EVERY NOW AND THEN

Hi All!

Busy preparing for Christmas and I've taken on teaching a Master Class in acting in a children's theatre as well as teaching writing and helping with my two g-kids so busy . . . busy . . . busy! But had to share that you can expect to have EVERY NOW AND THEN in your hands in October 2020.

Very excited! I love this story and hope like heck that you do, too!

xo Lesley

EVERY NOW AND THEN

Thrilled to announce that my newest novel, EVERY NOW AND THEN, will be published by Crooked Lane. Hopefully, it will be released in the summer of '20, but stay tuned for updates!

EVERY NOW AND THEN

Thank you to all the readers who've asked what I'm working on now. Here's a brief description of EVERY NOW AND THEN and a few pages to, hopefully, whet your whistle. I have no idea when, or even if, it'll be published but I'm sure enjoying the characters and in the end . . . really . . . that's all that counts. (But a fancy schmancy book deal wouldn't be horrible either.)❤ . . . always, Lesley

  All that is over is not past and when memories come to haunt they don’t ask our permission to do so.

Summit, Wisconsin, the summer of 1960: Air conditioning was a modern luxury few in town could afford and window fans were flying out of Mike Hansen’s Hardware store so fast he’d begun talking about retirement. Husbands returned home with five o’clock shadows to sit on their front porches and drink bottled beers that wouldn’t hold a chill while their wives fanned themselves with shirt cardboards and prepared cold cut suppers instead of the usual meat and potatoes. For kids seeking relief from the heat, there was a creek to be swum in, sprinklers to run through, and ice cream at Whitcomb’s Drugstore.

But . . . The Tree Musketeers—Francis “Frankie” Maniachi, Vivian “Viv” Cleary, and Elizabeth “Biz” Buchanan—don’t remember that summer only as the one when the heat wave hit their small town. They remember the summer they were eleven-years-old as the one evil paid a visit to their small town and took there lives as they’d known them as a souvenir. The summer when they’d almost lost their lives, learned about prejudice in its many forms, mental illness, forbidden love, murder, and what it meant to be blood sisters.

Narrated by bestselling novelist Biz Buchanan almost sixty years later, There Comes a Time is an unforgettable story about what three young girls did during a long ago summer to keep their lives and those of the ones they loved from coming apart at the seams and what they continue to do to make amends. Told with empathy, humor, and insight, There Comes a Time is both a powerful and emotionally resonant coming-of-age story and of-an-age story about lifelong friendship, the timelessness of grief and guilt, and the hope for redemption.  

                                                             * * *

                                                                 Prologue

The girls didn’t blame me at the time and to the best of my knowledge, still don’t, but I’ve never entirely forgiven myself for instigating what happened that night in Founder’s Woods. Then again . . . if I hadn’t done what I’d done, more than one grave would’ve been dug that summer.

Of course, not everyone in town remembers the events that unfolded back then with as much remorse, or gratitude, as I do. “What’s done is done. Forget about it. Time heals all wounds,” someone not old enough to know better is bound to pipe in whenever the summer of ’60 comes up in conversation. But there’ll come a time when they, too, will understand that the border between then and now is more like a cobweb than a brick wall, and when memories come to haunt . . . they don’t ask our permission to do so.

A breeze ruffling oak boughs on a full moon night or the whistle of the late train rumbling down the tracks is all it takes to bring back the press of cold steel on my neck, the sound Frankie’s leg made when it cracked in two, and Viv’s scream cutting through the sultry air on a long ago summer night evil paid a visit to our small town and took our young lives as we’d known them as a souvenir.

                                                              

                                                              

                                                                      

                                                                Chapter One

God only knows why my best friends and I loved getting the hell scared of out of us every Saturday afternoon at the Rivoli Theatre or the Starlight Drive-In after the sun went down, but we spent most of our childhood jumping halfway out of our skins.

The radiated ants from Them! sounded an awful lot like cicadas, and after we saw The Fly the three of us strained to hear one calling to us, “Help me . . . please, help me.” The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, whose main character was a doctor—like my father—who discovered his neighbors were being systematically replaced by alien duplicates grown in pods scattered around his small town—like ours—had the girls and I spying into our neighbors’ windows for weeks to ascertain if they’d been similarly afflicted, but it was the The Tingler that almost did us in. Unbeknownst to us, the owner of the downtown theatre had fastened something called the Percepto! beneath the seats and when he activated the vibrating device at just the right time, it felt like that alien parasite had crawled off the screen and into our spines and we ran out the Emergency Door screaming and swatting at each others’ backs.

But while every day back then might’ve felt like anything-can-happen day, to the best of

my recollection, which, if I do so say myself, remains remarkably sharp for a gal on the dusky

side of her sixties, our lives were fairly ho hum. Other than a recluse most of the kids in town believed to be a practitioner of the dark arts, a group of bad boys who hung out in Founder’s Woods, and the occasional escapee of Broadhurst Mental Institution, nothing much out of the ordinary occurred in Summit, Wisconsin—a town deemed so unremarkable at the time that a popular travel brochure left the Points of Interest section blank—until the record-breaking heat ushered in the spring of ’60 like a harbinger of the horror to come.

All Is calm. . . All is bright

Wishing you all a peaceful and memorable Christmas and a joy-filled New Year.

THE GREAT AMERICAN READ

Here I am spouting off again.

https://wptblog.org/2018/07/the-great-american-read-author-lesley-kagen-shares-her-picks/

WRITING AND MENTORING AND COACHING AND TEACHING, OH MY

For all who have been kind enough to ask . . . "Hey, what's up?"

I've been working on my next novel--(See the bit I previously posted.)

Set in Summit, Wisconsin in 1960, The Sweet Bye and Bye is nostalgic, character and voice-driven, poignant, funny, insightful, and about as charming as a story about the lifelong friendship of three women, small town secrets, mental illness, and murder can be. 

And . . . before I become close personal friends with The Grim Reaper, I've got the itch to share some of the stuff I learned along the way. To teach, to coach, to hand hold, or do whatever I can to help other writers. (Interested? See the Mentoring and Coaching book button on the web site? Press it.)




 

THE SWEET BYE AND BYE

I'd like to thank all the readers who have enjoyed my newest novels, THE MUTUAL ADMIRATION SOCIETY and LAND OF A HUNDRED WONDERS.

And for those of you who are wondering what I'm working on now, here's a little bit of THE SWEET BYE AND BYE

                                             

            I will never forget the sound Frankie’s leg made when it snapped in two.

            She didn’t blame me at the time and, to the best of my knowledge, still doesn’t. But a part of me has never forgiven myself for instigating what happened that night in the woods. Then again . . . if Frankie hadn’t thrown herself down from the highest branch of the oak she and Viv were hiding in, she wouldn’t have received all the attention she did for saving my life and I wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale.

Of course, not everybody remembers that long ago summer with as much guilt, or gratitude, that I do. Whenever it comes up in conversation, someone not old enough to know any better is bound to pipe in, “No use bringing all that up again. What’s done is done.” But there will come a time when they too will understand that not all that is over is past. And when memories do resurrect, they don’t ask permission to do so.

All it takes is a gentle wind stirring the leafy boughs of an oak or a dog barking on a full moon night or the scent of sweat to bring back the press of cool steel on my skin and the sound of Frankie’s femur cracking in half. The stitches left an ugly, raised scar on my neck, and she walks with a limp when it rains, and poor Viv. Though not bodily injured the way Frankie and I were that night, her spirit was more than a little broken.

But as much as we might wish the border between then and now was less like a cobweb

and more like a brick wall, as my lifelong friends and I sit on the front porch of our Honeywell Street house on another summer evening decades later . . . the past is present. We never forget the summer of ’60. The summer that evil paid a visit to our small town and took our live as we knew them as a souvenir.

                                                                    Chapter One

Oh, the horror of it all.

Wild-haired hypnotists mesmerizing us to do their bidding, werewolves sinking their yellow fangs into our sunburned necks, and “little green men” or the “Commies” dropping out of the sky to enslave us not only seemed possible back then, but just a matter of time. Every day felt like anything-can-happen day and our nights were filled with things that went boo.

Why my best friends and I loved nothing more than getting the hell scared of out of us every Saturday afternoon at the Rivoli Theatre in downtown Summit or in the evenings at the Starlight Drive-In on the edge of town still remains a mystery to me, but we spent most of our childhood covered in goose bumps and jumping out of our skins.

The giant radiated ants from Them! sounded an awful lot like cicadas, and the three of us never looked at a full moon the same way after we saw The Wolfman. And for a few months after we’d seen The Fly, we couldn’t spot one without saying, “Heeelp me . . . please, heeelp me.” But it was The Tingler that almost did us in. Unbeknownst to us, Mr. Willis, the owner of the Rivoli Theatre, had fastened a vibrating device called the Percepto! beneath the red velvet seats that was activated during certain scenes in the movie to make it feel like the parasite had wormed its way into our spines and we ran out of the theatre’s Emergency Exit screaming.

But to the best of my recollection, which, if I do so say myself, remains remarkably sharp

for a gal on the dusky side of her sixties, in reality, other than the soaping of Main Street shop

windows every Halloween Eve by boys being boys, a reclusive woman the kids in town believed to be tending a bubbling cauldron in her cellar, the occasional escaped patient found wandering around town or the woods abutting Broadhurst mental institution, and Granny Cleary, nothing too frightening or out of the ordinary occurred in Summit—a town judged so ho hum by a popular Wisconsin travel brochure that the Points of Interest section was left blank—before the record-breaking heat showed up that Memorial Day like a harbinger of the horrifying things to come.