When young Gus LeGarde befriends a cranky old hermit in the woods who speaks to an Indian spirit, he wonders if the man is nuts. But when the ghostly Penni rattles tin cups, draws on dusty mirrors, and flips book pages, pestering him to find evidence to avenge her past, things change.
What Gus doesn’t understand is why his mother hates Tully, until his relentless investigation uncovers a hint of scandal about Tully and Gus’s grandfather, Marlowe Wright.
On horseback, Gus and his friends ride through woods overlooking Conesus Lake to Tully’s abandoned house, reportedly still infected with the Genesee Valley Fever from the 1700s. Unafraid, they enter and find shocking evidence that could rewrite history.
Can Gus convince his mother to forgive Tully? And will the proof he found free Penni’s spirit?
Gus summons courage beyond his years in this poignant and powerful telling of the summer of 1965.
Guest Post: Are all Writers Egoists?
Writers
are terribly self-centered.
Now,
don’t get offended. I’m not really talking about all of you. I’m pretty much
talking about me.
Strangely
enough, I don’t think anyone in my non-writer life would label me an egoist. Or
an egotist, for that matter. I had to look up the difference, but there isn’t
much of a distinction, as far as I could tell.* Anyway, I can’t picture someone
calling me either one of those. At least not to my face.
With
my family, colleagues at my day job, and with neighbors and friends, I try to
be a good listener. I try to be generous. I take time to be there for them, to
encourage them when they’re down, to support them when they’re mourning. I care
about family and friends and frequently make sacrifices for them.
I
sound pretty great, don’t I?
Ahem.
Read on.
In my
writerly world, I am horrified to admit that I have recently come to learn I’m
a HUGE egoist.
Look
at the first few paragraphs in this piece. How many times did I use the word
“I?” TWELVE! It’s always all about what I think, or what I noticed, or what I
wrote. Isn’t it? (Of course, I guess it might be hard to write about what you
think or notice. LOL.)
I
started to ponder this recently when I had a confrontation with a friend, and
she pointed out to me how much I write about **me**. After a bit of soul
searching, I realized she was right.
But it
got me to thinking.
I try
to be a good guy. I really do. This is in spite of all the stupid things I do,
like dribbling my red herbal tea on the new carpet at work yesterday (I spent
an hour cleaning it) and consistently forgetting to attach files to emails. If
it can be screwed up, I’ll do it.
So,
I’m an egoist and a klutz.
That’s
not all. No. Not only am I all of the above, I’m mean.
REALLY
mean.
I am
merciless to my characters. I put them through the wringer time and time again,
without care for their suffering. I torment them. I make them endure horrible
losses. I hurt ANIMALS, for God’s sake. Okay, so I rescue them in the end, but
what kind of a jerk does that to poor, defenseless animals?
Sigh.
I
suppose we writers can always pretend to sit back and be the philosophical
documenter, the great observer, the quintessential Hemmingway-esque witness of
life. But however life presents itself - brutal or tender, seedy or majestic -
all fiction comes from our inside our own minds. It’s all about how we see it.
How we imagine. How we think our characters would feel.
Isn’t
it?
So,
how do we compensate for being such egoists?
It’s
not as bad as it sounds. It certainly isn’t hopeless, and I’m pretty sure we
can redeem ourselves.
Maybe
we can find redemption by setting good examples through our characters' actions
while they're in the midst of dashing here or there during the page turning
suspense. One thing I never intended to
do with my three mystery series was to teach lessons about nurturing a family,
tending to a disabled wife, dealing with trauma or loss, or being a good father
or grandfather. Those things just found their way into my books, because my
characters do that stuff in their everyday lives. To my surprise, my readers
have come back and thanked me for doing just that. It humbles me to think that
by including some amusing family scenes in the middle of the mayhem, I might
have actually done some good. One fellow actually told me I made him a better
dad. And another wrote to say I got him through his chemo. Like I said, it’s
all pretty darned humbling.
Can
examples like these make up for my weaknesses and faults? For that great big
ego? For my incessant ranting about me???
Man. I
sure hope so.
***
–Egoist,
noun
2. an
arrogantly conceited person; egotist.
Egotist,
noun
1. a
conceited, boastful person.
Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. The author of three award-winning mystery series and more, Lazar 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 website at lazarbooks.com and watch for his upcoming release from Twilight Times Books, SANCTUARY (2013).
