They'll tell you that awards mean nothing. No big sales surge. No extra attention from publishers and agents. No movie deals. Got it. Nevertheless, when I got word yesterday that I won Best Mystery of the Year with THE DEAD DETECTIVE AGENCY, I forgot all that and succumbed to joy. Somebody--whether several or dozens or hundreds or hordes of somebodies--thinks my book is worth reading, worth recommending, worth the term "Best". When I wrote the first Dead Detective mystery (now deemed "Award-winning"), it was sort of unconscious. No idea where the scenario came from, no intent to write paranormal (in fact that term sometimes makes me cringe.) When I found a publisher who liked my off-the-wall idea, I was pleased. It's fun to do something different, and while I love writing the historicals, change of pace is good. So the writing was fun. The publishing was fairly painless and very professional. The readers reacted well. It was all that a writer could hope for---and then it gets named Best Mystery of the Year. How's that for icing on the cake?