Relevancy

March 31, 2026 — Pat Bertram

Well, so much for my “Pat Bertram books” solving my reading crisis. I’m down to only one left to read. I might actually have to start writing again! The only problem is that it takes me a year to write a book, several years to let it sit so I forget it, and less than a day to read it. Still, if ever a new story invaded my mind, I’d consider writing the book. Unfortunately, there’s been no story invasion for many years.

I just finished reading A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and of all the books, that’s the one I most remembered. Which isn’t saying a whole lot. I knew it was about a quarantine, knew it was about a biological weapon that had been released, even knew a few specifics, such as this excerpt where a reporter, Greg, and his boss, Olaf, are discussing research papers. Olaf says:

“Convoluted writing and obscure terms are a way of intimidating the uninitiated, keeping the profession closed to non-scientists, and adding to the scientific mystique. Just think, if diseases had names like Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice, doctors wouldn’t make anywhere near the amount of money they do now.”

Greg laughed. “That’s an idea. They do it for hurricanes, why not everything else?” He mimed seizing the phone and dialing. “Mr. Olaf? I can’t come in today. I’ve got the Bob.” He hung up his imaginary receiver and looked inquiringly at his boss.

Olaf nodded. “Works for me.”

That’s about all I remembered (and mostly because I called Covid “Bob” so as not to give credence to that whole mess), so most of the story was new, and I read the book as avidly as I did my other books. After the “Bob,” I had wondered if A Spark of Heavenly would feel dated, but it didn’t seem like it to me, especially since a theme of the book is biological warfare. Although a lot of people do believe the twenty-first century pandemic was biological warfare on two fronts, first the virus and second the vaccines, there’s no real consensus on the matter. And anyway, I prefer using historical references rather than current ones. It keeps the book from being controversial and it also keeps it timeless since too many current references date a book. That’s important for me because being an overnight success is a race that was lost almost two decades ago, so my only hope (if I even have a hope) is for continued relevance.

And the story is relevant, as are all character-driven stories. The prism of death and survival in A Spark of Heavenly reflects what each of the main characters values most. Kate values love. Dee values purpose. Greg values truth. Jeremy values freedom. Pippi, who values nothing, learns to value herself. All eternally relevant values.

As with all my books, the writing was good (though several words that were unhyphenated in the manuscript mysteriously became hyphenated in the published work). The story moved at a rapid pace since each important part was told by the person with the most at stake. And the ending came as a complete and satisfying surprise.

It does make me wonder, though, since this showcase of my abilities is such a surprise to me, if I’d ever be able to recapture that ability. And if I did, would the book still be a “Pat Bertram book”?

All I know is that this Pat Bertram book, A Spark of Heavenly, was thoroughly enjoyable.

Click here to read the first chapter of: A Spark of Heavenly Fire

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Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

Posted in books, fiction, writing. Tags: , , , , , . 5 Comments »

Reading the Books I Wrote

March 30, 2026 — Pat Bertram

I’m continuing to read my books. Not the books in my personal library (which consists of a single bookcase) but the books I wrote.

It’s funny to think that this is most I have enjoyed reading in years. Even though I read and wrote about the Wheel of Time book series, I’m not sure I actually enjoyed reading the books. It was more of a puzzle for me, a game, a thing to study and to learn from, a way to pass the time.

But my novels? Pure enjoyment! Admittedly, since I was the one who wrote the books, they probably find an echo in my psyche even though what I remember barely qualifies as an elevator pitch (a one or two sentence synopsis). But I don’t know if that matters. It feels as if I am coming to them fresh, not as if I wrote them, not as if I’d read them years ago, but as if I’d vaguely heard of them once upon a time.

I’m working backwards. I started with the most recently published novel, Bob, The Right Hand of God, and am now reading Daughter Am I. There are only two more books for me to read — the first two I wrote — and I’m already feeling the loss. I was used to having nothing to read that I truly enjoyed — I just read for no other reason than to read — but already I have become addicted to the surprises inherent in my books.

The biggest surprise, of course, is how thoroughly I have forgotten these books. Odd, but true. The next biggest surprise is that I really do know how to write and know how to tell a story. I have no idea why I’d begun devaluing my writing ability over the years, unless it’s because of that non-selling thing. Still, other obscure writers manage to hold onto the idea of their own worth, so it’s good to at least get that feeling back. I do understand to an extent why the books languish. There’s nothing shocking, such as with the Shades of Grey franchise, to catapult them into fame. There’s no horde of people looking to read anything new in their preferred genre, such as with the Wheel of Time readers, because my books have no distinctive genre. And none of my characters are ever despicable enough to command bestselling attention. They are kind folk who are nice to each other. The stories are never about their interpersonal conflicts, but their joint conflict with an outside antagonist, who generally isn’t all that despicable, either.

Whether other people will ever come to like my books, it’s enough that I do. The stories are fun with plenty of twists and turns. Just when I think I know where the stories are going, they head in a different direction. And the endings have all come as a total surprise to me. Not just the ending, but the twist that comes after I thought it was all over.

Now that the shock of how much I enjoy reading my novels has passed, I find myself second guessing what I am reading. In Daughter Am I, is there too much story telling going on? The old gangsters that the hero Mary has managed to gather around her love talking about the old days, and one long-winded fellow named Teach lives up to his name and has tendencies to lecture. But is that a drawback or a necessary part of Mary learning who she is and where she came from? I don’t know. Luckily, the book is finished. Published. And all that’s left for me to do is what I did with the others — simply sit back and enjoy the ride.

And what a ride! At its most basic, Daughter Am I is a modern version of the Hero’s journey. The hero, Mary, goes on a dangerous journey to learn about her recently murdered grandparents. Instead of wizards and other magical folk, her mentors and allies are six old rogues (gangsters and con men in their eighties) and one used-to-be nightclub dancer. By journey’s end, all their lives have been transformed. For a more detailed description of the quest, click here: Daughter Am I and The Hero’s Journey | Bertram’s Blog.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

Posted in being me, books, fiction, life, writing. Tags: , , , , . 4 Comments »

A Very Readable Hoot

March 28, 2026 — Pat Bertram

Before I moved back to Colorado, I was living in California and taking dance classes. When one classmate discovered I was a writer, she suggested I write a murder mystery about our class, and she volunteered to be the victim. I wasn’t sure I wanted to kill off someone I knew — words have power, and I didn’t want to unleash that power on even a suspecting victim. Despite my misgivings, I started to follow through, going so far as to take a photo of our lovely victim for the cover of the book. I’d expected to have to take several shots to get the pose I wanted, but she sank to the wooden floor as gracefully as she did everything else, and lay in the ideal pose. Right then I knew I could kill her. She was just too damn perfect.

After a lot of procrastination, I did end up writing the book, though funnily enough, after it was published, she asked “Why did I have to be the victim?”

Another member of the class belonged to a book club, and when it was her turn to choose the book, she chose the book I’d written, Madame ZeeZee’s Nightmare, and invited me to join them for the discussion. I agreed because I thought it might be fun, but when I arrived, I found out that the discussion was to be cut short because of a baby shower as well as a birthday party. They weren’t all that interested in discussing the book, anyway. Nor were they interested in anything I had to say. The only person who actually addressed me asked accusingly if I’d been my own editor. I mentioned that I had several copy editors, and she just made a rude noise and said we’d all done a lousy job because there were more typos than she could count. I did ask her to point them out, but she ignored me. So I thanked them graciously and left.

I’d had a lot of problems with my publisher during the publication process — he insisted on editing the book but ended up making many mistakes. After several heated discussions, he finally agreed to submit the manuscript as I had formatted it, but I had no idea if he had followed through, though when I got the final proof, it seemed okay.

As I’ve mentioned in the previous couple of posts, I’ve been reading my books, though always with a bit of apprehension. This one most of all since I didn’t want to face the “more typos that she could count.”

I also worried that since it was more or less a novelty book, it would seem silly or lacking any depth. But I shouldn’t have worried. After all, it is a “Pat Bertram book.”

As with the other of my books that I recently read, I was astonished by how good the writing was and by how much I liked the book. Except for the brief synopsis, I had completely forgotten the story. I hadn’t even remembered who did the deed, and wow! The ending really blew me away.

I was especially delighted by the sly mention of mystery genre tropes. For example:

The first thing you learn when you set out to write a novel is that you need a strong protagonist. No ditherers. No brooders. And I am both.

And:

I climbed into my ancient VW bug (no, I am not plagiarizing a well-known fictional detective, I really do own such a car—bought it new when I was young and never got another auto) and drove to the gas station.

And:

Like a fool in a bad drama, I stared at my phone. Huh? She expects me to drop everything and drive over there so she can tell me something she could just as easily have told me over the phone? With a shudder, I realized what had just happened. The worst cliché of all. So often in mysteries, someone makes such a call, and when the recipient arrives at the rendezvous, they find the person dead.

And:

In every mystery story, it seems, there comes a time when the author wants a way to present insights, needs to show state of mind, or simply gets bored with a straightforward narrative and plays at being creative, so the storyteller recounts a dream. Since I hate dreams, my own included, I usually skip those parts of a book, so I won’t bore you with the details of my dream.

There isn’t a lot of action in the book, it’s more of a psychological mystery, but it’s a fun story within a story — a writer writes a story about a fictional writer writing a story showing how life follows fiction.

As reviewer Malcolm Campbell wrote, Madame ZeeZee’s Nightmare is “a very readable hoot. In this dandy mystery, everyone has a secret, a reason for covering it up, and a possible motive. The characters are well developed, the introspective protagonist wonders if she inadvertently set the stage for a murder by agreeing to write a murder mystery based on the dance class, and the cops tell her that in real life, most amateur sleuths end up dead or worse. Readers who love mysteries will enjoy this book. Writers who write mysteries will consider being more careful when pretending to kill off their friends in a novel. And those who’ve been thinking of taking a dance class will see the story as a cautionary tale.”

And oh, yeah — there were typos. Three of them. One absent hyphen, one missing “not,” and one extraneous “a.” It’s possible there were translation errors in the ebook, which she had read, but that’s a mystery for another time.

***

Click here to read the first chapter of: Madame ZeeZee’s Nightmare.

Posted in being me, books, fiction, life, writing. Tags: , , , , . 7 Comments »

What My Life Is Like Today

March 27, 2026 — Pat Bertram
Daily writing prompt
What’s something most people don’t understand?
View all responses

Today is the sixteenth anniversary of Jeff’s death. I’m sitting here mindlessly playing a game and scrolling through a few articles, trying to decide if I want to write about this anniversary. I will remember him, of course, and think of him and all he brought to my life, but I’m not sure it’s something I should still be talking about it. After all, his death belonged to him, not me. Still, I suppose I should at least mention the anniversary — for years I wrote about my grief, laid it all on the line (laid it online?), so it’s only fair that I talk about what my life is like today.

Life, that’s what it’s like.

Too many people bury their grief, letting others tell them how long they should grieve, how long it’s acceptable to talk about their feelings, how long they’re allowed to feel whatever it is they feel. But that is a disservice to grievers. I truly believe it’s important to feel all the myriad emotions, physical sensations, and mental fogs so that the body and mind can work its way through the changes to end up . . . renewed. Or if not renewed, then at least able to go through life without holding in the stress of grief like a too-tight girdle.

Despite the importance of that message, I still wavered about doing another grief post until I happened to notice today’s blog prompt: What’s something most people don’t understand? Such a blatant sign shouldn’t be ignored, especially since there is something I know about that most people don’t understand — Grief, especially grief at the death of child, a spouse, a soul mate.

Everyone thinks they understand grief because most people have felt sadness and despair and even shed tears at the loss of an acquaintance or a job or something else important to them. But not all grief is the same. Not all losses are the same.

The reality is, the most stressful event in a person’s life by far is the death of a life mate or a child. The reality is, such a death is so devastating that the survivor’s death rate increases by a minimum of 25% percent. The reality is, such grief brings about brain chemistry changes and lowers the capacity to function. Someone who hasn’t gone through the trauma of dealing with all the losses those deaths bring about — not just the body and mind changes, but the loss of identity, one’s way of life, sometimes income, and a thousand other changes — cannot understand and so has no business telling anyone how long to grieve or how to grieve. Grief belongs to the griever, not to the onlookers to people’s grief. Admittedly, no one likes to see others in pain, but that pain is often made worse by having to hide it to keep from bothering others.

People who are allowed and who allow themselves to go through the process of grief — because, at its most basic, grief is a process, a way of moving a person back into a semblance of life — end up able to simply live.

For years, I felt as if I were living as a reaction to Jeff’s death or in spite of it, felt as if grief bound me to him and to a way of life that had died with him, but now — I feel as if I am simply living. Maybe I’m just used to that deep undercurrent of sadness, but even so, it doesn’t change the fact that after sixteen years, what my life is like today is . . . life.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

Posted in grief, life, relationships, writing. Tags: , , , , , , . 4 Comments »

Feeling Like a Poseur

March 26, 2026 — Pat Bertram

For a long time, I’ve felt like a poseur, embarrassed to admit I had written books. I’ve hesitated to even look at any of my published works lest I find out how mediocre they are, and proving that yes, I am a poseur. I don’t know when the embarrassment at calling myself a writer took hold. In a blog post in June of 2018, I wrote that “when it comes to writing, I don’t feel like a fraud” so it started sometime after that.

A lot of people, especially successful women, are beset by “imposter syndrome,” where they feel as if they don’t belong in the position they are in, but that isn’t my case. First, I’m not successful, and second, I’m not in any position — I stopped writing books years ago. For many months, I even stopped blogging. Can one be a writer if one isn’t writing anything, isn’t even selling the books that are already written?

Whatever the answer to that, the non-sales of books all these years whispered to me that perhaps I really was simply posing as an author rather than being one in truth. And somewhere deep down, I figured if I admitted I was a non-successful author, then I’d have to admit that maybe I wasn’t a good enough writer after all.

I don’t know where I got the courage (desperation at not having anything to read?), but I’ve been reading my books lately, something I’ve never done once they were published. I’ve been amazed by how good they are. Well written. Interesting stories. Characters that have to deal with life-changing events. Even though I’ve mostly forgotten the stories except for a brief synopsis, it’s possible that something in me recognizes the books as ones I’ve written and so see something that is not there, but I don’t think so. I tend to think they really are as good as they seem.

Unfortunately, they don’t seem like the types of books that will appeal to many people, which makes sense since I started writing them when I could no longer find the books I liked to read. (You’d think that would be a clue to their salability, wouldn’t you?)

The first two I read, Bob: The Right Hand of God and Light Bringer, are books that take place in familiar earthly circumstances but develop an otherworldly strangeness about them. The last one I read, Unfinished, is very earthly, nothing strange about it except the portrayal of the insanity of new grief. Whenever, as a reader, I’d get annoyed by her tears or frustrated by the disconnect between reality and her perception of it (knowing her husband was dead but still expecting to encounter him alive), the scene and the energy would change to some other facet of her struggle to cope and so keep me interested.

One thing that was well done, I think, was showing how she’d been affected by the horror of her husband’s last year — she’d been left in limbo because he didn’t want anything to do with her and in fact often couldn’t remember who she was and yet, like a child, needed her care. Toward the end of that year, she’d engaged in a cyber affair with a guy who was going through the same thing she was. She thought she was done with grief and was starting over, yet when her husband died, all the feeling she’d been denying descended on her, and there she was, torn between two impossible loves. And finding out her husband had secrets of his own was just topping on that whole unpalatable cake.

I hesitated to read the book, thinking it would be too depressing, but she started to find her way through that emotional mess, and the book ended on a hopeful note.

I really liked the book. Although not a lighthearted story, it was very well written and definitely did what I wanted it to do — show the insanity of new grief.

Luckily, the next book I read will be lighter since one thing I do know is that this was the heaviest of the lot.

It really is an interesting experience reading these books. I know I wrote them, but since I forgot them, I can come at them as if they were written by a stranger. And truly, the author is a stranger; someone I was long ago but no longer am. No wonder I feel like a poseur.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

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New Favorite Author

March 25, 2026 — Pat Bertram

I have found a new favorite author. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of her. It’s someone by the name of Pat Bertram.

I was going to continue on that vein, talking about that new author in the third person, but it seemed a bit too . . . cutesy . . . for lack of a better word.

I’ve been reading the books I wrote, and to be honest, I am stunned by what a good writer I was. Admittedly, the books had been written by me (and by extension, for me) so that could account for why I like them so much. They’re also (obviously) the type of books I like, the type that aren’t written any more, such as books that take place in familiar circumstances but that have an otherworldly strangeness about them. Bob: The Right Hand of God is a good example of this kind of book, and Light Bringer is another. They’re a sort of fantasy. A sort of a what-if type of story. A sort of speculative fiction. But not really any of those. They are just (as someone once called them) “Pat Bertram novels.” As if I were my own genre.

Light Bringer blew me away. Truly. It’s been fifteen years since I looked at it and, except for a general idea of what the book was about, the story came as a complete — and delightful — surprise. So did the more-than-competent writing. I truly had no idea I had used color and sound as a backdrop to the story. I had no idea the depth and beauty. I had no idea the research that had gone into the making of the story — all that talk about harmonics and graviton drives and mind/matter interfaces and laghima was new to me as I read the book. Amazing.

It’s funny, but I used to think that perhaps I deserved the resounding silence my books generated from the reading public, that perhaps my writing was amateurish, but Light Bringer showed otherwise. One problem is that I never found an effective way to promote. Another problem, one that touches on the first, is that I didn’t know how to categorize the books. As I mentioned, there is no genre to most of my books, and if there were, each would be listed as a separate genre, which is frowned on in today’s (and yesterday’s) publishing world. People want to know what they are reading before they even start reading, whether a mystery, a thriller, a romance. None of my books are any of those things. Or maybe they are all those things.

In that, I was an oddity, both as a reader and as a writer. Some of my favorite books were those written by authors with various types of stories to tell. An adventure story, then a science fiction novel, and then maybe a mystery. But those writers are gone. Well, except for me, and I’m all but gone since I don’t write anything but blogs anymore. (Though reading my books does give me an itch to maybe . . .  someday . . .)

One thing I do remember about my books is how much I had to fight my first publisher to keep him from changing my books. Or rather, I had to fight him to change them back to the way I wrote them. I never knew of a copy editor who added typos to a book, but mine did. Each of my first several books degenerated into a such a miserable experience that it made me lose interest in writing. But seeing how good my books are, I now know they were worth fighting for.

Even though I would have liked to become more of a selling author (my first publisher went bankrupt, so no royalties would be forthcoming even if I did become a bestselling author), it’s enough, for today, that I read and loved Light Bringer.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

 

Posted in books, fiction, writing. Tags: , , , , . 6 Comments »

A Fun Story for Not-So-Fun Times

March 24, 2026 — Pat Bertram

With all the trouble I’ve been having finding something good to read, I decided to try one of my own books — Bob: The Right Hand of God. I was surprised both by how much of the story I have forgotten and by how much I liked it. It’s playful in spots, sometimes beautiful, and seems to do a good job of showing the mind fog of sudden trauma while keeping the hero on the move as he tries to survive the suddenly hostile Earth. Oddly, though it was meant to be a simple story with the theme of freedom (how much freedom would we give up for security, and how much security we would give up for freedom), it reads like an allegory.

I found myself smiling while reading — apparently back when I was writing, I still had a sense of humor. I also found myself bemused that the book slipped through literary cracks. It should have found a readership. Even more, with some of those visuals, such as a shrinking city turning into a field of blue flowers then into a lake, it should have been made into a movie.

But it was here today for me to read, which fulfilled one goal I had for the book. Even back then I had a hard time finding books I liked to read — books with familiar people and familiar settings that skew into strangeness — so I wrote the story for my future self. And this “future self” was grateful for the forethought. I truly did enjoy the book! I read it all and didn’t once want to skip to the end as is my habit nowadays.

My only critique is a personal one since I doubt anyone else would have seen the weird changes that had been made to the submitted manuscript.

In one spot, poor Chet, the rather hapless protagonist of the story, passed by an old store that people were using as some sort of church. He sees an ill-formed red cross on the top of the building that resembles a “T” and then trips over a broken sign. What he was supposed to see on the sign was “im’s Plumbing,” leading us to believe that the red “T” on the building was part of the broken sign, but somehow between my submitting the manuscript and the publication of the books, “im’s Plumbing” was changed to “Tim’s Plumbing.” (Maybe I was too subtle with that hint?)

I also noticed that the beats — the bits of action that replace “he said/she said” to indicate a new speaker — got separated from the dialogue so that each was on its own line. I have no idea how that happened. It’s not really important except that in a few places I was confused about who was saying what. It’s hard for me to believe I didn’t notice the separation when checking over the formatted manuscript. Assuming I did check it over. Since I don’t have the master copy, perhaps I didn’t have a chance to proof it. It was published during Covid, so anything could have happened.

I am lucky — and grateful — the book was published at all. And anyway, those disappointing changes, noticeable only to me, don’t affect the thrust (and readability) of this whimsical and satirical apocalyptic story.

***

Bob: The Right Hand of God

What if God decided S/He didn’t like how the world turned out, and turned it over to a development company from the planet Xerxes for re-creation? Would you survive? Could you survive? A fun story for not-so-fun times.

Click here to read the first chapter of Bob: The Right Hand of God

Click here to buy Bob: The Right Hand of God

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When Books Were Just Books

March 23, 2026 — Pat Bertram

Once upon a time, books were just books. At least, once upon my time they were. I always knew books were written by people, of course, but the authors were separate from their works. Like literary midwives or hedge doctors, they brought stories out of the everywhere into the here. It didn’t matter who they were. Only the books mattered.

I miss those years of innocence, the years when the back covers had tantalizing blurbs, not a close-up of an author’s face, when the snippets of reviews were from reviewers, not other authors peddling their own books. I miss the mysteriousness of authors, when all that was known was the brief biography hidden in the end matter.

Now, of course, with the onset of the internet, there is no such thing as simply a book. Too much about authors is known. Too much is discussed. Too much is . . . too much.

I’ve stopped reading works by a couple of authors because of their politics. In some cases, I simply cannot abide those they choose to align themselves with, and it completely changed the tone of their books for me. I’ve stopped reading other authors because of remarks they’ve made online. I’ve stopped reading still others when I found out that opinions in the books are their own, not just their characters’ thoughts. In yesterday’s blog, I mentioned that we read ourselves into books, but it’s hard to read yourself into a book when you find the person who wrote it is too much in the book. And even harder when you find them less than admirable.

Perhaps it’s naïve of me to think it was ever possible to separate an author from the books they’ve written, but for most of my life I did. An author was simply a brand. (And often a dead one at that.) If I liked a Frank Slaughter book or a Graham Greene, I’d look for more. Back then, there were no dust jackets on library books, just some sort of generic fabric-covered binder’s board, with only a name and title on the spine, so that’s all I had to go by.

It no longer matters, really, that authors have destroyed their mystique for me because most books published nowadays are not worth my time, but I do wish I still thought that books — and authors — were something special. Something . . . magical, even mystical.

I’m sure it sounds hypocritical of me to think this way since my books came to be published because of the internet, at least in a roundabout way, and those I’ve sold I’ve sold because of the internet. But in a way, it proves my point. I’m too visible (and yet, oddly invisible because so few people find me). There’s nothing magical about how I wrote my books, no sitting in an ivory tower birthing stories, just one word dredged out of my mind at a time. There’s certainly no mystique to my being an author. There’s just . . . me.

I suppose I should be glad there are still human writers, even unadmirable ones, because all too soon, there will be mostly non-human writers wringing stories out of the nowhere.

Makes me wonder: will there still be human readers? Or will there be hundreds of little artificial readers sitting around reading those artificial books?

It’s funny though. Here I am being nostalgic about a time in my life when authors didn’t matter, only their work did, and yet the future when perhaps there will be no authors doesn’t seem all that much more palatable.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

Posted in books, fiction, internet, life, writing. Tags: , , , , , . 3 Comments »

Reading Ourselves Into Books

March 22, 2026 — Pat Bertram

I read a couple of novels by an author a friend mentioned loving. I didn’t quite know how to tell that friend that I found the books depressing and pointless, so I never revealed that I’d read them. Books we love are such a personal thing. It’s as if any book we read and like is a book about us because we read ourselves into books. Repudiating a book a friend likes is like repudiating that friend. Or maybe like repudiating that friend’s sense of themselves.

In my case, I don’t particularly like or dislike most books I read and very few that I like manage to touch me, so they don’t say anything to me about me. In fact, I barely remember reading most of what I’ve read. But I am sensitive to other people’s love of certain books, and hesitate to hurt their feelings with my cynical comments, so I keep my thoughts to myself.

I’m not sure other people feel this way. Since it doesn’t bother me if people don’t like the same books I like (unless, of course, they’re the books I’ve written, and then all bets are off), maybe the friend wouldn’t care what I thought about the books.

Actually, that’s not true about it not bothering me. I once lent a whole series of books I liked to a long-ago friend who mentioned having a lot of empty time. It did hurt my feelings that they were returned to me unread, but I felt even worse because my poor red-faced friend seemed to be as uneasy about the situation as I was. I’m not sure why I felt hurt. Nor am I sure why I remembered that incident all these years later except that I’m writing about people not liking books that others loved.

As far as I know, I’ve only recommended a couple of books since then — Tanamera by Noel Barber, a novel that took place in Singapore and the Cameron Highlands where one of my current friends is from, and I only mentioned it because of her connection to the place. I think another book I once recommended was Empire by Orson Scott Card because I thought it did a good job of explaining what is going on today and why. (Or maybe not. I don’t remember the book. It’s possible I recommended something else entirely.)

But there were no hurt feelings whether or not the books were read or liked because, since that first lending fiasco, I’ve come to learn how personal books are. As we grow, sometimes books grow with us; just as often we outgrow them. Which also goes to show my premise that we read ourselves into books. What we once were, we many not still be. What once spoke to us about us, sometimes only whispers now, or even remains silent. For example, I stopped liking the series of books I lent that long-ago friend and got rid of them during one of my moves.

All this just to say I read a few novels I didn’t like and didn’t see the point to the stories, but I won’t write about them lest I hurt that friend’s feelings. And I don’t like hurting people’s feelings even if the hurt is simply something I might have erroneously read into the situation.

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Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

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