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The Holmes & Watson Report. . .

One thing that a Sherlock Holmes fan can do no matter where he or she lives is put out a Sherlockian periodical. In fact, any one who decides to put together their own publication on a regular basis might be better off living somewhere a bit off the beaten path . . . less distractions. And we must have a lot less distractions here in Peoria, Illinois, because this is a town that tends to put out Sherlockian periodicals.

Plugs & Dottles, Wheelwrightings, The Dangling Prussian . . . it’s been a busy last few decades in the Peoria Sherlockian publishing business, and the current time is no exception. In fact, this very weekend, I’m putting together the July issue of The Holmes & Watson Report. Ever wonder how a Sherlockian journal goes together? Well, here is one version -- I’ll guarantee that no one else in the country does it exactly this way -- prepare to be amazed and delighted, or possibly mocking and derisive. With any luck, somebody out there will go “Hey, I could do that!” or, preferably, “Hey, I could do better than that!” and then go out and prove their point. Nobody’s making money off of Sherlockian fan publications, so more competition is not a problem.

The Holmes & Watson Report starts with articles trickling in through e-mail and snail mail, usually right after the latest issue comes out. We have a few regular writers, a few irregular writers, and a lot of readers who like to surprise me with the occasional contribution. I then scan in the hardcopy submissions and save the e-mail submissions as text. Do I carefully screen the submissions to pick and choose the best of each crop? Not really. We don’t get THAT many submissions. Basically, if I find an article the slightest bit tolerable, someone out there will probably like it.

I pull the text of the incoming articles into a handy little desktop publishing program called Quark Xpress, and format the text in the type size and font it will appear in the journal, leaving it double-spaced so the editing and proofreading team can work their magic. When I’ve accumulated a small pile of articles, I call up my backfence neighbor, the estimable Mr. Robert C. Burr, and ask him if he’s ready for a delivery. If so, I put the articles in a non-descript manila envelope and walk across my backyard, through the gap in the fence, and over to Bob’s back patio, where he takes delivery of the proofs. Rain, snow, sleet, etc. -- nothing stops the proofs.

A day or three later, that non-descript manila envelope appears in my big black mailbox when I open it upon arriving home from work. I then take out the marked up articles and put them in a wicker basket in my wife’s study, where they usually wait until a week or two before I put the issue together. More than one delivery from Bob can pile up there as the good Carter, like the seasoned professional that she is, waits for the perfect moment to read the proofs herself, usually taking the better part of a Saturday or Sunday.

Between Burr and Carter, the articles are carefully checked for spelling, punctuation, grammar, and readability. They are painstaking in their attention to details, and diligient in their checking of facts. No journal’s copy could ask for better attention than those two give it. Seriously. They are the best.

Which brings us to this weekend.

The publisher and editor-in-chief of The Holmes & Watson Report (that would be me) then sits down at his computer, pours himself a nice glass of homemade root beer from the corked blue bottle he picked up at the Olde English Faire this morning, pops Spike Lee’s “Bamboozled” in the VCR, and starts to administer the others’ corrections and put the articles on pages. The picture of studious concentration, he is not.

I call up the last issue with nearly the same number of pages I expect to be in this one, and do a "Save As" in this issue's file folder (the "Save As" option is one of the greatest innovations of modern computing, isn't it?) I always start with the back of each issue, usually putting my own article in the tail end of the issue, as I start deleting the previous articles from that issue. This issue the third part of the Canonical murder mystery is the thing I had the most to do with, so it goes in last. Count up how many pages it takes. Connect the requisite number of text boxes from page to page. In it goes.

I then go to the front of the issue and drop in my editiorial (a very “me first” pattern developing, isn’t there?). If you’re at all familiar with the way a set of pages goes together in a book signature or small magazine, the last pages and the first are always on the same sheets of paper, which is why I work from the end and the start simultaneously. (If pages get added at the last minute, they always go into the middle of each issue, oddly enough.)

Deciding what article is to lead off in the opening spot is always fun. I never know what whim is going to take me where when that moment comes, and this time I decide that Fred Levin’s piece on Chicago scion societies goes first. Fred’s a great guy who did the article after a spur-of-the-moment suggestion from me at this year’s STUD/Watsonian weekend last month, and I’m glad to give him the lead-off for doing it so quickly. Besides, I really think the world needs a good explanation of Chicago Sherlock Holmes societies. Fred’s article is pretty long, which violates my usual policy of “short articles in the front, long articles in the back,” but that rule occasionally gets broken if I like the first article enough.

At some point, the cover art comes in via e-mail from Sam Stinson, and I’m thankful he had time to do a quick piece at the last minute. I try it out on the cover, print a copy out, and find it looks just fine.

One by one, I make corrections to the articles as the typo prevention team direct, and place the articles into the issue. The tape in the VCR changes to “Bandits” as the night wears on, and Cate Blanchett becomes something of a distraction. Just after midnight, I decide to call it a night.

In the morning, the good Carter tells me that she doesn’t get what my opening editorial is about. I do a quick rewrite to see if I can make my points any clearer, then I head for the theater to see an early matinee of “Scooby Doo.” (Hey, Scooby has worn a deerstalker a few times -- it’s Sherlockian.) When I return, Carter tells me that my editorial still doesn’t make sense. So I start rewriting once more. This isn't usually the case, and at least once, I am proud to say, she has been moved to bring the column directly to me after reading it, with her congratulations. But this time . . . well, you can't win 'em all.

Finishing that, a break for a little yard work (it’s the most beautiful summer day once could ask for), I head back to the basement computer to finish up the issue. A final couple of articles go in, then I put the dates supplied by Debi Pollard and Jim Vogelsang into the calendar. I compile the index, and my fellow lodger shows up with corrections to the editorial -- this time, she says it finally makes sense. Good enough.

I hit the print button and a neat stack of twenty-four 8 1/2 x 11 sheets finally piles up in the laser printer. The July issue for 2002 is done at last, and I put it in a manila folder and give it twenty-four hours to rest. Then I take one last look at it, finding I mispelled a word in the index. A quick fix and the issue goes up to the dining room table to away delivery to the printers.

My handy neighborhood printer, Brown Printing, is about a mile from my house, but they open at exactly the same time as I have to be at work. Luckily, work is but two miles away, so even when I forget to pick up the issue on the way out the door, as I did this time, I can come back and get it at lunch. Lunch comes, and after picking up the issue at home and a sandwich at Jimmy John's with my long-suffering co-workers, the July issue of The Holmes & Watson Report arrives at the printers.

Not all that interesting process, is it? Just wait until I write about putting them in the envelopes to mail. Perhaps there's a reason I see so many movies . . .

Your humble correspondent,
Brad Keefauver