Happy Halloween!

So...I have been missing. No, the Great Pumpkin didn't get me. My hubby had major surgery and was in ICU for a week. He is doing a lot better, now recovering at home. But these life things have a way of wreaking havoc on our writing lives and blogging/online presence.

I, on the other hand, am doing very well.

So in honor of Halloween coming fast at us, I am posting a little about the writing life for us pertaining to paying fees. Yes, there are still THOSE places. Don't be a jack-o-lantern -- pay attention!

If you are a newer author, and don't know what to look out for, here is a short list.




Fee paying agents -- don't do this. Just don't. There is no reason to ever pay anyone to consider your work. Especially with the rise of places to publish yourself for free.

For pay writing contests -- Pay $5, or $10, or $50 for a chance to win $500 they say. Well, why? Do the math. The writing contest people are making a small fortune! If 100 people entered the contest and paid $10 each, they made $1000 - paid the winner $500 and kept the rest. Imagine if the fee was $50 and the entrants ran into the thousands. No nO NO!

Vanity presses -- this is where you pay them to publish you. Again, why would you do this? There are some very legitimate places now that will publish your work for free and YOU get the income. Definitely no.

In other words, if it seems too good to be true, AND THEY ASK FOR $$ from you, run. Run fast.

Have a scary Halloween, Murderers. And don't eat candy. It will make you a fat cat.

Who's That Knocking?

copyright, 2008, Aaron Paul Lazar

Good morning, friends and writers!

How was your week? Were you able to get much writing done? I am relieved because I finally got through the lengthy pdf ARC edits for two of my upcoming books, and also completed the dreaded synopses for both in 250, 150, and 50 word versions! Phew. Now THAT'S scary! I think writing the 50 word synopsis is harder than writing the books!

Glad that's over, now I can get back to writing Sanctuary, my third Tall Pines mystery.


With Halloween just around the corner (tomorrow, actually!), I thought I'd dig into the bowels of my articles to find something suitably spooktacular. ;o) (Can you say "reprint?" LOL.)

I thought I'd dust this piece off and share it with you today. Let me know if it gives you a chuckle or a thrill.

***

Who's That Knocking?

Living in an antique home has its problems, especially when you're not a handyman. My father taught me all sorts of wonderful things when he was alive, including an unbridled passion for the arts, gardening, nature, gourmet cooking, and the love of a good mystery. He didn't know much about mechanics, plumbing, electric, or woodworking. Though I've tried to learn over the years with self-help books and advice from friends, I remain singularly unhandy, perpetually bowing with an unholy need to the whims of the local plumber and electrician.

Take, for example, the twenty-six windows that are crumbling as we speak. The six-by-nine inch panes are coming loose from their wooden mullions with alarming frequency. Or the floorboards in the bedroom, a lovely old yellow pine, that poke up like teepees when it's hot and muggy. Yeah, they need to be treated with some kind of poly something-or-other, but for now, the moisture makes them swell. Consider the two wells that sometimes work in concert - except for the hundred times a year I have to run down to the cobwebbed cellar and reset the breakers or tap on the pump to make it work. The disadvantages are many.

But there are also great benefits, such as the three working fireplaces. Or the soil that surrounds the property, rich and black, untouched by bulldozers. It's not like the hard packed fill they put in the new housing tracts. I don't need to "amend" this soil. I just need to keep up with the produce and flowers.

Most intriguing of all, however, is the rich history.

Our house was built in 1811 by Dr. David Hunt. We just celebrated our 200th anniversary!

Okay, so compared to the homes in Europe, it's just an infant. But in terms of our country and its young age, it's amazing. Think about it. This house was built and lived in more than fifty years before the civil war!

Imagine the births, deaths, dramas, romances, and heartaches that occurred within these rooms. Did the inhabitants suffer from small pox? Starvation? Were they affluent? How many horses or cows did they own? And... how many ghosts linger in these plaster and lathe walls?

Let's examine the past 100 years. According to an elderly neighbor, over seven people have died on Hunts Corners. Traffic accidents. Maybe even horse and buggy accidents. Auto drivers not stopping for the all-way stop signs, or sliding on ice, or drunk drivers plowing right into the telephone pole. Sad to think about. Makes you wonder about their spirits. Did they ascend to Heaven? Or do a few guilty souls remain in the area, confused and wandering, seeking the path to redemption?

Recently, I began to ponder another death disclosed to me by a young neighbor friend. We began to correspond after he read a few of my books. He's a bright and entertaining young fellow who happens to be a voracious reader. We clicked. And we chat back and forth about books and life and sometimes... about the history of our area.

It seems Hunts Corners has a mystery all its own, stemming from the early 1900s. As the story goes, my young neighbor's great grandmother noticed something odd one day. While going about her daily duties, Mabel realized she hadn't seen the young girl who lived next door in a long time. Anna no longer attended school, and very rarely made an appearance outside the home. When she did, Mabel noticed a thickening in her middle, well-wrapped by heavy garments. She suspected the girl was with child. In that era, a pregnancy out of wedlock was unthinkable. Shameful. A sin. The family would endure public humiliation if news got out. So Anna was sequestered for nine long months as Mabel watched the child grow in her belly.

When the time came for the baby to be born, there was no activity in the house. No child was seen. No doctor arrived. All was quiet.

Speculation grew. Was the child stillborn? Or worse, was she murdered by a family cloaked in shame? Rumors were that the little baby was buried behind Anna's house.

Since then, there have been reports of children pointing behind the house, exclaiming about the "little girl in the weeds." The adults couldn't see her.

But I think I might have, last winter.

I rose early to photograph our Christmas lights. They were unusually festive last year, better than all past years. We'd added a few lighted deer for fun, and I was bound and determined to capture the beauty in the blackest of night. It was a clear, chill morning. Five A.M. Not a breeze stirred. Most households were fast asleep. Few cars passed by.

I brought my trusty Canon Powershot outdoors and took dozens of photos. Later, when I viewed them on my PC, I saw the ghost. There she was - looking straight at me with wide open eyes. Filmy, transparent, but with a clear face and body. Only two shots revealed her, although I took dozens that morning.

The photos are untouched, straight from the camera card. And yes, I know there's probably a scientific explanation. Maybe the light from the flash illuminated ice crystals in the air, causing a momentary illusion. But I'd like to ignore that for now and just consider it a visit from my friendly little ghost.

Last night I woke to a tapping sound. Usually it's Max, on his chair, scratching an itch and thumping up against the armrest. I rose to check, but he lay still, mouth open, breathing evenly.
Could it be my grandson knocking on the door? I looked. No one was there. All was quiet, no little boys or cats were hoping to gain entrance.

I went back to bed. The tapping resumed. Looking out the window, I noticed headlights flashing by, briefly illuminating the darkness. Was that a flash of white? A face? Or simply the reflection on wet streets?

The tapping resumed. Outside my window. On the second floor.

Could it be?

I buried my head beneath the covers and said my prayers.

Well, that's it for now, dear friends. I won't be around next weekend, so let's get together in two weeks, and until then, remember to take pleasure in the little things, and if you love to write, write like the wind!

 

Twilight Times Books by Kindle bestselling author Aaron Lazar:

LEGARDE MYSTERIES

DOUBLE FORTÉ (author’s preferred edition, 2012)  

UPSTAGED (2005)

TREMOLO: CRY OF THE LOON (2007)

MAZURKA (2009)

FIRESONG (JULY 2011)

DON’T LET THE WIND CATCH YOU (APRIL 2012) 

MOORE MYSTERIES

HEALEY'S CAVE (2010)

TERROR COMES KNOCKING (JAN 2012)

FOR KEEPS (FEB 2012)

TALL PINES MYSTERIES

FOR THE BIRDS (COMING SOON! NOVEMBER 2011)

ESSENTIALLY YOURS (COMING SOON! MARCH 2012)

Awards:

WINNER 2011 Eric Hoffer BEST Book, COMMERCIAL FICTION * FINALIST EPIC Awards 2011* GRAND PRIZE FINALIST Eric Hoffer Book Award 2011 * 2X FINALIST Global eBook Awards 2011 * Preditors & Editors Readers Choice Award – 2^nd place 2011* Winner of Carolyn Howard Johnsons’ 9^th Annual Noble (Not Nobel!) Prize for Literature 2011 * Finalist Allbooks Editors Choice Awards 2011 * Preditors&Editors Top 10 Finalist  * Yolanda Renee's Top Ten Books 2008  * MYSHELF Top Ten Reads 2008  * Writers' Digest Top 101 Website Award 2009-2011

Ghosts & Messages from the Other Side

© Marta Stephens 2010 all rights reserved

It’s hard to explain what it’s like to see or sense a presence that shouldn’t be there. I’m not talking about the images that pop into your mind when you're trying to imagine a ghost or goblin. No, I’m talking about the prickly feeling that pulls at the hairs on the back of your neck and the cold chills that ripple up your spine without thought or provocation.

It’s that all too unsettling feeling that you’re not alone.

My story beings in the winter of 1988 when I was expecting our third child. Five years earlier, our eldest daughter, Nicole, passed away at 19 months due to a congenital heart condition. Months later I found out I was expecting again, our daughter Jessica. It was a heart-wrenching, bitter-sweet moment in our lives, but naturally we were thrilled beyond words on the day Jessica arrived to know she was a wonderfully healthy baby.

She quickly grew up into a happy, bright, and very active two-year old and all was well until she began to have night terrors. At first, I assumed she’d had a bad dream and tried to comfort her, but it soon became evident that we were dealing with something far more serious. Every night she would either let out a woeful cry or uncontrollable screams that would go on for hours. Exhausted, we turned to her pediatrician. Unfortuantley, he didn’t offer any helpful advice so I did what I thought was best. I used to rock her into the wee hours and tried to comfort her which I now know is the worst thing I could have done. Night terrors are similar to sleepwalking, but are more dramatic, and the best thing to do is to allow the child to get through them on their own. Oh, had I only known!  These terrors had gone on for months when I realized I was pregnant with our third child. On top of being sleep-deprived myself, the old anxiety from the loss of our first child began to well in me again.

One Saturday morning during my first trimester I was busy with the usual weekend chores on my mind. I came down the stairs and reached the landing. I had laundry to do and errands to run and all the while, was trying to keep both eyes on Jessica. I turned to go down the next set of steps that led into the living room and that's when I first saw our “translucent visitor.”

He was a man in his 30s or 40s leaning against the post at the bottom of the stairs. I couldn’t see his face, but I could feel his eyes on me and sensed his was a kind soul. Friendly or not, my first impulse was to ignore him in the hopes he'd go away. He, on the other hand, was persistent. From that day on, I saw him on a daily basis either by the fireplace or at the bottom of the stairs watching...always watching. He never spoke nor did I ever feel threatened by his presence. In fact, after a while it felt good having him around and christened him Ed. I sensed he was amused.

Finally, the baby’s delivery date arrived and after 2-3 hours in labor, we were again blessed with a beautiful baby boy we named Tracy after my husband’s grandfather.

Interestingly, Ed disappeared the day Tracy was born and as far as I know has never been back. That day also marked a change in Jessica who began to sleep through the night again without terrors. The two have always had a wonderful relationship--she smothered him with attention and he's always looked up to her. Today, they remain as close as (if you'll excuse the cliché) two peas in a pod.

I’ll always be curious to know who Ed was and what drew him to our home at that particular point in time. I like to think that he was watching over us. At any rate, the name stuck and to this day we attribute any strange noises in the house to Ed. Since then we’ve experienced other happenings (based on a true story) in our 97-year old home. I have no doubt that there are other beings among us, but whoever they are, they mean us no harm.
About the author:Marta Stephens writes mystery/suspense and the author of the Sam Harper Crime Mystery series.



THE DEVIL CAN WAIT (2008), Bronze Medal Finalist, 2009 IPPY Awards, Top Ten, 2008 Preditors and Editors Reader Poll (mystery).


SILENCED CRY (2007) Honorable Mention, 2008 New York Book Festival, Top Ten, 2007 Preditors and Editors Reader Poll (mystery).

Her books are available in paperback, Kindle, and e-book format online at Amazons, Barnes & Noble, Borders, Books-a-Million, Smashword, and Powells. For more information about Stephens and her writing, visit http://www.martastephens-author.com/.

"Life's too Uncertain, Eat your Dessert First"

Who's That Knocking?

copyright, 2008, Aaron Paul Lazar

Good morning, friends and writers!

It's been a long week. I've gone 11 days now with unresolved headaches, unable to write, focus, or get relief. I want my Advil back (seems like such a simple wish, doesn't it?), but the doc says it's not good long term, and he's trying other options. Now I need to go back to a headache specialist, who really didn't help me 9 years ago. Sigh.

Anyway, I will survive. I always do! The doc and I just made a compromise. I can take the Advil until I see the specialist. So, as of noon today, the headache miraculously vanished after I popped those two beautiful little liquid Advil gel caps. Ahhh... It feels good to be able to focus and think again! I'll just conveniently ignore the fact right now that I might be eating holes in my stomach or that my kidneys could fail in ten years. Yuk.

How was your week? Were you able to get much writing done?

I posted the following piece a long time ago. I think about 12 people read it. LOL. So, since it's getting close to Halloween, and also since I'll be away next week, I thought I'd dust it off and share it with you today. Let me know if it gives you a chuckle or a thrill.

***
Living in an antique home has its problems, especially when you're not a handyman. My father taught me all sorts of wonderful things when he was alive, including unbridled passion for the arts, gardening, nature, gourmet cooking, and the love of a good mystery. He didn't know much about mechanical, plumbing, electric, or woodworking skills. Though I've tried to learn over the years with self-help books and advice from friends, I remain singularly unhandy, perpetually bowing with an unholy need to the whims of the local plumber and electrician.

Take, for example, the twenty-six windows that are crumbling as we speak. The six by nine inch panes are coming loose from their wooden mullions with alarming frequency. Or the floorboards in the bedroom, a lovely old yellow pine, that poke up like teepees when it's hot and muggy. Yeah, they need to be treated with some kind of poly something-or-other, but for now, the moisture makes them swell. Consider the two wells that sometimes work in concert - except for the hundred times a year I have to run down to the cobwebbed cellar and reset the breakers or tap on the pump to make it work. The disadvantages are many.

But there are also great benefits, such as the three working fireplaces. Or the soil that surrounds the property, rich and black, untouched by bulldozers. It's not like the hard packed fill they put in the new housing tracts. I don't need to "amend" this soil. I just need to keep up with the produce and flowers.

Most intriguing of all, however, is the rich history.

Our house was built in 1811 by Dr. David Hunt.

Okay, so compared to the homes in Europe, it's just an infant. But in terms of our country and its young age, it's amazing. Think about it. This house was built and lived in more than fifty years before the civil war!

Imagine the births, deaths, dramas, romances, and heartaches that occurred within these rooms. Did the inhabitants suffer from small pox? Starvation? Were they affluent? How many horses or cows did they own? And... how many ghosts linger in these plaster and lathe walls?

Let's examine the past 100 years. According to an elderly neighbor, over seven people have died on Hunts Corners. Traffic accidents. Maybe even horse and buggy accidents. Auto drivers not stopping for the all-way stop signs, or sliding on ice, or drunk drivers plowing right into the telephone pole. Sad to think about. Makes you wonder about their spirits. Did they ascend to Heaven? Or do a few guilty souls remain in the area, confused and wandering, seeking the path to redemption?

Recently, I began to ponder another death disclosed to me by a young neighbor friend. We began to correspond after he read a few of my books. He's a bright and entertaining young fellow who happens to be a voracious reader. We clicked. And we chat back and forth about books and life and sometimes... about the history of our area.

It seems Hunts Corners has a mystery all its own, stemming from the early 1900s. As the story goes, my young neighbor's great grandmother noticed something odd one day. While going about her daily duties, Mabel realized she hadn't seen the young girl who lived next door in a long time. Anna no longer attended school, and very rarely made an appearance outside the home. When she did, Mabel noticed a thickening in her middle, well-wrapped by heavy garments. She suspected the girl was with child. In that era, a pregnancy out of wedlock was unthinkable. Shameful. A sin. The family would endure public humiliation if news got out. So Anna was sequestered for nine long months as Mabel watched the child grow in her belly.

When the time came for the baby to be born, there was no activity in the house. No child was seen. No doctor arrived. All was quiet.

Speculation grew. Was the child stillborn? Or worse, was she murdered by a family cloaked in shame? Rumors were that the little baby was buried behind Anna's house.

Since then, there have been reports of children pointing behind the house, exclaiming about the "little girl in the weeds." The adults couldn't see her.

But I think I might have, last winter.

I rose early to photograph our Christmas lights. They were unusually festive last year, better than all past years. We'd added a few lighted deer for fun, and I was bound and determined to capture the beauty in the blackest of night. It was a clear, chill morning. Five A.M. Not a breeze stirred. Most households were fast asleep. Few cars passed by.

I brought my trusty Canon Powershot outdoors and took dozens of photos. Later, when I viewed them on my PC, I saw the ghost. There she was - looking straight at me with wide open eyes. Filmy, transparent, but with a clear face and body. Only two shots revealed her, although I took dozens that morning.

The photos are untouched, straight from the camera card. And yes, I know there's probably a scientific explanation. Maybe the light from the flash illuminated ice crystals in the air, causing a momentary illusion. But I'd like to ignore that for now and just consider it a visit from my friendly little ghost.

Last night I woke to a tapping sound. Usually it's Max, on his chair, scratching an itch and thumping up against the armrest. I rose to check, but he lay still, mouth open, breathing evenly.
Could it be my grandson knocking on the door? I looked. No one was there. All was quiet, no little boys or cats were hoping to gain entrance.

I went back to bed. The tapping resumed. Looking out the window, I noticed headlights flashing by, briefly illuminating the darkness. Was that a flash of white? A face? Or simply the reflection on wet streets?

The tapping resumed. Outside my window. On the second floor.

Could it be?

I buried my head beneath the covers and said my prayers.

Well, that's it for now, dear friends. I won't be around next weekend, so let's get together in two weeks, and until then, remember to take pleasure in the little things, and if you love to write, write like the wind!