It’s over.

No longer will I hold my arms open and welcome you to my home as “friend,” waiting for your eyes to bore into me and squash me to the ground.

No longer will I seat you in my room of treasures, wondering if you’ll ever notice the soft patina of the cherry wood, or comment on the colors so carefully blended, or the subtle beauty of the cherished Oriental handed down by ancestors long lost while you gloat about your friend’s lovely homes.

No longer will I pour you a glass of my best wine–hoping it bears up under your scrutiny–and gently place it beside you while you vomit your latest accomplishment as I smile and listen and… grovel.

I hate that about myself, but I was raised to be polite. But damn it, you never stop talking.

Nor will I listen to your long list of accomplishments or acquisitions, feeling belittled and betrayed by your absence of empathy. Do you ever detect that flicker of annoyance in my eyes? That glazed-over “help me” expression?

Of course not. You don’t look at me. You hold your wine in those long brown fingers and talk about yourself while your own dark eyes glow in appreciation of your own words.

Do you ever notice how much you talk? How I sit and nod and say the appropriate things to each of your new revelations? How I try to squeeze in a sentence or two and am immediately ground under your wheels in your constant games of one-up-manship?

No longer will I be forced to bear your words responding to my latest decision to try something–anything–instead of wallowing in this land of no-one-wants-me. Never is my new-found passion the "right thing for me," the appropriate interest, the proper fit.

Yet, when I try to force you to listen by gently prodding you, kidding you, making you take notice of my latest interest–you chide me and say you’re surprised I hadn’t learned about this when I lived in Boston 30 years ago, where everyone was doing it. Your knowledge in the field is deep and well renowned. So you say. Once again, I am belittled. Once again, I plunge into an abyss of worthlessness.

When I discover an interest in working with the disabled, you frown and say I haven’t the skills. “Who would hire you? You have no experience.” You toss out your own dalliances in the field as cavalierly as you can, bragging about famous connections. No, you find fault with it all, and tell me with tongue in cheek that maybe I should try… being an author.

Damn, that stings.

I mention my newest book, a saucy expression crosses your face and you say with near distain I liked your first book better, when everyone else disagrees.

Your words seem to matter, cut deeper, than all the praise in the world. Why?

Still, I hand you signed copies of all my novels. You never offer to pay for them, even when you stop by to pick one up to give to a friend. And when I mention the price, your eyebrows shoot to the moon, as if shocked I actually would charge you, my privileged friend. So I back down and donate it, once again.

You frown at me for not being a best-selling author yet, and tell me about your friends who are. You say, “You need national coverage,” as if I haven’t been trying for years to get there, to sell a hundred thousand books in a year. You show me hardcover books with jackets and gold printing and say, “that’s how your books should appear,” as if I WANT my books forever released in trade paperback.

You show up unannounced, and expect me to stop dinner, or playtime with grandkids, or my outdoor projects, to stand and nod my head and say, “Wow,” with every new announcement, for grueling hours at a time.

Yet I call you friend. Yet I know you believe you’re doing me a favor by granting me the privilege of your experience and advice. And yet tonight, I don’t care.

Of course that’s a lie. I hate myself for being your doormat. I hate it worse than the rejection I got yesterday from Home Depot. And I hate it more than being a scientist with years of brilliant discoveries, elegant solutions, with scores of patents lining my walls. Overqualified, undervalued.

That’s me.

I care so much it woke me up tonight and made me walk outside to the barn.

When you stand at my grave, will you bow your head in a knowing fashion and say, “I knew he was fragile?”

Will you have regrets?

Or will you find another patsy to call your friend?

I’ll never send this, because it’s over. And like I said, I was raised better than that.

Sweet relief now rests in my grasp, ready to free me from the failures, but especially from you.

I snap the bristled rope in my hands, testing it to see if it will hold, and glance at the beam overhead.

The swallows make unsettled noises in their nests. They probably wouldn’t hold up to your inspection either.

***

Okay, now let me explain. ;o)

At a recent “career conference” I took a seminar in communication entitled “The Three Deadly Sins: what not to do in a job interview.” It actually didn’t have all that much to do with job hunting, but it was a fascinating session where I bumped into dozens of past colleagues who like me, are still searching for work. It got me thinking about misinterpretations and misunderstandings, and somehow brought me to the idea of letting emotions enlarge to outlandish proportions, and using them to drive a plot.

I worried and wondered about some of the folks I met, especially those who seemed rather fragile. If I–a normally confident guy who had always seen the glass as half full–could be occasionally be reduced to someone who feels worthless during this difficult job hunting time–then what would happen to them? Armed with new intentions to stay in touch and help them along the way, my writer’s mind wandered in not-so-pleasant directions.

I pictured some without family or friends, and how hard it would be to stay upbeat if you were alone. I blended ideas of snippets heard at the conference. One fellow–a scientist–had mentioned being rejected for a job at Home Depot. My heart went out to him, because I’d just applied to Wegmans earlier that week.

Then I read S.W. Vaughn’s letter from her character, Gabriel. While it was tongue-in-cheek and totally delicious, it prompted me to want to write something in that format, especially after getting really ticked off at a guy who calls himself my friend.

I’ve also become enamored in recent times of the use of repetition in writing and played around with it a bit here.

This is what came out. Sometimes it’s fun to let your imagination run a bit rampant.

Will it turn into my next novel? I’m not sure.

(And don’t worry. I’m not holding a rope in my hands.)

***

www.legardemysteries.com
www.mooremysteries.com
www.murderby4.blogspot.com
www.pureoils.blogspot.com
www.aaronlazar.younglivingworld.com
www.aaronlazar.blogspot.com

Goodbye to Headaches

I've suffered from headaches all of my adult life. They're ranged from daily morning headaches that seemed to come from the sinus area, to sharp, knee-buckling migraines that could only be assuaged by sleep. I remember lying on my pillow in a darkened room while Dale tried to keep the little ones quiet downstairs... the noise of my head rubbing against the pillow fabric was torture.

Driving often precipitated a headache, and of course loud television sound tracks were guaranteed to get me going. But most of all, I woke every morning (or in the middle of the night) with throbbing headaches that wouldn't go away.

After suffering for years, and after dealing with my family's more severe health issues that always took the forefront (MS, childhood development issues, teen rebellion issues, etc.) I finally saw a headache specialist.

He prescribed a very strong medicine that had pretty scary side effects. (heart related risks) But I was desperate, so I tried it. I remember him saying it would "get worse before it got better" each time you took it. Driving to work one sunny morning, I took a dose when a headache hit. The head pain grew almost intolerable, then backed off a little. The headache didn't go away completely, and I got very sick to my stomach.

I tried it a few more times, then got so fed up I went to the market and bought and over the counter solution. Advil, blue liquid capsules. I figured if it was over the counter, it couldn't be too bad for you, right? After all, it was just a liquid, too, which should pass through my stomach easily and not cause ulcers or anything. Right? Hmm. Read on.

The Advil helped immediately! Pain was gone and I was thrilled. I started taking it automatically every morning (2 pills) and sometimes two at noon and two at night. I'd take it in the middle of the night to resolve the headaches that woke me up, and it worked. By golly, it worked! It was cheap, and it worked!

Then I saw my doctor for something totally unrelated - a badly strained back. I'd never mentioned the Advil to him, since it was "over the counter" and it was already helping the headaches. Why bother? But this time he recommended an ibuprofen type drug to help the swelling. I told him I'd already increased my Advil to help the pain, but it hadn't helped much. I was taking six Advil a day.

He looked at me with those gentle eyes of his that suddenly grew wary. "How long have you been taking it?"

"Ten years. But not this much. Usually I just take two in the morning and sometimes during the day."

"Every single day?"

"Pretty much."

It was then that reality hit, square between the eyes. He said I was at high risk for developing bleeding ulcers, and that he'd sent many people to the ER who almost died from such because of taking too much aspirin or Advil. He told me I was probably having "rebound" headaches from the Advil, and that my body reacted with headaches when I didn't take it.

Frankly, I didn't believe the rebound bit, but he scared the heck out of me with the stomach ulcer warning. So I stopped. Cold turkey. And I had two weeks of solid head pain.

Eventually, the daily headaches lessened. Some days I didn't have any. But they still showed up and I had to simply tough it out. He was right about the rebound, but the Tylenol he suggested as a solution didn't cut the pain in the least.

So I suffered. Until last spring, when I was waiting to get my hair cut at Lisa Marie's Hair Salon in Livonia, NY. In the middle of reading a newspaper article, I sat straight up in my seat. A scent had wafted over to me from Lisa's station - something so powerful and pleasant and uplifting that I couldn't stay put. I wandered over to her (how bold was that?!?) and asked her what it was. On her table she had a collection of little brown bottles with colorful labels on them. She lifted one to me and let me sniff. Then she put a little on my hand and rubbed it in. I think it was the Thieves blend of essential oils (cloves, cinammon, lemon, rosemary, eucalyptus radiata), or maybe the Christmas Spirit blend (cloves, orange, spruce). I can't remember now. All I remember is that I was attracted to this stuff like a character in a cartoon. It was as if I lifted off the ground and floated toward it, then inhaled it like an aphrodisiac or a drug! While she cut my hair she told me about her personal experiences with the oils, how the Peace and Calming blend had helped her little son focus better in the classroom (verified by his teacher, who didn't know what Lisa had tried), and about her brother who'd been in a horrible accident, and how the oils had helped relieve his pain where no other meds could. And so much more.

I was both intrigued and skeptical. I wanted to learn more, to be sure it wasn't some kind of scam product. I soon learned that these little bottles of oil were supremely legit - used by the Beth Israel hospital to treat patients and by many other fine physicians around the world. They are purely organic and from the earth. Nature's bounty, carefully processed with the highest quality standards and organically produced. I fell in love with the oils, bought a starter kit with nine bottles (Peppermint, Lavender, Lemon, Frankincense, Purification, Thieves, Valor, Panaway, and Peace and Calming) and started to experiment to see what they'd do for me and my family.

That's when Peppermint Oil became a major part of my life. I learned that in addition to its many other properties (see list below), it was known to relieve headache pain. I applied a couple of drops to the nape of my neck, to my temples, and across my forehead - but not too close to my eyes, as this stuff is VERY concentrated and can make your eyes water. One drop of peppermint oil is a s strong as TWENTY cups of peppermint tea.

In less than ten minutes, my headache simply vanished. The relief lasted a few hours. I reapplied, and the same thing happened. I started to get all nervous because I was afraid to get too excited about something that affected such a huge problem. How could this work? Why would it work? I researched like mad, and found the whole essential oils story to be steeped in history - from ancient Egyptian practices to those mentioned in the Bible. Eastern cultures have used them for years, taking the goodness from plants, trees, and shrubs and using them to treat all sorts of conditions. I wore my peppermint into a Thai restaurant, and one of the servers, of Chinese heritage, said it smelled just like the "Chinese medicine" (oil) her family uses to rub on the forehead for headaches!

So it wasn't new. It just wasn't widely embraced *yet* but our Western world.

I don't go anywhere without my peppermint anymore. I just ordered two more 15ml bottles to be sure I don't run out. I keep it by my bedside, in the kitchen, in my car, and in my pocket. One bottle does last a long time, but now that I've found such a super solution I want it available all the time.

I've tried it on my cousin - her headache went away. My mom wanted to try it on her sciatica. I was skeptical that it would help, but now she sleeps every night pain free. She figured that one out on her own and just bought another bottle of it! She also says a dab of it on her forehead keeps the gnats away when she's gardening. She lives near a swamp and has TONS of those pesky things. I've met other oil lovers now (at expos and conventions) who have similar stories, accounts of peppermint (and the other oils) working wonders in their lives. My life has changed dramatically now, and everywhere I go, I suggest a different oil or combination to my friends. I guess you could say I'm newly obsessed, but in a good way.

And yes. I'm going to write a book about it!

***

I'm not a doctor. I don't claim that peppermint will work for everyone's headaches. But it's worth a try. If you're interested in getting a kit or a single bottle, here's my website:

http://aaronlazar.younglivingworld.com

(note: there's no "www" in the address!)

P.S. If you're interested, I recommend you sign up as a "distributor." I did. There's no pressure or obligation, you just get your future oil purchases at 24% off retail if you do. And then, if you fall for them like I did, you can share them with your friends at the same discount. (you also make a little money yourself for selling them, it's a legitimate business that many people actually make a very good living on!) Sort of like Avon products, but for your health and home. :o)

***

Here's a list of ways folks have used peppermint in the past:

o PEPPERMINT - (Mentha piperita) is one of the oldest and most highly regarded herbs for soothing digestion. Jean Valnet, M.D., studied peppermint's effect on the liver and respiratory systems. Dr. William N. Dember of the University of Cincinnati studied peppermint's ability to improve concentration and mental accuracy. Alan Hirsch, M.D., studied peppermint's ability to directly affect the brain's satiety center, which triggers a sense of fullness after meals. Peppermint is grown and distilled at the Young Living Farms.

· Put a drop of Peppermint on your tongue and/or one under your nose to increase alertness and concentration-very helpful if you're starting to feel tired when driving!

· Rub 4-6 drops over your stomach and around your navel to relieve indigestion.

· Add a drop of Peppermint oil to water or herbal tea to relieve heartburn or nausea.

· Massage several drops of Peppermint oil on an area of joint or muscle injury to reduce inflammation (around, but not directly on, an open wound).

· Rub several drops of Peppermint oil on the bottoms of your feet to reduce fever.

· Apply a drop of Peppermint oil topically on unbroken skin to stop itching.

· Inhale Peppermint oil before and during a workout to boost your mood and reduce fatigue.

· To relieve a headache rub a drop of Peppermint oil on your temples, forehead, over the sinuses (stay away from the eyes) and/or on the back of your neck.

· Diffuse Peppermint oil in the room while studying to improve concentration and accuracy; then inhale Peppermint oil while taking a test to improve recall.

· Place a drop of Peppermint oil on your tongue, or put a drop in your palm or on a tissue and simply inhale the aroma to relieve congestion from a cold or sinus problem.

· Add Peppermint oil to food as a flavoring and a preservative.

· To deter rats, mice, ants or cockroaches, smear a few drops of Peppermint oil along their path or point of entry to deter them.

· To kill aphids add 4-5 drops of Peppermint oil to 4 ounces of water and spray the plants.

· Drink a drop of Peppermint oil mixed in a glass of cold water to cool off on a hot day.

· Place a drop of Peppermint oil on the tongue to stop bad breath.

· Inhale the fragrance of Peppermint oil to curb the appetite and lessen the impulse to overeat.

Review for Struck, by Keith Pyeatt, reviewed by Aaron Paul Lazar

Title: Struck

Author: Keith Pyeatt

Publisher: Quest Books

Publisher Addresses:

ISBN number: 978-1935053-17-0

Price: $19.95

Publisher website: http://http://www.regalcrest.biz

The books I count among my favorites are those whose well-drawn characters linger with me for days, or even weeks. They are the stories that rise above the norm, whose scenes are painted with such skill that I feel a deep sense of place, and suffer a bit of separation anxiety when I approach the last page and realize it’s almost over. Struck, Keith Pyeatt’s debut paranormal thriller, was such a book.

It’s been two weeks since I finished the book, and Barry Andrews, Pyeatt’s protagonist, still haunts me. Barry’s life was preordained the minute his mother was struck by lightning when he lay curled in her womb. And when lightning finds him again at Albuquerque’s Petroglyph National Monument, a series of predestined events are put into motion. The energy now stored within this likeable young man stir powers unimagined.

Against a backdrop of ancient pueblo ruins, slumbering volcanoes that unpredictably awaken, and bizarre disturbances in Chaco Canyon, Pyeatt introduces characters with great depth and a subtle touch of humor. After being struck, Barry begins to notice bizarre effects. His palm, now marked by a symbol that pulses electric blue on occasion, helps him connect to other souls and carries messages to him about their sadness or fate. He knows when someone is about to die, and can help them peel the layers of pain away so they’re free to move on to the next world. Sleep eludes him, and while he stumbles through his job in a daze, strange sensations continue to build within him.

Inexplicably drawn to Native American tribal elder Walter, Barry is invited into his mystical world, from the village of Amitolita where Walter and his wife live, to kivas in the Amitole Pueblo, to ceremonies in a sweat lodge where sage is strewn across the floor and piñon-infused water is boiled to scatter on hot stones to create cleansing steam. Pyeatt’s writing style is easy to swallow, yet innovative with strong poetic influences.

“It only took a moment until he got the sensation of being folded into a deep mixture of past and present that carried him far away from the kiva, far away from his body. He was cocooned somewhere, safe and warm and dark, yet all around him dozens of individual battles raged. Barry only sensed them, but it was enough to recognize their struggles. Life fought death, winter resisted spring, and chaos tugged at order.”

The story plunges ahead, and we discover tribal elder Walter spent time training and working with Thomas Maguire, a browbeaten young man raised by a forceful, cruel grandfather. The tribal elder was driven to “prepare” this young man for a yet unnamed climatic event seen only in his spirit-visions, yet doubts have been mounting about the validity of Thomas as the earth’s savior. The future holds something monstrous and potent, and Walter realizes he plays an integral role in its outcome.

When a bizarre power transfer ceremony based on Anasazi’s ancient history drives supernatural powers into Thomas’s being, he gradually turns from a man with a tumultuous and fragile psyche who simply needs to be loved, into a monster. Walter reluctantly recognizes this, and transfers his focus to Barry, the true warrior he’s been waiting for all his life. Jealousy pushes Thomas further from his true nature, building inside him with an uncontrollable black force. Destiny calls for a showdown between Barry and Thomas, and the book rockets toward a surprising culmination.

Several of Pyeatt’s characters are gay, and the author paints them with professional, loving brush strokes. Barry’s sidekick Martin, an overweight waiter at Los Cuates Mexican restaurant, is diagnosed with a life threatening heart condition that leads to a torturous diet. Loveable and real, Martin becomes a clear favorite from the start and plays an important supporting role.

The story and characters are mesmerizing, but it was actually the writing that made me sit up and take notice:

“Pain pierced his lungs, as if the air he breathed had alchemized into something powdery and rough, toxic and thirsty. The agony spread. He couldn’t stop it. Every cell in his body pulled at the poison, needing it, expecting it to provide oxygen as before.”

See what I mean? Keith Pyeatt’s books are available through all bookstores, including Amazon.com, or purchase autographed copies via his website.

***

Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. The author of LeGarde Mysteries and Moore Mysteries savors the countryside in the Genesee Valley in upstate New York, where his characters embrace life, play with their dogs and grandkids, grow sumptuous gardens, and chase bad guys. Visit his websites at www.legardemysteries.com and www.mooremysteries.com and watch for Healey’s Cave, the debut book in the new paranormal Moore Mysteries series, coming in April 2010 from Twilight Times Books.

Double Forté is the founding book of the LeGarde Mystery series and was released in November, 2004. Upstaged followed in October, 2005. Lazar’s third, Tremolo: cry of the loon, was released via Twilight Times Books in November 2007. Mr. Lazar is currently working on his fourteenth book, Don’t Let the Wind Catch You. The fifth book in the LeGarde Mystery series, Firesong: an unholy grave, is scheduled for 2010 release. He is a regular columnist for FMAM (Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine), Mysteryfiction.net and has been published in Great Mystery and Suspense magazine and the Absolute Write Newsletter. Contact him at: aaron.lazar@yahoo.com, visit his Writer’s Digest Best 101 websites blog at murderby4.blogspot.com, aaronlazar.blogspot.com, aplazar.gather.com, or stop by his websites at www.legardemysteries.com and www.mooremysteries.com.

Wyoming Writes - Face to Face with Writers

copyright 2009 aaron paul lazar

You recognize this picture, right? Or at least the guy in it? That's because I'm all over the web, and co-owner of this blog. So I probably look a bit familiar.

But how many of us have met in person? Face to face? Breathing the same air?

My writerly life is full of people I adore, but most of them are a voice on the computer (or phone) and an image on my screen. I feel as if I know them intimately - at least my closest friends - and would be able to pick up a conversation in a snap if and when we meet in real life. I have had the distinct pleasure of meeting S.W. Vaughn at a book signing in Syracuse. We clicked immediately and I knew we would.

Of course these online friends are "real". And the fact that I don't get to physically meet with them is okay. But last night, for the first time in my writing life, I joined a Writers Group and went face to face with other writers.

I was very hesitant. I had no knowledge of their writing skills. Would they all be amateurs and ask me to critique their books? Not that there's ANYTHING wrong with amateurs. Heck, we all were amateurs at one point in our lives. And I do help fledgling writers all the time. But I knew in advance that I wouldn't be able to take on that kind of a work load. Hell, I have to turn down my online writer friends all the time. Would they ask me to read and review their books? As many of you know, I fit in just a few mysteries per year and struggle to get those reviews written up within 3-6 months. I wish I could do them all, but then I wouldn't be a writer, I'd be a reviewer. ;o)

On the other hand, this stupid brain of mine worried I that maybe they'd be all highbrow super academics who would look down on my mystery series. I'd read them a chapter from my WIP and they'd exchange looks of amused tolerance. Or worse. Tell me all the things they thought are horribly wrong with it. I'm open to critiques, but I was afraid of being ripped to shreds. Yeah, even after publishing four books, writing fourteen, and getting lots of great praise and reviews. I was still nervous. I don't think I'll ever outgrow the fear of being "exposed" as a horrible writer in front of academics. LOL.

Wayne, one of my old friends from Kodak showed up the other day. I hadn't seen him in ten years, and there he was on my doorstep. I was thrilled, as I'd been missing my old pals at Kodak more and more. Wayne's now a journalist for a local paper, and he urged me to attend the Wyoming Writes group as well as do an interview for his paper. He'd been wanting to check out the group himself, and thought he'd write an article about it for his paper.

So, with trepidation rolling around in my brain, I dressed up nice casual clothes and took off for Perry, New York. The bookstore where the group meets is called Burlingham Books. It's a beautiful little shop on what I call Main Street USA - a lovely historic village not far from Letchworth State Park. Wayne and I got there early, did the interview, and waited as folks started to arrive.

All my fears were completely ungrounded. The people - Tanya, Deb M, Deb S, Cindy, the Scribbler, Mr. Newton, and Wayne, were welcoming and supportive. They were mature writers who had stories and work to share. We listened to a chapter about a small country church, quirky poems, poems that painted luscious imagery, and a frank and hilarious opening to a book of memoirs. All were well done and simply delightful. I read the first chapter to Don't Let the Wind Catch You, and to my joy, the folks enjoyed it and wanted to know what happens next. :o) Always a nice sign!

After an hour of reading and sharing, we took a "field trip" to a local art gallery where a delightful assortment of paintings and watercolors were on display. We each chose a piece that "spoke" to us, and had fifteen minutes to write. On other writers' sites I've joined we called this flash fiction. You might call it postcard fiction. But whatever, it was a ball. When we were done, each writer shared his creation as we stood in front of the painting and listened. I've gotta tell you, these works were amazing.

My choice was a gorgeous watercolor. A blue vase with red/pink poppies and iris, by Sandra Tyler. This camera shot doesn't do it justice by any means, but it is truly vibrant and lustrous.

Here's what I wrote in my fifteen minutes. Now don't laugh, it's not polished or anything. And in spite of the beauty of the painting, my mind turned to mystery.

What else?

Blue with Flowers by Sandra Tyler

Celeste placed the vase on the table and dropped into the chair beside it. She’d picked her mother’s poppies before, but today was different. Today her mother lay – not in the cot beside her – but beneath the ground.

The salmon poppies were the color of her mother’s favorite sweater, a fuzzy number that
Celeste now wore, wrapped tight around her thin chest. She touched the fragile petals, and couldn’t help compare it with the feel of her mother’s soft cheeks. Cheeks that had sunk deeper and deeper against her bones in the past months. Cheeks that became concave, but which still cradled a smile when her mother’s thin lips curved into a ribbon of delight. Cheeks that Celeste now saw in the mirror, reflected back at her.

She’d inherited more than just her looks from her mother. Her stubborn nature, her love of cupcakes, and her passion for all things pink had clearly sprung from the genetic well that was Mom. Dad had given her the bright red hair. But not much else.

She wished he’d come to the funeral today. At least to make things look normal. Where was he? Off with on a dalliance with a rich bimbo? At the casino? Searching for more unwitting victims?
Celeste knew what had happened. She watched her mother eat the oatmeal every morning. The oatmeal her father had prepared. And she knew. She just knew there had been something in it. Something not right.

Being ten was hard. Especially when your father murdered your mother.

***
LOL. Okay, so there it is. But the point is, if you haven't joined an in person writers group, give it a try. I'm hooked and will be attending every month.

And always remember, if you love to write, write like the wind!

***

Mazurka, the fourth book in the LeGarde Mystery series is now available through the author, in special pre-release copies. Email him at aaron.lazar@yahoo.com for details.

Visit Twilight Times Books for special deals Oct 1 - Nov 15th.

This year is the 10th anniversary of the founding of Twilight Times Books (1999) and the 5th year since we went to print (2004). Those are significant milestones. In celebration, Twilight Times Books will have a print book sale from Oct. 1st to Nov. 15th. Most titles will be offered to the general public at a 10 - 30% discount.

http://twilighttimesbooks.com/print_books101509sale.html For a limited time, and while quantities last, we are offering a 30% - 50% discount on selected titles.

http://twilighttimesbooks.com/print_books101509special.html

(one of the deals is: Buy Mazurka for $15.15 and get Tremolo for $10.15 (a 40% discount))

Paradise, Part 3

copyright aaron paul lazar, 2009


As I’ve mentioned in the first two pieces on “Paradise,” my goal is to catalog the extraordinary experiences I’ve had since losing my job of twenty-eight years. Exploring that lustrous silver lining that comes with life traumas helps me stop feeling sorry for myself, so I’m doing my best to document things that never would have happened if I’d still been working at Kodak.

My engineering career was long and satisfying. Sadly, this week Kodak’s laying off another 20% of the few folks who are left in my old group. When my boss told me I was laid off last January, he said, “It’s the beginning of the end, Aaron.” I guess he was right. There are now less than 7,000 Kodak employees in Rochester, compared to the 60,000 that were there when I was hired in 1981. I’m struggling not to relive the unsettling feelings I experienced when it was my turn to be rejected. Er. I mean laid off. Of course, the actual term is “involuntary separation,” or “forced early retirement.” Except the powers to be messed with our retirement money when they sold us and bought us back from Heidelberg, so there’s no hope of actually retiring yet. God, I wish there were, with every fiber of my being. But such is life.

I hope to help my former colleagues as best I can in the weeks to come. Although I expected to have a great job by now, and to be able to bring in some of my former coworkers into the fold of a wonderful new company when they got the axe… Um… that hasn’t happened yet. But it will. So everyone tells me.

Frankly, I’m starting to wonder if anyone who’s 56 years old gets a good job. Sure doesn’t seem like it. And get this - I have more energy than both of my 24-year-old daughters put together, and dozens of productive years ahead of me. (Ahem. Any prospective employers listening?)

Okay, enough of this raving. The feelings are real, but it’s not very helpful to wallow.

If you remember, I introduced you to “Frank,” in Paradise Part 1, and “Bella” in Part 2. Today, in Part 3, I’m discussing a group of people who stole my heart. I plan to return to this magical place, frequently, when I retire for real.


(This photo was taken from an online collection. The expression on this man’s face is priceless!)

When I worked at Kodak I never had enough vacation. Much of it was spent taking family to doctors and trying to keep up with my gardens and chair caning business. Even five weeks a year didn’t cut it, so I never had time to take out to volunteer, though I’d always wanted to do it.

About a month ago my daughter invited me to volunteer at her summer job, a fine “day care” facility in Rochester, NY. I’m going to change the names of everyone – from the institution to the individuals – because I respect their privacy. I was honored to help out at this fine establishment that cares for and nurtures the artistic talents of disabled individuals.

Each year, this wonderful facility celebrates its clients by orchestrating a special “summer fest.” The theme this year was “Hollywood,” and each of the individuals was encouraged to dress up in costumes from Batman Costumes suits to Cinderella gowns. My job was to play “paparazzi” and take photos of them as they arrived via limo and walked down the red carpet we lovingly laid for them.

My heart leapt every time a new carload of people was delivered at the entrance. Whether they suffered from Down Syndrome, blindness, autism, muscular dystrophy, or a multitude of other conditions, they arrived dressed to the nines. Boas were flipped over saucy shoulders, bowties were straightened with pride, and hats were tilted in jaunty angles. The gals showed off prom gowns with sparkling tiaras, twirling around for the photos with such excitement that I couldn’t help cheer them on. The pride in their beautiful faces shone brighter than the sun that didn’t show up that morning.

Melanie introduced me to dozens of her “favorites,” and I fell for all of them. They displayed such innocence, pride, camaraderie, love of music/dance/art… they inspired the hell out of me and I honestly felt as if I’d made 50 new friends that day.

After a morning of helping out in the art, dance, and music rooms, we served lunch and helped carry trays for those who couldn’t manage. When everyone had feasted, we gathered for an assembly where awards were given out for most improved skills, and then various groups (blues band, musical theater, dance troupe, etc.) performed for their parents and the rest of us. Although I’ve witnessed many a performance in my day (thanks to Melanie’s love of theater and music), I must say I’ve never seen performers glow with such unparalleled pride.

I’ll tell you, after feeling a little sorry for myself because I haven’t found a job yet, the whole experience was humbling. Here were folks with what the rest of the world called “disabilities,” yet in their worlds, they hardly noticed. They had circles of friends, special sweethearts, and favorite teachers – just like in a “normal” school. And who the hell knows what normal is, anyway? Right?

I was privileged to meet Mona, a blind wheelchair-bound woman with speech difficulties. Yet this big hearted woman loves to sing, and asked Melanie every single day if she’d brought her guitar so they could go through their special playlist together. She held my hand when she sang her heart out, and her love of my dear daughter just about brought me to tears.

Then there was joyful Jordan, a young man crippled physically, but with a smile that warmed the room every time he entered, couldn’t wait to tell me how he played the drums. He was so proud of his skills that he practically burst.

Five or six teenaged girls with Down Syndrome all danced with their princess gowns, twirling around the dance hall with such abandon that I was reminded of prom night. There was no less joy, and certainly a lot less angst.

Tami wrote beautiful, sensitive poetry that broke my heart. We talked about writing, and I gave her some of my bookmarks. Thrilled to death, she asked about my books. I brought her a copy of one of my LeGarde Mysteries last week, and received one of the most enthusiastic hugs that I’ve had in a very long time.

Nahum wove lovely needlepoint on his quilting patches. I stared in amazement and complimented him on his skills. He received a special award for his hard work, and although he had to wheel up to the podium, he received thunderous applause from his peers.

Tony drew pictures so beautiful they sold for good money in local art venues. He loves to draw vertical strokes of mixed colors. I stood and stared at his work for a very long time. The subtle blends of hues were mesmerizing.

And Reggie, who never spoke before Melanie worked with him, insisted on saying “Hi,” and “Bye” when we left, tugging at her sleeve for attention. The enormity of the work she does with these people stunned and humbled me. Music therapy works, in ways I had never imagined.

This whole experience made me wish I could start all over, get a degree in therapy or social work, and devote my life to a cause much more meaningful than designing and testing high speed digital printers. If it weren’t for annoying things like paying for prescriptions and mortgages, I would do it in a heartbeat.

Maybe in my next life?

***


Preorder Aaron’s latest book, Mazurka, at Barnes and Noble for a significant discount!

Aaron Paul Lazar wasn’t always a mystery writer. It wasn’t until eight members of his family and friends died within five years that the urge to write became overwhelming. “When my father died, I lost it. I needed an outlet, and writing provided the kind of solace I couldn’t find elsewhere.”

Lazar created the Gus LeGarde mystery series, with the founding novel, DOUBLE FORTÉ (2004), a chilling winter mystery set in the Genesee Valley of upstate New York. Like Lazar’s father, protagonist Gus LeGarde is a classical music professor. Gus, a grandfather, gardener, chef, and nature lover, plays Chopin etudes to feed his soul and thinks of himself as a “Renaissance man caught in the 21st century.”

The creation of the series lent Lazar the comfort he sought, yet in the process, a new passion was unleashed. Obsessed with his parallel universe, he now lives, breathes, and dreams about his characters, and has written nine LeGarde mysteries in seven years. (UPSTAGED – 2005; TREMOLO:CRY OF THE LOON – 2007 Twilight Times Books; MAZURKA – 2009 Twilight Times Books, with more to come.)

One day while rototilling his gardens, Lazar unearthed a green cat’s eye marble, which prompted the new paranormal mystery series featuring Sam Moore, retired country doctor and zealous gardener. The green marble, a powerful talisman, connects all three of the books in the series, whisking Sam back in time to uncover his brother’s dreadful fate fifty years earlier. (HEALEY’S CAVE: A GREEN MARBLE MYSTERY, 2009; ONE POTATO, BLUE POTATO, 2010; FOR KEEPS, 2011) Lazar intends to continue both series.

Lazar’s books feature breathless chase scenes, nasty villains, and taut suspense, but are also intensely human stories, replete with kids, dogs, horses, food, romance, and humor. The author calls them, “country mysteries,” although reviewers have dubbed them “literary mysteries.”

“It seems as though every image ever impressed upon my brain finds its way into my work. Whether it’s the light dancing through stained-glass windows in a Parisian chapel, curly slate-green lichen covering a boulder at the edge of a pond in Maine, or hoarfrost dangling from a cherry tree branch in mid-winter, these images burrow into my memory cells. In time they bubble back, persistently itching, until they are poured out on the page.”

The author lives on a ridge overlooking the Genesee Valley in upstate New York with his wife, mother-in-law, and Cavipoo, Balto. Recent empty nesters, he and his wife are fixing up their 1811 antique home after twenty-five years of kid and puppy wear. He worked as an electrophotographic engineer at the Eastman Kodak Company, in Rochester, New York for 28 years, and plans to eventually retire to write full time.

Lazar maintains several websites and blogs, is the Gather Saturday Writing Essential host, writes his monthly “Seedlings” columns for the Voice in the Dark literary journal and the Future Mystery Anthology Magazine. He has been published in Absolute Write as well as The Great Mystery and Suspense Magazine. See excerpts and reviews here:

www.legardemysteries.com
www.mooremysteries.com
www.murderby4.blogspot.com
www.aplazar.gather.com
www.aaronlazar.blogspot.com

Contact him at aaron.lazar@yahoo.com.

Paradise, Part 2

copyright Aaron Paul Lazar, 2009

Last week I told you that I was "born to be home, tending grandkids, working the land, cooking meals from the garden, and writing 'til my heart squeezes the last words onto the page." I said that this life without a day job is the dream-come-true, the life I've yearned for every single day for the past few decades. It's my heaven on earth, my own private nirvana, my paradise.

I also mentioned that I was starting to get nervous. After applying for 35 jobs, I've had one interview (just heard the job isn't mine) and one rejection (never got an interview). No calls, no emails. No nothing! If I'm not careful, I'll start to think I must've deluded Kodak for 27 years because they consistently gave me nice promotions and always said they loved my work. I have to stop myself mid-thought, because that's a shaky place to tread for the sometimes frail ego of a mid-fifties white male in a time of few jobs and gazillions of overqualified applicants.

So, in order to squelch the nerves that are trying to break through and mess up my happy place, I've decided to write about all the wonderful things that happened because Kodak got rid of me.

Last time we discussed my new friend, Frank. G. In Part 2, I'd like to share the joy of having more time to spend with my granddaughter, Isabella.



There she is. The little angel with the curl in the middle of her forehead. This thirteen-month-old-child is too good to be true. But maybe that's because she had such a tough entrance into the world, fraught with an emergency C section, almost not making it, and spending a week in the NICU. This baby sleeps 12-13 hours straight every night, takes a two hour morning nap and a two hour afternoon nap. She wakes with sweet smiles and a rosy blush on her peaches and cream skin. Okay, so maybe there's a stinky diaper thrown in there occasionally. But although my daughters ranged from what I thought were "easy" to "difficult" babies, I never knew what easy was. This child makes caring for her a breeze. Which is a good thing, since I often have her for days at a time and while I'm pretty damned energetic, I don't have the unlimited reserves I had in my twenties and thirties.

Bella is so easy to please! Bella loves cow or soy milk, and will happily drink water or juice. She eats all the garden produce I put in front of her with gusto: green beans, fresh tomatoes, watermelon, kale, beets, potatoes, blueberries...you name it, she'll eat them with unabashed enthusiasm. When she's done, she lifts her arms high above her head and somehow communicates that it's over. It's not a whine, or a screech. Just two syllable baby words that sound like "all done." She chatters like a magpie, in her own language, but on occasion we've been certain she said, "Trot, trot!" (a game we play bouncing her on knees), "dog," (we have two who love her and her mom has three), "Hi," and "Peekaboo." She hasn't said them a lot, but it was a treat to hear them for the first time and not have to get a call at work to tell me about it. Being there first hand certainly has its advantages.



Isabella started walking a few months ago, and now runs from person to person and place to place. And man, is she smart. I'm not just saying that because I'm her grandpa, but darn it, this girl is bright! We have a toy camera that makes clicking sounds like a real shutter. It lights up and says, "Smile!" But it takes a lot of pressure to push in the button, and her teensy little fingers aren't strong enough. She quickly learned to take MY hand, grab one of my fingers, and push my finger on the button whenever she wanted the toy to do its thing! Now she does this all the time, and even holds her own little wrist to help give herself strength on the tougher jobs. It cracks me up. But then again, I'm easily amused. She's got me enchanted. ;o)

Bella had her very own first "garden tour" with Papa a few weeks back. We sampled blueberries, red and black raspberries, gooseberries, jostaberries, and cherry tomatoes. She lowered her little mouth to my outstretched hand and ate berries off it as if she were a pony taking a sugar cube from my hand. And she carried a cucumber around with her for hour after that, gnawing on it. It probably felt good to her little gums where more teeth are pushing through.



We had our very first cooking session together, something her big brothers Julian and Gordie love to do. We picked lots of veggies, then she sat on my lap while I chopped and cooked. Of course I was super careful with the knife and put her in her high chair when I needed to get near the stove. She wasn't much interested in those things, anyway, since I kept her hands full of goodies. She loved the orange pepper, but her favorite was the cucumber. And believe it or not, this little girl loves eating fresh lemons! (just like me) There wasn't a grimace or a squinch of her eyes. She sucked those babies dry.

The most exciting discovery I've made about Bella is her passion for music, which thrills me, since my father was a music professor, my grandfather was a piano teacher, my daughter is a singer and music therapist, and my main character in the LeGarde Mysteries is a music professor as well.

As soon as she arrives for a visit, Bella runs for the piano, and starts pressing keys. Her great grandmother (my MIL) holds her on her lap and plays the Hungarian Rhapsody for her. I do the same, and Bella holds my two index fingers while we play chopsticks together. Okay, so I'm a little rusty on my Chopin waltzes... She has a peculiar way of asking for me to repeat the song, a sort of little jiggle and bounce with big eyes turned up at me. There's no doubt that it means, "Do it again!"



When daughter Melanie plays her guitar, Bella is fascinated. Unlike Bella's older brothers, who we helped raise, and who would have grabbed and broken the guitar strings in a boyish macho fit of excitement, she delicately strums the strings. It's similar to the way she gently taps the wind chimes on the porch and seems to delight in their sounds. When I used to lift Gordie up, he'd smash them with a fist and laugh at how they flip flopped all over. He didn't mean it to be an act of violence. He's just a boy. ;o

So, once again, thank you God (and Kodak) for freeing me up this summer. Thank you for the time I've had with my darling granddaughter, for the weeks of play and tenderness, for the first time I took her swimming in the pool and her little feet paddled so strong, for the strolls in the garden with Bella holding my finger toddling beside me, and for the time I've enjoyed when she got sleepy and lay her little head on my chest. I've grown so close to her, it hurts when she leaves.

***
So what's this got to do with writing?

Everything. It's life. And that's where stories come from. I'll end up using many of these observations as traits for Gus LeGarde's twin granddaughters (Celeste and Marion) and even for Sam Moore's grandson, Timmy. Almost every scene I've ever used with these children has been based on my real life: daughters, grandsons, and now Bella.

The next time you get stuck on a story, or feel that dreaded block coming on, just stop, get up, and live life for a while. Not only will you have participated in your own life (a very good thing!) but soon the words will pour out of you, I promise.


***


Watch for Part 3 in a few weeks. I'll be delivering my daughter back to grad school in Boston next week and visiting my family, so probably won't get to post next weekend. Have a wonderful few weeks!


***
Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. The author of LeGarde Mysteries and Moore Mysteries enjoys the Genesee Valley countryside in upstate New York, where his characters embrace life, play with their dogs and grandkids, grow sumptuous gardens, and chase bad guys. Visit his websites at www.legardemysteries.com and www.mooremysteries.com and watch for his upcoming release, MAZURKA, coming in 2009.

Hello friends,

I had hoped to write a new episode in my "Paradise" series this week. But the vagaries of life often intervene, and it was no different this time.

When my Dell laptop crashed, I ordered a new MacBook Pro just in time to have it delivered before my trip to Boston to bring my daughter, Melanie, back to grad school and visit family in the area.

Uh huh. You guessed it. The poor little laptop missed its Fed Ex connection in CHINA, and didn't make it. Actually, it arrived two hours after we left for our trip. So I've been without a laptop for about three weeks now.

The old Dell, which I had just spend many hundreds on to upgrade with a new hard drive and extra memory- decided not to take a charge anymore. I after being told by two local repair shops that it was too old (six years), I looked up advice online, tried to open it up to find the supposed bad solder joint, and failed miserably. Sigh. So I made the psychological switch to Mac (after salivating over my daughter's Macbook and getting a few lessons on it) and waited with bated breath. I haven't written anything in two weeks. It's killing me, the itch to write has been so pervasive I almost sent my beloved grandsons home early to free up the old Muse.

Instead, in between making meals, doing dishes, keeping them in relatively clean clothes, and playing with them, I methodically transferred all my backed up files (from the old PC, which thank God keeps on kickin') to the new Mac, got my email working through their mail client, and just now finished transferring my 60 Gig plus photos and music onto the MacBook. There are a few glitches yet to work out, but I am a PC-to-Mac switcher, so I need to research it, or call the Mac center. I've been told they are wonderful for support, and we'll find out soon.

I hope you're all well and thriving. I'm still looking for a new "day job," and am really hoping the Man Upstairs has something marvelous planned for me. Soon. Summer's almost over, and it's time to get back to work.

***

If you love to write, remember to WRITE LIKE THE WIND!



Aaron



www.legardemysteries.com

www.mooremysteries.com

www.murderby4.blogspot.com

www.aaronlazar.blogspot.com



Preorder Mazurka at Barnes and Noble for a huge discount!

Paradise, Part 1

copyright Aaron Paul Lazar, 2009

Summer is already half gone, but I've tried to ignore the fact and have jumped into each day with unparalleled enthusiasm and joy.

I was born to be home, tending grandkids, working the land, cooking meals from the garden, and writing 'til my heart squeezes the last words onto the page. This is the dream-come-true, the life I've yearned for every single day for the past few decades. It's my heaven on earth, my own private nirvana, my paradise.

But since August 1st slipped past so silently, little stabs of dread are starting to attack my stomach. It's almost over. Soon I'll have to stop the "let's pretend this is my life" game and spend all day, every day searching for a job again. Wait a minute. Let's focus on the positive. (see how good I am at avoidance?) Instead of giving in to the dread of uncertainty, I've decided to chronicle the wonderful and surprising things that have happened to me because Kodak laid me off this past spring. They have been numerous and delightful.

Here's Part 1.

***

"My name's Frank and I'm eighty-one years old."

That's the first thing Frank G. will tell you when he pumps your hand up and down with good humor and a face wreathed in smiles. This elderly neighbor and I met when he passed my property during his daily constitutionals. These mile-long walks, ordered by a heart doctor, serve to keep him healthy. But they also provide a break in his day. And they're much more interesting than sitting in front of the old cow shed on an aluminum lawn chair watching the cars and tractors go by.

When my outdoor projects take me closer to the road - trimming a monster forsythia bush, manning the roaring burn pile, nearly hidden by four-foot weeds, or mulching the twenty yards of wet black stuff I spread onto my gardens - Frank stops to chat.

On our first meeting, he swiped off his baseball cap and bent down to show me his bald scalp with a gruesome injury and blood soaked bandage. "Got this one last week. Had to go to the hospital and everything. See? Five staples?" I was shown the progress every day after that, watching it heal. And I heard all about the return visit to the hospital to take out the staples.

Supremely friendly, he smiles his toothless grin, marred with bits of tobacco, and tells me he's been chewing the stuff since he was nine years old.

"Haven't had teeth for thirty years. Don't need 'em. Don't want 'em, by George." With a sly smile, he often adds, "And I don't have to pay that durned dentist ten dollars every six months to clean them!"

Ten dollars. Wow. I think it's now up to $75.00.

Frank's been coming by daily for six weeks now. I've grown to enjoy his company. This quirky, friendly fellow who has no hair, no teeth, poor hearing, is twenty-five years my senior and who at first glance seems almost a little pesky, has become a friend. I've grown fond of him and miss him on the days I'm not working the land. He comes into the yard now, circles the house, and looks for me. Most days after we sit beneath the two-hundred year old maple tree beside my garden to talk, I load him down with zucchini, garlic, green beans, and onions.

He can use the food. He lives with his disabled daughter and her farm worker husband in the back of a barn, beside a bunch of cows. The water isn't potable, and the place smells downright rank. They want to get out of there because of the rotten conditions, but they need to find another cheap place and those aren't always available.
I quickly realized that this is one more example of why the severence from Kodak was actually a good thing. Instead of bringing in armloads of veggies to my relatively well-off former coworkers, I'm getting it to someone who truly needs it. I think it was meant to be.

Frank receives about seven hundred bucks a month on disability, but gives most of it to his daughter to help with the expenses. I asked him if it's enough. He smiled, slapped his hat on his thigh. "By George, it's just plenty. Me and my daughter do just fine."

I gave his family our rather worn-out 2001 Sienna van last month, since I would probably only get a few hundred dollars in tax relief from the donation anyway. It felt a lot better to give it to someone I know is in need, instead of to Good Will, where the benefit is real, but invisible. Frank and his son-in-law are handy with all things mechanical, and in no time they had it fixed up and on the road. My heart swells every time I see them drive past the house.
Because he has numerous tatoos emblazoning his arms, I'd assumed Frank was in the service. I discovered, however, that he was turned down because of his heart and had these tatoos put on when he was a young lad of nineteen. That confession quickly followed a complete unveiling of his chest and the scars that proved he'd had open heart surgery five years ago. He's quick to roll up his sleeves and pant legs to show me his latest cuts and bruises - and it makes me feel like a boy again, sharing "war wounds" like trophies. Funny thing is, I've been doing the same thing to him. I shared the cell phone picture of me with facial cellulitis in the hospital in June, where I looked like a circus side show freak.

I love showing him my progress around the property - each newly weeded and mulched bed gets a satisfying, "Good job, young man!" and a hearty pat on the back. It's strange, but I've grown to seek his approval.

Last week he met Toby, my daughter Melanie's little Rat Terrier. Frank surprised me by dropping down to all fours, spinning around in the grass, and patting the ground to engage his new pal. Toby rose to the occasion. With head to the grass and haunches up, tail wagging, and tongue lolling, he played with Frank just like he does with my dog, Balto. I snapped the above picture after they both tired.

During our many conversations, I discovered that my new friend has worked in factories all over the northeast, from New Jersey to Rochester. He tended cows as a fourteen year old (walking miles at 4 in the morning in deep snow) and even worked in a piano factory for a while. His wife died of cancer 11 years ago, and he's never found another soul mate since. "I never hit her or yelled at her," he boasts, "and I turned my paycheck over to her every single week." He's proud of that, because in his life he's seen some pretty awful things. He's chronicled the loss several children, most of his siblings, and other friends and relatives to suicides and freak accidents. The stories he has to tell make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Never mind that I hear some of them five times. ;o)

I asked him the other day if he likes to read books, because I was thinking of donating a few of my LeGarde Mysteries to him. It's such an integral part of me that it's hard for me not to talk about it. He hung his head and stared at the ground.

"I can't read."

The awkward moment was quickly dispelled when he dismissed it with a smile and started talking about his father again, the man who hit his mother and drank too much. I listened to the story again, nodding as if it were the first time I'd ever heard it, and sank into my lawn chair to enjoy the comraderie.

***

Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. The author of LeGarde Mysteries and Moore Mysteries enjoys the Genesee Valley countryside in upstate New York, where his characters embrace life, play with their dogs and grandkids, grow sumptuous gardens, and chase bad guys. Visit his websites at http://www.legardemysteries.com/ and http://www.mooremysteries.com/ and watch for his upcoming release, MAZURKA, coming in August, 2009.