There is a moment in every author’s life when he or she experiences a sudden pang of loss, and sweet sorrow descends like soggy tissues on a broken heart.

Man or woman, romance or action writer, sensitive poet or straight shootin’ scene churner, it hits us one and all.

It’s the moment we reach at the end of our long suffering days, those focused, driven, passionate hours, plastered with outpourings of words that evolved into our current work in process. The moment we type, “The End.”

It happens to all of us. Sometimes, there’s a delayed reaction, and suddenly it sneaks up to slay us, the next day. Macho man or lyrical lady, none are immune.

In my case, I don’t actually burst into tears. But my throat tightens, a lump forms, and I fight back moisture that puddles and threatens to overflow.

My God. It’s over. What will I write tomorrow?

Of course, I really know what I’ll write next. I have pages full of books begging to be written, and each vies for attention as the finish line comes into view, weeks before the ending is in sight. Articles crop into my head that have simmered there for weeks. Cover designs lure me like Sirens to the Photoshop Rocks, and I ache to try something new. Perhaps a psychological suspense, or a saucy romance?

What really happens is a tearing apart of a bond that forms between one’s heart and one’s work. It’s an invisible tug, a feeling of companionship about to be severed. This place that has become a refuge from life, this world with new friends, emotive scenes, and free adrenaline rushes – is suddenly balled up into a wad of virtual paper and tossed off the cliff into the next realm. The editing, or polishing phase. Which just doesn’t have the same allure, you know?

Last night I experienced this sensation for the eleventh time. Yup. It was a nostalgic kind of sadness, a choking momentary paralysis reminiscent of stolen memories from my childhood or the loss of a loved one. I finished Lady Blues, the ninth in the LeGarde mystery series.

I admit I am obsessed. I hover over this parallel universe like a frantic father, controlling and finagling events for Gus LeGarde and his family to navigate through until they scream for help. Sometimes, I’m kind. And sometimes, I’m not.

I’ll let you in on a little secret. Do you write series books that critics might react to with words like, “How can so many things happen to one guy?” If so, use this trick. Tell the naysayers they must “employ the suspension of disbelief.” It makes them stop for a minute to ponder, it is actually true for any type of fictional venue, and it makes you sound really literary.

If that doesn’t work, tell them, “Hey. It’s fiction. It’s supposed to be entertainment, not a reality show.” Of course, our fictional works are often more authentic than contrived TV shows, anyway. If they’re still being jerks about it, tell them to go buy a manual on brake replacement.

Even though I am a series writer who gets to “keep” his characters from book to book, there is always a feeling of loss, because I feature new characters from the local community in each successive book. The main cast of characters are ever-present. I’ll never lose them, thank God, and they do provide an immeasurable amount of comfort each time through. I feel deeply for each one, I know them inside and out, and I treasure every scene I get to share with them. Okay, that sounds a bit hokey, but it’s true.

But the featured characters usually don’t come back. They flit in and out of Gus’s life, providing wonderful counterpoint or drama, need or redemption, and then… they’re gone. Oh, occasionally I mention them down the road, but it’s not my practice to bring them back. Just as my hero, John D. MacDonald never reintroduced Travis McGee’s lovers (he usually killed them off, much to my disappointment), each new episode thrust a needy client or vicious villain into our view for just…one…book.

And so, last night as I sat alone in the dark room with my sticky-hot laptop humming as it shut down, a sense of loss hit me. Hard.

I would spend no more evenings with Kip Sterling, the octogenarian who lost his memory on the night Glenn Miller mysteriously disappeared, the jazz era “music man,” shoveled from nursing home to nursing home for the past sixty years, with no family or real identity until Gus LeGarde befriended him and began to dig deeply into his past.

Or Bella Dubois, Kip’s Nubian black lover who crooned bluesy tunes in Harlem between secret trysts with Kip, her beloved piano player. I had fallen hard for Bella, just as Kip did, and imagined wonderful blue smoke-filled nightclubs with her purring at the microphone in a slinky green dress that sparkled and shifted like surf on the beach. Never mind that I hate smoke and can’t stomach the stench of it, I suppressed that little bit of truth to imagine the romance of the era.

And what about Debbie, the feisty, stout nurse who used to be a dancer, with the penny red curls and sense of righteous justice, who would not bend beneath threats from Novacom, the evil drug company? I grew quite fond of her fiery courage.

Or my most recent favorite, Lucy Sedgewick, the gay ex-FBI agent-turned-woodworker, who partnered up with Gus to save the lives of Debbie and Kip when the power of the mighty dollar turned against them? Gus and she shared the loss of their beloved partners through cancer, and the bond between them had just begun to cement toward the end of the book.

Maybe I’ll bring Lucy back. Or perhaps she’ll get her own book some day. It’s definitely on the list.

So, what do you do when you type “The End?” Do you put your work aside for a while, go out and live life for a few weeks? I’ve done that a few times. Sometimes it’s plain necessary to recharge the creative juices.

Or, do you immediately turn back to chapter one to polish the manuscript and look for inconsistencies before you send it out to your critique partners or inner circle of pre-readers? Alternatively, do you put your manuscript aside for a year to let it simmer, while you blast few a few more novels?

I’ve done it both ways. Normally, I set it aside for at least six months, and give in to my massive craving for “creating new.” Then, when I’ve forgotten most of what I wrote (don’t laugh, I’m serious!), I return to it and am both delighted and horrified at what I’ve written. That’s when the real roll-up-your-sleeves editing begins.

My advice is to discover what works for you through trial and error. There’s no hard and fast rule about dealing with this hand-off, and no unwritten rule that you must deal with it the same every time.

Most importantly, whether or not you need a hiatus in which you reconnect to family or friends, be sure to return to writing as soon as possible. Whether it be an article, like this, or the start of your next best-seller, keep writing. Don’t ever stop. Give us more, and steam ahead to forge those new bonds that will hopefully return you to the tissues the next time you type, “The End.”
***
Read excerpts, reviews, readers comments, interviews, and more at Aaron Paul Lazar's websites:
http://www.legardemysteries.com/
http://www.mooremysteries.com/
http://www.aplazar@gather.com/

© Aaron Paul Lazar 2008

I headed for my parents’ house on a rainy June evening, anxious for the tastes and aromas of home. Savory beef stew, bubbling on the stove. Spicy lavender, growing by the porch door. I even anticipated the musky smell of wet dog, having missed owning pets while on assignment in Germany.

I’d settled my wife and daughters back in our house in the country after a grueling flight from Stuttgart to Logan. After getting the place back in shape—the larder stocked, the lawn mowed, and the cobwebs whisked clean—my roots called to me. I needed to see my parents and grandmother. It had been far too long.

I parked in the driveway and soaked in the sight of the old cedar-shingled colonial, nestled between towering blue spruces and flanked by an overgrown Bartlett pear. Flashes of my childhood raced across my mind’s eye: my chestnut gelding grazing on the back field; family feasts on the redwood picnic table under the plum tree; devouring my mother’s cooking, and toiling in my father’s sumptuous gardens. I was finally home, where family had patiently waited as the one-year post overseas had stretched to four.

After long embraces and reunion tears, we gathered around the supper table, just as I’d envisioned so many times in the throes of homesickness. Ginny, my father’s beagle, sat at my feet, begging for morsels. I surreptitiously dropped a piece of cornbread under the table, and heard her satisfied snuffling as she sought and devoured the tidbit.

“When do we see Gram?” I asked between spoonfuls of Chicken Paprikash.

My parents exchanged uncomfortable glances. Mom shifted in her ladderback chair.

“We have something to tell you about Grandma,” she began. Her fingers tapped a tango on the table beside her linen napkin, and she tossed my father a nervous half-smile.

My heartbeat quickened and I imagined the worst. She’s dead. My grandmother’s dead.

“What is it?” I set down my spoon and pushed back my seat. Ginny scooted to the side, then laid her head on my lap, her big brown eyes rolling up to mine. I stroked her soft ears and waited.

My mother nodded to my father, who took over.

“Gram’s in a home now,” he said. “She got sick, son. Alzheimer’s.”

I stared across the table. My jaw dropped. Indignation welled in my chest.

“You put her in a home?” My voice cracked on the last word. “I thought you said you’d never do that? We were going to take care of her. Amy and I would’ve taken her in, if you couldn’t. What happened to the plan?” I conveniently ignored the fact that I hadn’t been around for the past four years.

My mother began to explain. They’d tried to care for her at home. The dining room had been transformed into a bedroom for Gram, so she could avoid climbing stairs. They'd brought in her pictures, her Lincoln rocker, her quilts, and the display case with her miniature Hummel figurines and collector’s plates. Her two bedroom cape cod had sold for a mere sixty-five thousand dollars.

“She thought I was a stranger, John. She kept calling 911.” My mother’s eyes brimmed with tears; she dabbed at them with her napkin. “We found her outdoors, in the middle of winter, wandering around in her nightgown. She nearly froze to death, looking for the ‘hen house’ She thought she was a young woman again, and kept trying to do her chores. She wouldn’t take her pills, kept thinking I was trying to poison her.” My mother stopped to collect herself, pressing the napkin to her eyes. Her chest hitched a few times.

“She turned into a different person,” my father added. “She wasn’t herself, yelling at your mother all the time, really getting hysterical. Of course we didn’t blame her. She was frightened and didn’t recognize anyone.” He paused for a moment.

Ginny’s tail thumped the braided rug. I leaned down to hug her, and she quivered with excitement, lapping my cheek.

“With the new medicine, she’s a little calmer. It was a hard decision, son, but the right one.” My mother tried to smile, but her face crumpled. She breathed deeply and stood. “Dad’s going to take you to see her tomorrow, so you can check out the place for yourself. It’s a homey place, has a nice feeling to it. Not too fancy, mind you, just comfortable. And… she’s safe now.”

Numb, I nodded and leaned down to pat Ginny’s smooth flanks. I didn’t want to lose it in front of them.

“Just one more thing. She probably won’t know you. You should be prepared,” my mother said in a voice that trailed off to a whisper.

Not know me? My grandmother and I had shared an exceptional bond. I'd written dozens of letters from Germany over the past four years, assuming she'd read them, and not expecting an answer. With her arthritis, she had a hard time holding a pen steady, and we'd agreed on the one sided letter writing campaign before I'd left the country.

Impossible. She’ll know me.

The next day, we entered a modest gray clapboard house and climbed a wooden stairway to the second floor. Several elderly patients peeked from their doorways. Dad greeted most of them by name, stopping to chat with a few along the way. When we reached Gram’s room, a stranger sat on the edge of the bed. Dressed in a loose, faded housedress, she looked fifty pounds lighter than the grandmother I remembered. Her short blond hair, so carefully coifed throughout her life, had transformed into wispy gray locks that lay flat and lifeless, framing her thin face. She wore no jewelry, no lipstick, and no shoes. I approached slowly and sat beside her on the narrow bed.

“How are you, Gram?” I took her small hand in mine.

Her eyes widened with indecision and she carefully inched away from me. She smiled as if she were entertaining a guest and gently drew her hand from my grasp.

“I’m fine,” she said. Her wary eyes darted to my father. She looked down at her hands.

"Would you like to see pictures of my girls?” I asked.

“All right.” She spoke with forced politeness.

I pulled out a packet of photos.

“Here’s Meredith in our house in Germany. She just turned ten. You should see her play the piano. She sure loves music. She’s just started on the Chopin Preludes now.”

She seemed to relax a little, and accepted the photo, running her fingers lightly across the glossy surface. A small sigh escaped her lips. “So sweet,” she said. “She’ll be a heartbreaker.”

Encouraged, I continued through the pack.

“Here we are at the Christmas Market in Stuttgart. There’s my wife, Miriam. And that’s Alice, and there’s little Micki. Alice is seven and Micki just turned five.”

She carefully took the photo, gazing at it. “They look a lot alike. Such pretty curls. What’s that building in the background?”

I warmed to her question. “It’s the Stiftkirche spire, right in the middle of the city. There are old castles intermingled with new buildings. This one street, called the Koenigstrasse, bans cars; it’s filled with shops and pedestrians. You’d love the Christmas Market. Glass blown ornaments, outdoor vendors in the old cobblestone square, hot mulled wine served from copper kettles... The present I sent you last year was bought right there—”

“Ben?” she asked, looking at my father. Her eyes danced between us and she played with the buttons on her housedress with one frail hand. “Do I know this handsome young man?”

Dad hesitated, looking at my crestfallen face, then patiently answered. “Yes, Mother. It’s your grandson, John. He’s my son. Your grandson,” he prodded gently. “He’s been gone for a few years on assignment in Germany.”

She looked up at him and nodded vacantly.

I sat up straighter, looking into her confused eyes, pleading. “Gram? It’s Johnny. Remember? Don’t you remember me?” My voice caught and I choked out the last few words.

She smiled and put a trembling hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure I would’ve been very proud of you,” she said.

I sat still, grateful for her empathy, but crushed. A leaden sensation played around my heart.

My father changed the subject. “Are you hungry, Mother?” he asked. “John and I are taking you to lunch today.”

She brightened. “Yes, I am. I’m tired of the old-people-food they force on me here. They tell me I eat like a bird, but it’s because there’s nothing good to eat. And they won’t give me any beer. Can you imagine that? The Prohibition is over! What kind of a hotel is this, anyway?”

I smiled involuntarily as I recognized traits of my familiar, feisty grandmother. She was still in there, somewhere.

Dad pushed her shoes to the side of the bed and helped her put them on. Her forehead crinkled and she stood unsteadily, looking around the room for something.

“Gram? Can I help?” I asked.

“My pocketbook. I can’t go out without my pocketbook.” Dad laid his hand on her arm and flashed me a melancholy look.

“It’s okay, Mother. I’m buying today. No need for your purse.” He helped her into a worn blue cardigan and we shuffled down the hall. When we passed the bedroom of an elderly man, she leaned over and whispered in my father’s ear.

“You have to do something about that Mr. Timothy, son. He keeps hitting on me. My stars, he must be at least eighty.”

“Okay, Mother. Will do. I’ll have a talk with the old coot.” Dad smiled. Gram would be ninety next April.

We drove to the restaurant that specialized in her favorites: golden fried scallops and Narragansett beer. We slid into an empty booth across cracked red vinyl seats, and picked up the sticky menus. Dad and I shared one side, facing Grandma. She held the menu, but didn’t read it. Instead, she looked back and forth between us.

“You know,” she said, “you look like him!” She nodded toward my father.

I smiled. “I should, Gram. I’m his son.”

“Oh…” she said. She still didn’t get it.

I tried another tact. “Do you remember camp? On Great Pond?” I touched on a few of my favorite childhood memories.

Her eyes lit up. “Of course I remember camp. What do you think I am, addlepated?” She began to reminisce about people I hadn’t known, who had been her guests at the fishing resort before I was born. Although she didn’t remember me, we discovered a common ground. The tall pines. The cool, sparkling lake. The lonely tremolo of the loons. I took a long pull on my beer. A bead of sweat rolled down the green glass surface and pooled on the Formica. We sat in contented silence, sifting through sweet memories.

“Gram?” She looked at me expectantly, a pink blush spreading over her soft cheeks. “Yes?” “I remember when you and Po-pa used to bring me a slice of pizza from the café, always late at night. You’d wake me up for it. It was cold, and wrapped in a paper napkin. Best darned pizza I ever had.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured with downcast eyes. “I don’t remember anything these days.”

“It’s okay. It doesn’t matter.” I patted the back of her cold hand and warmed to the childhood memory. “You also sang to me. Every night, before I fell to sleep.”

I began to sing—softly—so as not to arouse stares from the other patrons.

“Bon Soir Mes Amis, Bon Soir.

Bon Soir Mes Amis, Bon Soir.

We had such a good time together,

But now we must say Bon Soir.”

Before I reached the second stanza, my grandmother’s eyes lit up and she joined me, singing in a wavering soprano. My heart swelled. Her eyes sparkled and her face crinkled with joy. She popped the last scallop in her mouth, and laughed with a tinkling wind-chime sound, reaching across the table to lay her hand on mine.

“Oh, my. I love that song. I used to sing it to you when you were a boy.” Warmth filled her eyes. “Isn’t it nice to be with family?”

** Bon Soir, Mes Amis is dedicated to my grandmother and based on a true story. **

***Watch for Aaron's two new books this summer - MAZURKA (fourth in the LeGarde series), and HEALEY'S CAVE, the debut book in his paranormal green marble mystery series.

It's funny how we meet our online writing buddies. In the case of Anne Kimberly, she found me. She was interested in my agent's track record, and after discussing the pros and cons, we ended up being represented by the same lady for a while. During that time, we discovered a mutual passion for gardening, and Anne became my best online gardening buddy. Of course we helped edit each other's books, that was a natural progression. And even though young adult fantasy isn't my genre (you all know I'm a mystery buff!), I loved her story and would like to share my book review.

As an aside, Anne is an passionate kid and animal lover. She wrote this book for her granddaughter, Zoe. Anne lives in the Ohio countryside with her husband and huge dog Sophie, and has a gazillion chickens and all kinds of other fowl on her property. She also has redone her old farmhouse so beautifully - it ought to be in a magazine!

Anyway, without further ado, here's the review. Enjoy!

Title: Dark Well of Decision
Author: Anne Kimberly
Publisher: Highland Press
Genre: Young Adult, Christian fantasy
Publisher's Address:
ISBN-13: 978-0980035650
Price: $7.99
Publisher website address: http://www.highlandpress.org/

Thirteen-year-old Zoe lives in the country on a beautiful farm and is kept company by her grandmother and two geese. When her chores are done, she’s given the freedom to roam the woods and fields and learns to love every aspect of nature. But Zoe doesn’t escape the usual trials of becoming a teenager. She questions her value as a young woman, feeling unattractive and comparing herself to the perfect and impossible standards seen on billboards and television. She tries hard to be a good person, helping her grandmother on the farm while her parents work hard at their respective jobs. Yet she can’t help question her grandmother’s unswerving faith.

Does God really exist? Does he know she’s suffering? Does he care?

Questions plaque the young lady at an alarming rate, in concert with the new hormones that race throughout her body, adding emotional highs and lows to her current state of confusion.

When she stops to peer down into an old well on her grandparents’ property, she sees a glimmer of something in the darkness that wasn’t there before. She looks harder, and harder… yet the vision isn’t clear. Finally, with all her concentration, she strains her eyes and focuses deep down in the well, and is immediately drawn through a tiny hole to the cold water at the bottom.

Crying out for God’s help after hours standing in the frigid water, Zoe almost gives up. No one hears her, and she fears all is lost. Yet after a particularly soulful plea to the Almighty, she spies a tiny balcony on the side of the well that she hadn’t seen earlier.

Thus begins Zoe’s magical adventure into the land of the Noachs, where she meets people from a miniature subterranean culture, including the kindly Kristo and Kitia and the lovable and brave guard dog, Areli. With their support, Zoe learns about their purpose in life and is granted an new respect for every tiny morsel nature prepares in the ground above. From a single currant berry to the soft down of a dandelion, her hosts use each gift from God with care and gratitude.

Zoe’s real test comes when faced with a “rescue” that swims before her eyes with great allure. A beautiful woman, a table laden with luscious feasts, the warmth of the sunshine, her grandparents’ farm…

But is it real? With great inner strength, Zoe recognizes the dangers of evil and restores her faith in God.

Anne Kimberly has written a magical tale that held the interest of this adult. Recommended as a book to read to young ones as well as perfectly suited for teenagers.

**********************************************************************

Aaron Paul Lazar lives on a ridge overlooking the Genesee Valley in upstate New York with his wife, mother-in-law, and cat. Recent "empty-nesters," Aaron and Dale have been fixing up their 1811 antique home after twenty-five years of kid and puppy wear. Daughters Jennifer, Melanie, and Allison live close by, and weekends now feature sleepover parties for grandsons Julian and Gordon.

Aaron works as an electrophotographic engineer at Eastman Kodak Company, in Rochester, New York, but his true passion lies in writing. While currently working on his thirteenth novel, he also enjoys gardening; cooking family feasts; photography, cross-country skiing, classical music, and French Impressionist art. Although he adored raising his delightful daughters, he finds grandfathering his “two little buddies” one of life's finest experiences.

In addition to receiving publishing contracts for Double Forte', Upstaged, Tremolo: cry of the loon, Mazurka, Healey's Cave, and One Potato, Blue Potato, Aaron writes "Seedlings," a monthly column featured in the Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine (FMAM) and the Mysteryfiction.net literary newsletter "Voice in the Dark.". His short articles on writing have appeared in Absolute Write,and his short essay, "Word Paintings" was included in the 2007 Bylines Writers' Desk Calendar. Check out the Great Mystery and Suspense Magazine for the flash fiction piece, "Follow the Leader" and visit his blogs at www.murderby4.blogspot.com and www.aaronlazar.blogspot.com. Aaron is the Saturday Writing Essential host on Gather.com.

Gus LeGarde agreed to write a new welcome to my website. Thought you might like to take a peek.

APLazar

***

Welcome, dear readers.

Aaron asked me to write this introduction. I must say, it feels a bit strange knowing you may read about the private and most painful aspects of my life.

In Double Forté, you’ll learn about my first love, Elsbeth, who died in a manner most unfitting such an ethereal and fiery spirit. I still picture her brooding eyes and delicate fingers each time I play a Chopin mazurka. She shouldn’t have died so young. She shouldn’t have died at all.

You’ll experience my childhood summers in Maine, through Aaron’s book, Tremolo, and the mystery of the missing little girl who haunted my dreams. Though I dearly loved Loon Harbor and the camp my grandparents ran on the lake, 1964 was a most challenging summer.

Now my life is out there–literally an open book–ready to be celebrated or ridiculed by millions of strangers. You’ll know what feasts I cook for my family, what variety of beets I grow in the garden, what games I play with my grandchildren, and how nuts I am about my dog.

You’ll watch me chase villains through the wintry woods and rescue a mute child from an icy hillside. You’ll hop back in time to my days in Boston, where I wrote the musical "Spirit Me Away," showcased in Upstaged. You’ll feel my pain when I recount the days just before my father died. And you’ll peek into my hotel room in Paris when I consummate my second marriage.

It’s pretty scary.

Should I have let Aaron write these books?

He convinced me that in addition to providing literary amusement, it would also set a great example for mankind. That in the face of the media explosion of sex and violence, folks craved wholesome entertainment. They wanted to be reminded how to nurture one’s family, be one with nature, live for the greater good, and stand up to evil.

Was he right?

I don’t know. But he says he gets lots of fan mail at aaron.lazar at yahoo.com. He tells me the ladies want to marry me. And that some of the guys have written to thank him for reminding them about the importance of stopping corporate madness to spend time with a child or to take walks in the woods with their dog. And I guess they all get a bit of a thrill from all the chase scenes.

Folks stop me in the market and ask if Aaron embellishes the stories to make them sell. I have to admit that he does–just a little–my house really isn’t as clean as he portrays it. And sometimes dirty clothes reach for the ceiling in the laundry room. Mrs. Pierce tries her best, but we are a very lively and messy family.

Well, Johnny’s calling me to help him catch fireflies. I can’t disappoint him.

If you’re interested in buying some of Aaron’s mysteries, you can order them online or at your local bookstore, or drop him a line. He keeps boxes of them around the house, too, and loves to autograph them to send to readers. And he’s a real ham. So if you have a book club or library event that needs a literary guest, contact him. He really gets into it.

God Bless,

Gus LeGarde

Hi, folks!

I'm reposting a piece from my other blog - Murder*by*4 - so that you might hop on over to see how you can win a copy of Tremolo! This is a great blog run by four writers, and I'd love for you to meet them.

Stop by if you can!

Aaron

***
Contest: Win an Autographed Book!

Welcome to the first contest sponsored by Murder*by*4 – we plan to give things away regularly, so stop by often for details!

In honor of our 1000th visitor, we’re offering an autographed copy of Tremolo by Aaron Paul Lazar. Read more about this fantastic story here.

To enter, we’re sending you on a sleuth hunt...

The Game

Sleuth: To spy, watch, observe, or inquire secretlyYou are a sleuth, and your mission is to gather information on four suspects and/or their accomplices. You have the names, you have the addresses – a little digging, and you’ll have the answers you need to close this case.

The Clues*

Marta Stephens pulls the strings behind the scenes in the life of one Detective Sam Harper. We’re not sure what drives this guy, but we think it has something to do with his mother. What did she do for a living? Poke around Marta’s site here: http://www.martastephens-author.com/*

Aaron Lazar’s multi-faceted involvement in the arts is surprisingly complex, extending to both written and photographic evidence. We know he controls at least two accomplices. One goes by the name of Gus LeGarde. Who is the other one? Find out here: http://www.legardemysteries.com/*

Kim Smith partners with a feisty woman named Shannon Wallace. Plans are in place to blow their cover sky-high this fall, but for now, we have only names. One known accomplice, Dwayne Brown, frequents a certain joint in South Lake, Mississippi. What’s the name of that place? Further investigation here: http://www.mkimsmith.com/*

S. W. Vaughn is charged with aiding and abetting the kidnapping and possible torture of one Gabriel Morgan. Multiple contacts are necessary for this operation, and Vaughn has learned another language in order to coordinate various groups. What language is it? Check for an answer here: http://www.swvaughn.com/

The Rules

1. Hunt down the answers to the four questions regarding the Murder*by*4 crew. The answers can be found on each authors’ website (links provided).

2. E-mail your answers to Marta Stephens with the subject "MB4 Contest Entry". Include your name and e-mail address. We’ll contact the winner to request a physical mailing address.

3. Entries must be received by April 14, 2008. Winner will be chosen in a random drawing from all correct entries.Good luck, everyone!

Hi, folks!

I haven't posted in a while, 'cause life went a little crazy on the home front. Two of my three daughters and my grandsons all moved out over the past month. They're close by, and we see them often, so it's not as traumatic as I feared. Even though we do miss them, sometimes dreadfully. My wife keeps mournfully talking about getting a new kitten or puppy.

It's been just nutso around here! I've been helping them move their furniture and get organized in their new digs, plus cleaning, painting, wallpapering, and trying to get our old place back in shape after years of kid and puppy wear.

Anyway, I wrote this piece for the Gather Writing Essential, and also will post it on the new blog, murder by 4. Check it out if you have the time!

In advance - I hope you can forgive the self promotional tome that follows - it's still hard for me to "toot my own horn," so to speak, even though I know it's a very necessary part of being an author. (wry smile) Thanks and have a lovely weekend!

***

Virtual Book Tour Update for Tremolo: cry of the loon

For any of you who have written books and are considering a virtual book tour - go for it! But don't think it's easy. Far from it!

I'm still breathing hard, trying to keep up with the tour for Tremolo: cry of the loon, recently released by Twilight Times Books.

Shelley Glodowski, senior reviewer for Midwest Book Review, says of Tremolo: "It's easy to see that Aaron Paul Lazar loves to write, as his style is lilting and beautiful. He weaves childhood memories of the lakes of Maine into a stylized whodunit that is original and breathtaking."

And Bob Williams, of Compulsivereader.com, wrote, "Tremolo is a monument to the enduring values of love, integrity, and bravery and has all the signs of persistent endurance."

I love those quotes. They make me feel validated as a writer, especially in the days when confidence flounders. But you know, good reviews aren't all you need to sell books. You need constant exposure, and a virtual book tour is a good way to exponentially increase your internet presence.

The tour sure has taken a toll on my "real" writing time. I don't think I've written more than three chapters in my new book (#13) in over a month. That's very odd for me, as I usually like to write a chapter a day.

And answering all those interview questions and keeping up with the comments on everyone's blogs is time consuming. But that's okay. Like I said before, "nobody ever bought a book they haven't heard about." So targeted promotion is a fundamental part of this business, and it's frequently necessary to funnel ones energies into another branch of the field.One little problem is that I received so much interest from folks to host the tour that it stretched from December through March. Phew. But it's been a blast! And now, as we round the corner into the last few days of February, I'm gearing up for the March group, which promises to be very exciting!
Here's a list of the tour stops to date - I've included links for those of you who might want to swing by and say hi to the hosts, or to comment on the reviews/interviews.

Lesia Valentine hosted the debut book tour with a great review and interview. Here's a quote: "This book is so cool I could eat it like ice cream. I felt like rolling down a hill in a big refrigerator box when I read it, and you will too, because Tremolo by Aaron Paul Lazar, is a nostalgic and adventurous romp through summer camp." Isn't she a great writer?

Debbie G. Deb wrote a lyrical review and asked me some interesting questions about my deepest fears. Feel free to add your own questions if you'd like to comment. Here's an excerpt from her review: "Aaron Lazar's first line in Tremolo, immediately transported me from my couch potato perch into danger, mystery and adventure. Young Gus, caretaker and protector of his grandfather's boat desperately pulls on the oars in an attempt to reach the safety of the shore before the thick fog descends. You hear the wooden paddles creak, and the lake slosh, and feel the fear as the three young friends hear a motorboat bear down on them. In that initial scene the reader loses real time and enters Gus Legarde's childhood, never to be disappointed."

Jane Corn, on Gather (of course!), blogspot, Amazon, Digg, and Associated Content.Jane asked some unique questions and posted a great review of Tremolo here. "This novel set off powerful waves of memories and pure nostalgia in me. I remembered those days when the Beatles were popular and Beatlemania was in full swing, when John Kennedy and Martin Luther King were well-known and children spent summers outside, not in front of video games.

"Mayra Calvani - on the Dark Phantom Review, Blog Critics, and Gather. Mayra posted a wonderful series of questions and also gave me a chance to list a synopsis of all twelve books. Some are available now (http://www.legardemysteries.com/) and some are in the works. But it was fun to list them all together in one spot. ;o)

Elizabeth Evans ("Bob" or "Bobbi" for short) on Gather.com here and again, here.It's amazing how unleashing others' creativity can open up a whole new way to review a book. Bob's cats and dog helped out with this one, which was hilarious! I loved getting to know Ophelia, Sophie, and Tuck even better than before. They are a great crew and keep their Mistress on her toes!

Flit , posted this lovely review, right smack dab in the middle of her insane college schedule. I don't know how she does it, but she wrote a great review. "Tremolo, like the other books I've read by Aaron Lazar, is a fast paced, easy, and enjoyable read. The characters are well-developed and very real, and consistently portrayed throughout the novels. And most importantly, of course, they are characters that it is easy to care about. You'll want to keep turning the pages because you will want to know what happens to them next."

April H conducted a long interview in two segments on Gather.com.
First half of interview
Second half of interview

She also posted excerpts from Tremolo: cry of the loon, all week as teasers to the reading community. Thanks, April!

Beverly McClure asked some interesting interview questions in this post on Gather, too.
Interview You can find out all about my "favorite" stuff in this one - including what time period I'd like to live in, if given the choice. LOL!

Beryl Singleton Bissell posted a new interview this week - and she asked some of the most stirring questions of all.

One final tip for those of you writers who might be planning a tour - it's okay to plagiarize yourself and repeat similar answers on repeat interview questions! You don't have to beat yourself up to be clever each time, trying to top your own answers to "Why do you write?" or "When did you start writing?"

I love answering the questions no matter what, especially when I get to talk about my characters in the LeGarde or Moore Mystery series. ;o)

So - if you're not sick to death of reading about me and my characters at this point, pick a few stops along the way to visit. And remember, if you love to put the virtual pen to paper - write like the wind!

***

Next stops on the tour include posts by Marci Baun (Wild Child Publishing), Marta Stephens, Kim Smith, and the lovely Patry Francis, author of The Liar's Diary.

Hello, friends and writers!

Last week I was hit with a sudden impulse to share a copy of the second Gus LeGarde book, entitled Upstaged.

We've spoken a fair amount about Double Forte', the founding book in the series, and Tremolo, the newly released "flashback to the sixties" literary mystery in which Gus and his friends are children. But we rarely talk about Upstaged, the theatrical mystery where the local drama club gets to produce a musical Gus wrote in his college days, while they battle a psychotic saboteur who lurks backstage. It's a fun ride - and of course, the book features plenty of lush nature vignettes, family meals, and the usual LeGarde backdrops against the mounting tension of evil that plays behind the scenes.

That's a photoshopped image of my wife, Dale, on a park bench on the Boston Commons, probably right around 1969, when Gus "wrote" the musical. We were probably waiting for a Rolling Stones concert, I can't remember which event it was. Anyway, Gus's Musical, "Spirit Me Away," features a flower child who's lost in many senses of the word. I had to change Dale's hair color (it's dark auburn) to match the character, and photoshopped the background to look like a stage set. ;o) This whole idea of Gus's musical sparked another another book, tentatively entitled Portamento, which describes this part of Gus and Elsbeth's youth while they were in Boston at the conservatory.

Anyway, after an invigorating walk on a local dirt road on a crisp snowy day, I chose "Why I love winter" as the contest theme. There were no rules, no word limits, and no direction, other than the suggested subject. For those of you who dislike winter, I suggested you make something up! LOL.

We received numerous amazing entries - many of which may be read in my column at the Gather.com Saturday Writing Essential. Bob Evans (aka Elizabeth) wrote a lovely poem sharing her passion for nature and walks in the woods. Wilma M. remembered how much she loved snowstorm walks, especially at night. Trudy spoke with nostalgia, missing snowy winters since she moved to California, but reveling in the beauty of her current surroundings. I spoke of a winter gift by a friend of ready-to-bloom forsythia buds, and Debbie G. recalled her grandmother's forsthia with fondness.

Dale C., a Viet Nam veteran, told us how his take on snow and winter changed after he returned from the war, and amazed us with tales of snow creatures and castles he formed in his driveway, providing untold pleasures in the cold and giving neighbors and passersby unexpected delight. I truly loved his entry, as did many Gather folks.

Wiaka shared her passion for life and God with awareness of the miracle of the snowy blanket He provides to cover and nurture the spring flowers growing beneath. She told us that winter is her favorite time due to the purity of the snowy scenes that highlight the tenderness of God's love. This was a new angle - and it resonated with me.

Behind the scenes, I received more entries that were too large for posting to the comments section. Lorraine L. sent "Snow Falling in Baghdad," a touching piece about children across the globe and a young underprivileged child named Travonti. It was a heartwarming piece full of love and wonder.

Ravi Bedi, the accomplished painter and artist extraordinaire, sent a photo essay reminding us of the less privileged folks in his country and the hardships they bear with such courage. I loved his words and photos, and urge you to take a look.

Thank you all for the amazing outpouring of articles and memories. I loved each and every one, and for those of you who simply visited and commented, thank you for stopping by.

Now it's time to announce the winner. It was a hard decision, but I fell in love with this piece by Pat F., entitled, "Into the Woods." She's posted it here, but I have permission to reprint it below.

Into The Woods
by Patricia Fowler

The way a crow

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued.

-Robert Frost

I'm just sitting here by the kitchen window. And loving it. How often do I just let go of what I should be doing and do what I want to do? Which right now is no more than to watch my birds.
There's a flurry of activity at the feeder. It happens every day about this time. I guess my little friends want to eat before they get all tucked in for the night. I wiggle my toes in my pink fuzzy socks and smile-pure contentment. I haven't done anything really constructive all day. If only I could shake this guilt.
My son, in true teenage form, has slept away most of this day- a hangover from mid terms I suppose. I hear him coming. I try to look like I am busy at something.
He gallops down the stairs-two by two. Our old house shakes and shivers. I can almost hear it moan, "Ow! Take it easy! These bones can't take that!" He's oblivious.
"Mom. What are you doing today?"
"Me? Oh, I don't know. The usual. Some bills. Email. Laundry, always laundry." I lie. I mean, c'mon, look at the pile there. "And if I feel really industrious, I might go to the grocery store." Why am I compelled to look so ....so busy? "Want me to pick up a couple of movies for the rest of our snow day?"
"No. I want to go down to Hyla Brook. The Frost Farm. I want to reconcile myself with him. I want to know what Robert Frost is about." He really says this stuff-reconcile with Robert Frost. I have to smile.
"But it's Hyla freezing out there! Why now?"
"I've been reading Ezra Pound."
"I know I should know who he is, but..."
"Mom! C'mon! He friggin' discovered Robert Frost in London! He also edited the Wasteland for T.S. Eliot. He's a poet and an essayist. C'mon, Mom."
Okay. I'm shrinking a bit. Well, a lot. So I really sit up and listen.
"I never really thought I liked Frost but the more I read him, I don't know, I just want to understand him. I love his quote, 'I had a lover's quarrel with the world' and, oh, about free verse, which he hated, he wrote, 'It's like playing tennis with the net down'." He laughs. "I like that."
He's seventeen. He likes to think against the stream. I like that.
Suddenly, I want to read more Frost. And Ezra. And Rimbaud, whoever the hell he is. Alex is a little high- minded. He thinks Frost is too simple. He doesn't know that simple things can be the most true. The most thunderous.
"C'mon let's go see Hyla Brook," he says. "Maybe I'll see the light".
How can I get in the way of that? Maybe this cold-ass trek will help him to see that light.
So, unlike me, I pull on boots. And layer upon layer of heavy wool and fleece. Against the best advice of every lazy fiber in my body, I move from the comfort of my easy chair and accept this venture into the woods.
We drive the two miles or so to Frost's farm. How many times a week do I whiz by this landmark with only the slightest ripple of regard for this man; this man who could spin philosophical gold from a field of new- mown hay?
For about the thousandth time, I subject Alex to my recitation of 'Stopping By Woods On a Snowy Evening.' I am reminded what a delight it is to recite by heart-the words tumble out so effortlessly.
I learned this musical poem when I attended Pinkerton Academy, my high school, where Frost taught English to my grandfather. I think every kid in Derry can recite it; a sort of rite of passage here in this New Hampshire town.
I took Latin in the same wainscoted room, with its mad high windows, where Frost taught English. There was a stone bust of Frost on the mantle, but I doubt I ever gave it a glance. I was probably too busy being coy for a boy behind my sheets of ironed hair. Coy for a boy-as close as I'd get to poetry back then. And yet he reads Baudelaire.
The steep pitched roof of the white farmhouse is in view. As I slow to make the turn into the gravel driveway, a big red truck is on my tail. The guy is beeping and gesturing at me, apparently oblivious to our poetic quest on this winter afternoon. Another harried soul-I muse-who should park that big red monster and take a walk on this farm; let his soul get quiet for awhile.
Despite all my waxing on about quiet souls, it's damn hard to get out of our warm car and step into the biting winter wind. It really bites, that's not just a word that people toss around up here. I wonder if it'll do to just get a book of Frost and read it here-from the warmth of this space. After all, the vibes are all around us-it could work.
But Alex is already out, impatient for me to get my act together. He stamps his feet against the cold, and cups his gloves to his face. The steam blows over the tops of his gloved fingertips like a waterfall-he's bullish to get going. "MOM! C'MON!"
"Oh, all right!" I open the car door and slowly roll out, about as gracefully as a refrigerator with mittens and a hat.
He flies ahead of me on the frozen path. Oddly, I notice his right foot turns out a bit- as I warily trudge- lest I turn my own. I follow my guide. Wait. When did his shoulders get so broad?
He's rambling aloud to me, or the trees, about Frost and Rimbaud, and Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde. He reads like a demon and can quote from the books by heart. I envy him his easy access to all that brilliance of thought. All the connections he makes, at his tender age. I was just being coy with that boy when I was seventeen.
To my happy surprise, the path running along the rock wall to the woods is relatively bare. Mashed maple leaves paint a long reddish stripe to the woods beyond the field where we are headed. There are guideposts all along the path-but no guide-so one must only guess at the merit of each stopping place.
"See that stand of birches over there? I wonder if that's why they want us to stop here-right at this point." The white birches stand alone, in a clump, their papery white trunks so starkly outlined against the gray woods. Beautiful.
"Alex. Stop! Maybe Bobby wrote 'Birches' after standing here. Right here!" I say with no small touch of real wonder. "Maybe he was feeding his chickens or setting his cow out to pasture on a cold January day just like this one! And he spied that same stand of birches. Well, I guess they would have been a lot smaller then." Reality bites, like this wind.
He looks back over his shoulder and rolls his eyes.
Undaunted, I continue, " 'Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells, shattering and avalanching on the snow crust-such heaps of broken glass to sweep away, you'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen...the inner dome of heaven'...I love that."
"I know, Mom; one of your favorites." But he just keeps walking and my faith in his soulfulness wanes a bit.
The path is not so bare now, and we lift our legs higher to clear each step in the deepening snow. My legs are starting to feel like logs- and yet I feel a strange exuberance- an excitement to be here- in this field where Frost once wandered; where some of his most beautiful thoughts may have crystallized.
I wonder. Did he run back to that old white farm house to write them all down? Or did they linger-perfect-in his memory until he could settle in by the fire at night and put pen to paper?
"Number 15! Alex! A stone wall! Maybe this is 'The Mending Wall' ! I burst into near song " 'Something there is that doesn't love a wall'..."
I realize mid- soliloquy that I forgot the rest. He doesn't turn to check my progress. As I watch his back, there is only the steam of his breath as he gently scoffs, "Sure, Mom. It was that wall that he was writing about- of all the rock walls in New England."
He's really outpacing me know. I have to yell. "Or maybe it's these woods we should be contemplating. 'Whose woods these are, I think I know...' "
"MOM! PLEASE! Once a day is enough on that one!"
Just over my head a branch overhanging the path rattles its dead leaves at me. It is Frost- I am sure, whispering to only me: "Keep your faith in uncertain things."
"Where is this brook, anyway?" my ungrateful guide hollers back.
"Oh, I don't know, up there a ways. That's all I remember."
Ten paces apart, we each duck in succession, as we pass under an airy green arch of pines into the woods. The path turns sharply south. The going underfoot is decidedly more treacherous here- the ice so hard and slick- like walking on corrugated glass.
A walking stick would do me well right about now. I try to wrestle a downed sapling from the snow and ice- but it will not be taken from its snow white bed. Not today.
"If only I had a son a lit-tle more aware of his mother in need. I should have raised that kid better," I grumble.
I hear the wind again but this time it's not a whisper. It blows high aloft in these barren treetops, their branches clicking. I call ahead. I make him stop. He turns and scowls, clearly annoyed with my demanding pleas. This is tough work- turning him on to Frost's stomping grounds.
"Aleeeexxx! Listen! What does that sound like to you?" He must recognize the telltale elongated pronunciation of his name- and so he obliges with a reply.
"I don't capture sound, Mom. I like images and feelings."
Well, excuse me.
He crunches on. I push. Like some maniacal soul guide, I am trying to tune him in-like I do when we go just about anywhere. "Alex. Look at the beautiful wrought iron gates and fences (when in Charleston). Just look at the WORK in those! Alex! Smell that eucalyptus! Amazing how it perfumes the fog! (when in The Muir Woods outside of San Francisco).
I mean, really! What are his books worth if he doesn't GET this? I think that I am even annoying myself, now, but that doesn't stop me. Momma's on a mission: depth of soul training. Not for the faint of heart.
"C'mon! What does it sound like?"
"Okay. An ocean." He trudges on without stopping to pause in my reverie.
"That's perfect! Waves rolling in and out of the treetops!" I feel satisfied, somehow. How does he stand me?
"So do you see it, yet?" Puff. Puff. Please let that damn brook show itself soon. I am fat-running out of steam here, Hyla.
"It's right here!" he barks impatiently.
"Well, why didn't you celebrate a little- so I'd know that you found it?" I quicken my step half wanting this nature walk done. I can't feel anything from the knees down. I come up over this tiny crest in the path, and there she is: Hyla Brook.
I last saw her about fifteen years ago in spring. Winter has laid her even more beautiful still. She is the epitome of what every brook should be-just wide enough that you could almost jump across -if you took a running leap. She meanders-that lovely word that should belong only to brooks in New England-she meanders; downhill through the snowy mounds-and the brittle gray hardwoods and the spike-needled pines-like a black satin ribbon curving beneath our feet.
Alex is standing on the tiny arched bridge and puts out his hand to give his old Mom a hoist. We peer down through the crystal clear ice. There under the ice- boulders and leaves seem to be frozen in mid air-as though the freeze happened in an instant as they tumbled downstream.
We gingerly turn in place- balancing there on the bridge-like bundled music box ballerinas-I wary of slipping.
There's a spot-a place where the ice is somehow open- and the water bubbles to the surface. It even gurgles; a tiny fountain offering us a musical interlude here deep in these woods. Like it could be any more perfect. Right here. Right now.
"Alex. I am so glad that you made me come out here today-it's so beautiful!" And to my frozen surprise-I really mean it.
Whenever I find myself in a place like this-so perfect-I try to memorize it. I close my eyes and open them. Close my eyes and open them -to see if my mind's eye picture matches. It does.
"Alex. Just see this."
"I see it," he assures me.
I wonder-in my controlling soul guide kind of way-if he really does. I fear he hasn't caught it at all. The way the snow sparkles where the land rises but is softly gray in the hollows. The way the slanting afternoon sun is split by the trees-and the trees' shadows-long black stripes across this expanse of snow. No footprints mar the soft focus of trees, rocks and snow.
I am in one of those moods: fairly agog with the beauty, like I have never seen it quite like this before.
I pop out of my reverie as a blast of cold air blows up under my coat.
He stands there with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold. He doesn't seem agog to me. Perhaps these woods-the quiet beauty-Frost's simple deep style- are lost to him. I guess that he prefers the dramatic complexity of French poets-whose long convoluted passages just make me tired.
I breathe in. Savor the stillness-and then slowly turn-step off the bridge-and start the crunch back home. The freeze line has climbed to my hips.
"C'mon, Alex. We better head back. I'm really getting cold! We still have that walk through the snowfield to tackle."
Seconds pass and no footsteps crunch behind. As I turn, I see him there on the little bridge with that silly woolen hat pulled down around his ears. He bends on one knee and gently scoops a handful of icy water from the bubbly font. He lets it drain from his palm and then rubs his fingers against his thumb, somehow saving the essence of here.
And then he gains on me-which ain't a hard thing to do- and is ahead of me again. I won't say I have witnessed that tender act.
And then-here in the icy woods-he turns and shows me a stone.
"Mom! Look. Look what I got-from Hyla Brook." He opens his gloved hand and reveals a small stone, brownish green with an orange splotch- like an eye.
"It's the first thing my fingers touched".
My chest warms. Just then, a sudden gust rattles the hemlock branch, arching over our heads. A mist of glistening snow fills the air. I gasp, and squint at the stone through the whiteness. The snow settles on its face. In the fractured light, the eye seems to wink.