Reading and Empathy

April 7, 2026 — Pat Bertram

I’ve often heard that reading fiction can help a person develop empathy, and that could be true. I’ve certainly spent a rather significant part of my life reading, and I also seem to have an enormous amount of empathy.

What I do know is that reading can also help inure a person to other people’s pain. Too many books describe in excruciating detail the agonies characters are going through, and I figure I’ve had more than enough pain in my life, I don’t need to feel made-up people’s made-up pain, so I’m trying to teach myself to hold back the empathy when I’m reading.

I’m currently reading The Name of the Wind, which is interesting enough to hold my interest, but so far not more than that. One major drawback is that the character is subjected to one terrible trauma after another — deaths, losses, beatings, disappointments. Whenever something good happens to him, almost immediately two or more bad things happen. Normally I wouldn’t bother continuing to read, but I bought the book (paid a whole dime for it!) and lugged the weighty volume home, so I feel as if I have some stake in the story. I imagine all this trauma is going somewhere, turning him into the character he is supposed to be (a wizard maybe?) but getting there isn’t fun.

So, I mentally stand apart from his pain. Refuse to imagine what he is going through. And dampen any empathy I might normally feel.

I’m still a long way from knowing if the book is worth reading, and even longer from knowing if the second book is worth it (even though I paid another dime for the second volume). And probably so far from ever reading the third volume as to be as close to never as never can be.

Apparently, the author waited to submit his trilogy until the whole thing was written (being a rather obsessive writer, it took him fifteen years), and after the first book was accepted, there were huge editorial changes, which supposedly made it a much better story. But as any writer knows, small changes ripple to make bigger changes later on, and if those changes weren’t small, then the changes are almost insurmountable. Still, he did make whatever changes were necessary to get the second book published, but the third never made an appearance. As you can imagine, all those changes to the first two books demanded that the third be rewritten almost from scratch, and the poor author ended up with severe writer’s block. Not only that, he had custody issues, his publishing company was sold, he developed mental health issues, and fans dumped on him. Which leads to the question of what a writer owes his readers.

[Wait a minute! Doesn’t this sound like a movie? I could have sworn I saw something like this once upon a time.]

Beyond the authorial problems, the major issue, from what I understand is that he got involved in a charity drive where he was supposed to give a chapter to those who donated, and he wasn’t able to write the chapter (and didn’t want to just haphazardly throw out anything to satisfy his obligation), nor could he give back the money since it didn’t go to him.

Whatever the reason, there will never be an end to the story, so if I want, I can imagine a happy ever after for the poor tormented character. I can’t do that for the poor tormented writer. He’ll have to find his own way.

But I can give this poor tormented reader a happy ending whenever I want. All I have to do is step away from the books emotionally. Or physically. It’s a book — if I set it down, it can’t come chasing me!

***

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

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True Names

April 6, 2026 — Pat Bertram

I started reading Patrick Rothfuss’s Kingkiller Chronicle and only got a few pages into the book when I had to stop and research the belief that there is magic in names.  In The Name of the Wind, the first book of the two-book trilogy, someone falls, and since he knows the name of the wind, he calls the wind and the wind comes and gently lowers him to the ground. That struck a resounding chord in me. I’ve always known about the magic of names, but not necessarily in that context. I’d started the book years ago, might even have finished it, so the echo about the magic of knowing the name of something could have been from that very book, but the recognition seemed deeper than that, and I wanted to check it out.

I never did figure out what specifically triggered that echo. There are simply too many references to the magic of names and the power of true names to mention here. It seems to be a word-wide cultural belief, not just in folklore, fairy tales, and myth, but in practice. In some cultures, parents hid their children’s real name behind a secondary name to be commonly used because your true name holds power and anyone who knows that name has at least a modicum of power over you. Even today, without names being directly related to magic, names have a vast importance — think how long most parents-to-be deliberate on what to name their child. And how they have a second name to use when chastising their child, and sometimes even a third name to show a special affection.

This idea of a “true name” seems to be intrinsic, or at least it is in me. I remember as a youngster wanting to know the names of birds, and it shocked (and horrified) me when I realized the names we’ve given to the birds are just labels. They’re not their true names. I gave up any interest in learning bird names after that, because there didn’t seem to be much point to it. Now if I could learn birds’ true names, the names they give themselves, that would be something different!

I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what my author name should be because I needed as much power as possible bestowed on me and my books. I finally settled on the simplest version of my given name. After Jeff died, and I set out on my journey to find a new life, I met a lot of people. I hesitated to tell anyone my true name — I didn’t want strangers knowing much about me or having even that bit of power over me because I was already feeling vulnerable, so I gave them my author name. Besides, back then I still had hopes of becoming a known author (known to more than just a few people, that is), and I hoped that telling people my author name would help solidify my “brand.”

The problem with not using my true name is that when strangers became friends, it was too late to give them my true name. An even greater problem is that I don’t even know what my true name is anymore. I look for it occasionally but have no idea how to find it. Maybe when the birds tell me their names, they will be able to tell me mine, too.

It could happen.

***

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

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We Are Who We Are

April 5, 2026 — Pat Bertram
Daily writing prompt
If you could be a character from a book or film, who would you be? Why?
View all responses

If I could be a character from a book? That’s not a hard question for me because I am already a character in a book: Madame ZeeZee’s Nightmare, a novel about a murder that took place in a dance class. Sure, I wrote the book, but I am still a character in the story — the narrator, the one who set the murder in motion, the one who found out who the murderer was, the one who persevered while dealing with her own issues. And one of the dancers!

I discovered something interesting while writing that book — it’s much easier to write a novel when you’re the protagonist rather than making up a person to fill the role. I never had to figure out what the character thought — I knew exactly what she was thinking. I never had to create special internal conflicts for her because I have them galore. I never had to figure out her flaws because — well, I don’t have any flaws.

That started out as a joke, but it’s the truth. I don’t have flaws: I have personality traits and character traits that might not be the most admirable, but they are not “flaws.” They are part of what constitutes . . . me.

It’s why I hate the whole “flawed character” story structure. Authors don’t need to create explicit flaws for their characters. If the characters are real, they have traits that make up their personas. So what if they’re prideful or refuse to see anyone else’s point of view even to their own detriment? Those are still not flaws — they are intrinsic parts of who the characters are. They are what makes the characters come alive. If a peculiarity or failing is a part of the character, it can’t be a flaw because a flaw is a defect or a mistake or an imperfection, and since the traits an author gives a character are purposeful, they aren’t mistakes. And if the trait makes the character perfect for their role, then it can’t be an imperfection. Besides, who has the right to say that a certain trait is a defect? One person’s defect could be another person’s hard won survival mechanism.

As you can see, I take issue with that whole “flawed character” thing.

Luckily, I am not a flawed character! (Neither are you, if the truth be told. We are who we are.)

If I weren’t already a character in a book, who would I be? I wouldn’t. I have a hard enough time imagining me as me; imagining me as someone else would take more brainpower than I have at my disposal.

***

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

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Pets: The Good and the Bad

April 4, 2026 — Pat Bertram
Daily writing prompt
What animals make the best/worst pets?
View all responses

I can think of a lot of animals that would make the worst pets. Even without really thinking, the wooly mammoth, the saber tooth tiger, and the pterosaur come to mind. Truly, not good pets. For one, their size would make them hard to house. Sure, you could keep them as outside pets, but you’d still have the problem of feeding them. A mammoth eats about 400 pounds of vegetation a day, which would be complicated even in the country, but in the city? Couldn’t be done. And then there’s the pterosaur. With a wingspan of 35 feet and an exceedingly high metabolism, they need to eat continually. And they eat meat. So what happens when they run out of meat, when your neighbors have all mysteriously disappeared, and there’s only you left? I tend to think there wouldn’t be a whole lot of affection going on. Same with saber tooth tigers — high metabolism, voracious meat eater, and oh, yeah — those teeth.

Good thing all those creatures are extinct. But there are some extant creatures that would be every bit as bad. A blue whale, for example. It weighs more than thirty elephants. Yikes. Where would you keep such a thing? I imagine a goldfish bowl would be a tad small. A hippopotamus is much smaller than the blue whale, but due to their bite force and jaw structure, they’re considered one of the most dangerous creatures in the world, so not good pet material. The mosquito, not surprisingly, is the most dangerous creature of all, killing as many as a million people a year. (Humans only manage to kill about a half a million.) Besides the lethality, there doesn’t seem to be any way to domesticate a mosquito, so when considering the worst animals for pets, the mosquito would have to top the list. They might be easy to feed — I’m sure you have a bit of blood to spare — but keeping them caged would present a problem.

The best pets, at least in my opinion, are the legendary kind. Dragons. Unicorns. Griffins. Pegasi. Even though some of those creatures are said to be dangerous (red-hot breath anyone?) their non-corporeal aspects make them easy to take care of. And ignore. I’m not one to enjoy sharing my space with other creatures — large or small — so for someone like me, any of these fantastic entities would make a good pet.

For you and everyone else, the best pet, of course, is the one you love the most.

***

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

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Utterly Bizarre

April 3, 2026 — Pat Bertram

Reading my own books is utterly bizarre. I’ll be going along, involved in the story, loving what I’m reading, wondering what’s coming next. Whenever I’d stop to take a breath, it would stun me to realize I wrote the book. How is that even possible? Not the writing — I remember writing and rewriting and re-rewriting More Deaths Than One, for example, but except for a brief synopsis, the same one on the cover — “What if you returned home after years away and found someone with your face living your life . . .” — the story was completely new to me.

I do remember wondering if More Deaths Than One might be a tad amateurish, but I’m not finding that at all. Well, there is the girl with the eyes that sparkle perhaps too often, but even today, I wouldn’t know a different way of showing, from the hero’s point of view, how much he lit up her life. And there is . . . hmm, I don’t know . . . maybe a bit of passive storytelling, but I remember thinking that I wanted the relationship between the boy and girl to be of paramount importance as they discover the truth rather than a thriller-like chase. Whatever the case, I can no longer judge the merits of my books except for the very personal one of getting to read — and enjoy — these books as if for the first time.

I mentioned before that the “Pat Bertram” books were written by someone else, someone I’d been years before. In the case of More Deaths Than One, that someone is the person I was twenty-years ago, before Jeff died, before I went to California to take care of my father, before dance classes, before buying a house, before gardening. There’s been a lot of living in the past twenty years! No wonder there’s such a huge disconnect between the author I was and the reader I am.

Although the books were written in part for a future me, since back then (and still today) I have a hard time finding books that speak to me, I feared reading them again. What if I hated them? What if they struck me as abysmal as most books do nowadays? What if I were embarrassed by non-existent storytelling abilities? But whew! That’s not been an issue. (Well, I am a bit embarrassed by the sex scenes in More Deaths Than One. This is the only Pat Bertram book that has any, and as I’m beginning to see, they are an integral part of the character, but still . . .)

I have found a few changes to my submitted manuscripts (like the ones in Bob: The Right Hand of God that make me look as if I don’t know what I’m doing when in fact it was an editor who made the changes), a few words in both A Spark of Heavenly Fire and More Deaths Than One that mysteriously became hyphenated (more editor’s work, I suppose), and a stray typo or two. Despite those minor imperfections, the books all seem professional to me.

But yes, it’s utterly bizarre to be reading a book I wrote, breathlessly waiting to see what happens next. And it’s even more bizarre to be blown away by the ending. Whooo.

***

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

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The Bob

April 2, 2026 — Pat Bertram
Daily writing prompt
How have you adapted to the changes brought on by the Covid-19 pandemic?
View all responses

I was going to make this a lighthearted post because I’ve adapted well to the changes brought on by the “Bob.”

In case you don’t know, I call it the “Bob” after an excerpt in my novel, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, where protagonist 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.”

All during the worst of the shutdown, I hated giving the malady — both the physical ailment and the widespread cultural and financial ill — the hated name. I didn’t want to grant the horror more power than it already had and, too, I didn’t want to surrender to the fearmongering. At least, not for myself. I don’t get the flu, and besides, I’d made a vow never allow myself to get caught up in another scarifying scheme such as happened with the Swine Flu fiasco of 1976. Outwardly, I made a point of following their dictates. I stayed home. (Yay!! Such a good excuse to take a break from socializing.) I made sure to stay 6 feet away from anyone I did happen to see. (Again, yay!! I’ve never liked people standing on my heels while waiting in line.) I wore the mask. (Another yay! I liked the anonymity.) And I always made sure I had an easy answer when asked if I’d gotten the vaccine. (It wasn’t a lie, but not the strict truth, either.) And even though we’ve been paying for the stimulus checks with inflation for the past few years (each of us has probably spent more in inflationary dollars than we ever received for “free”), they were a nice bonus for me at the time.

So, for me, it wasn’t a hardship. The worst thing, I think, was keeping from getting caught up in the fear. And the best thing was having an excuse to be alone, and that still holds true to this day.

So why did I change my mind about a lighthearted post? Because other people weren’t so lucky. I know several women who lost their husbands and subsequently their way of life. (Too often widows end up in financial straits, as if losing that one special person isn’t trauma enough.) I know others who have lost beloved family members. And I know still others who have become lost in a cycle of never-cured illnesses.

If this had been a naturally occurring illness, there might be some sense of fatalism to help with acceptance, but I doubt there’s anyone out there who still believes it “just happened.” We (the people) might never know the truth. Might never know who to blame. Might always be shadowed by the spector of “if they did it once, they can do it again.”

One thing I do know: we — individually and as a people — will always be changed forever by the “Bob.”

***

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

Posted in culture, grief, history/myth, life. Tags: , , , , , . 1 Comment »

A Day of Pointless Foolery

April 1, 2026 — Pat Bertram

I’ve never been a fan of practical jokes. Not the crude ones like whoopie cushions. Not the mean ones like switching sugar and salt. Not the cruel ones like sending someone a fake love letter purporting to be from a person they’ve admired from afar. Not the disastrous ones like telling someone you were dying. And especially not the elaborate ones where the poor pranked person hadn’t a clue.

There was once a television show where the hosts played practical jokes on people. In one episode, a well-known actor had been wined and dined extensively by industry bigwigs as a prelude to his getting some important acting job. He played it cool, not getting excited, just accepting the scenario as possible since there was nothing out of the ordinary about the situation. At the end, when they told him it was all a joke, for a moment there was a blank look on his face, not embarrassment — just blank. As if the whole thing had been totally pointless, which such pranks are.

When I was growing up, we didn’t have a television because my father didn’t want us to be like everyone else, nor would he let us listen to the popular radio stations. Since I was naïve and out of the mainstream, kids often picked on me. One day, I got to school and found chalk hearts all over the playground with PB + EP inside. I couldn’t figure out what EP stood for since there was no one in the school with those initials, and no one would tell me what they meant. They laughed, thinking the whole thing hilarious. I don’t know how many days they strung out the joke until someone finally told me EP stood for Elvis Presley. I just stared at them, totally at a loss since I’d never heard of him. (Yep, I was that culturally isolated.) I still don’t understand the point of that incident; it just seems so utterly bizarre.

Today is April Fools’ Day, though in my world, it’s not something I ever bother to “celebrate” except in the way I celebrate anything — by learning about it.

Our April Fools’ Day probably came from a combination of two different historical events. The Romans held a Hilaria Festival on March 25, celebrating with masks, jokes, games, parades, the first day of the year where daylight was longer than the dark. Also, until 1582, people used a Julian Calendar, where the first day of the year was April 1. When they switched to the Gregorian Calendar, some people didn’t know that the first day of the year had been changed to January 1 and so continued to celebrate on April 1. They were considered fools, fair game for the pranks more enlightened folk played on them. Yeah, fun.

The only time I have ever been a “good sport” about a practical joke is when someone said something outrageous, then immediately admitted they were just joking. Anything longer is just . . . well, it’s just cruel. For the rest, being a good sport seems to mean that anyone can do anything to you and you’re supposed to take it with a smile, and that’s something I can’t do since it gives tacit approval to unkindness. Luckily, I’m old enough not to care what sort of sport people think I am and so can stop pretending that meanness is fun.

So, whatever the general meaning of this day, to me it only means staying inside by myself until the pointless foolery is done.

 

***

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

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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.

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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 »
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