalition, protesting Muldoon and nominating one of their own. Then they smeared Muldoon in front of everybody they could find: Feehan, Vatican diplomats, newspaper reporters.

Muldoon survived the immediate scandal and became auxiliary bishop, but lived under a cloud for the rest of his life. He was archbishop and cardinal material, but never rose higher than bishop of Rockford, then still the hinterlands. And once in Rockford, he was effectively exiled from the only place he really called home: his masterpiece, St. Charles. Facchini suggests it must have gnawed at him. Probably it did.

Muldoon died in Rockford in late 1927 at the age of 64. Groaning and banging noises began at St. Charles Borromeo almost immediately.

Facchini writes that Muldoon’s ghost must have wanted to clear his name, but probably cared especially about his church. Paranormal activity was at fever pitch when Facchini was there, a period coinciding with the tenure of “Pastor Kane.” Kane had no interest in St. Charles, only in his dog, bingo proceeds, “spending quality time” with his housekeeper, and running a bogus but profitable shrine out of the basement. Only ten or fifteen people showed up at each Mass, devastating for a church that seated more than a thousand, but Kane remained impassive.

Facchini believed Muldoon was warning that St. Charles would close unless Kane shaped up or shipped out. Kane eventually left, but in 1969, the archdiocese bulldozed Muldoon’s magnum opus, which is now a parking garage. No word on whether Muldoon strolls through the parking garage.

But in any case, the rich background makes Muldoon more than typical Halloween drivel. It explores the roots of Chicago Catholicism, from the time of explorers Marquette and Jolliet to the Great Chicago Fire. It is a story of great achievement: how Muldoon helped his superiors build the devastated, post-fire Catholic community into one of the most powerful in the world.

Above all, this is the story of the St. Charles Borromeo that Rocco Facchini knew. Facchini writes sensitively about Muldoon because they shared not only a parish, but similar priorities. The neighborhood, called “the Valley,” was by the 1950s an imploding hovel. Kane ignored the poor, which scandalized Facchini. And Muldoon, who spent much of his career organizing charitable efforts, would have loathed Kane.

But Facchini’s St. Charles did have good priests, especially Father Bill Schumacher, a brilliant scholar who was equally at home cleaning up the urine of a homeless man or wielding a revolver to protect the bingo dollars. Facchini dedicated Muldoon to him.

Characters are drawn simply but vividly—even those who appear briefly, like Facchini’s archbishop, Samuel Cardinal Stritch. Facchini relates the rumor that Stritch assigned new priests to their first parishes by hurling darts at a map.

“I don’t know if I can muster enough words to captivate a reader,” Facchini fretted. No worries—you did fine.

– Justin Sengstock