by H.W. Buzz Bernard
Okay, I admit it. Even though I’m old and cranky, I still harbor a bit of nostalgia when it comes to the December holidays. I love the trappings of a traditional Christmas: melodious carols, twinkling lights, a nip in the air.
(But egg nog? Forget it. Gimme a shot of Jack on the rocks instead.)
Anyhow, there’s a heartfelt, evocative Christmas scene in Blizzard, one I truly enjoyed writing. It flowed from memories of Christmases past in another time and another place, when I dwelled not in the South, but in a location closer to the North Pole, New England. (Which is as near Santa’s digs as I ever want to get.)
Now I live in Atlanta—and have for many years—where frigid December holidays are as scarce as Democrats. So to write my scene, I journeyed into times gone by. I felt the warmth of blazes crackling in stone fireplaces, sniffed the aromas of gingerbread and fresh-cut fir wafting through happy 
homes, and peered out windows to watch Siberian winds whipping over icy ponds.
But why, you ask, would a thriller writer be, well, thrilled to paint a Currier & Ives scene with words? I had a purpose, of course.
I placed my protagonist, a decent man and loving father and husband, in an “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” moment of holiday warmth and tranquility before thrusting him—purveyor of Grinchiness that I can be (ain’t being a novelist fun?)—into a frozen nightmare of violence and death.
Think he can survive? You can find out for only $1.99. Just click the cover!
