Ah, Liberty

September 8, 2026 — Pat Bertram

In any talk of immigration nowadays — legal or illegal — someone always brings up the Statue of Liberty and how it says that all people are welcome.

The odd thing about the Statue of Liberty, is that despite it being an iconic symbol of the United States, it was never commissioned by the USA. In fact, it was a gift by the French government. Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi, the sculptor, originally viewed the project as a colossal statue to stand at the northern entrance to the Suez Canal. It was supposed to have been entitled, “Egypt Carrying the Light to Asia.” When the Egyptians turned it down as being too expensive, France commissioned the revamped statue as a gift to the USA. It basically had nothing to do with this country; it was merely a French artist with a vision who needed a place to stash that vision.

As for the inscription of the statue: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” etc. It was written by Emma Lazarus in 1883 for an art and literary auction to help fund the building of the Statue of Liberty’s pedestal.

The poem was never, and was never intended to be, an official declaration of the United States’ immigration policy, though people think it is. In fact, the immigration policy grew into one of exclusion. Or inclusion, depending on how you look at it. What the policy included were people who could pay their own way once they got here and/or who had people to sponsor them— immigrants were never supposed to be burden on the taxpayer. They were, instead, supposed to add to the country’s coffers. And they were chosen because of their ability to eventually assimilate into the country and become loyal and patriotic citizens.

The more the far leftists made their agendas known over the years, and the more they dictate policy (if not government policy, then for sure the policies that their adherents advocate), the weaker the immigration laws became until under a certain president, there were in fact no laws. And the more they justify it by . . . actually, I’m not sure how they justify it, but as I said, part of the popular vision of our immigration policy is based on that not-so-American statue.

I have no idea where this immigration turmoil is going to end up, but I keep hoping that I will never have to see the culmination of the stated far-left policy of open borders, either because I will be gone, or because it won’t affect me way out here in the open high prairie. I used to shake my head in wonder at the local farmers and ranchers who sold their water rights so the front range cities could grow, but now it’s a nice thought — without water, there’s really no room for a lot of growth.

Ah, liberty!

***

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

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To Say or Not to Say

September 7, 2026 — Pat Bertram

It seems funny to think of all the years I’ve been struggling with the issue of how safe it is to say what is on my mind since it seems such a “today” issue. More than that, though, I’ve pretty much forgotten all the other posts where I talked about the same thing. Each day, though, WordPress (the company that hosts this blog) gives me a list of posts that I published that date in previous years, and I’ve been surprised to learn how often I’ve spoken about this same subject.

In fact, exactly six years ago today, I wrote about Malcolm R. Campbell, author and fellow blogger, and his article entitled, Are you afraid to say what you think?

He mentioned, among other things, penalties imposed on people for exercising their right to free speech, the lack of civility, allowing violence under threat of more violence, and mob-enforced political correctness. He was also brave enough to say that “most of us see and hear enough stuff daily to know how and why the problem is larger than what can be put in single blog.” And he admitted that he no longer felt safe enough to say how much larger the problem is.

This was during the Covid years, and back then, I made sure to keep my mouth shut about my vaccine status, as well as my thoughts on how the whole thing started, which recently has proven to be correct. (My studies in biological warfare primed me for the truth. Calling something “gain of function” does not negate its illegal biological warfare status, it just gives it a legal name to experiment under.)

My response to Malcolm’s post still holds true today: I’m certainly afraid to say what I think. I study everything, including both sides of an issue, and often my views end up being on the quiet end of the spectrum rather than the burning-down-buildings end. If people today can get killed by doing nothing but wearing the wrong hat or the wrong tee shirt or the wrong smile, then it’s no wonder so many of us are afraid to tell the truth even in our personal online spaces. (Because when it comes to an online space, there is no personal space with unbounded freedom from rancor to say what one wills.)

I doubt anyone would come after me physically, but still, it’s something I need to pay attention to. I am learning, though, to keep silent, especially in real life. Some of the things I want to say to people I am conversing with aren’t full-fledged ideas, but rather the beginning of a complex thought buried somewhere in the back of my mind, but even the most intelligent person seldom can get beyond my inciting comment, so we end up arguing a point I didn’t even wish to make until I finally tell them to forget it, to ignore what I said, and let’s agree to disagree. This makes them uncomfortable and leaves me with a nest-full of half-formed ideas with no place to fly. (It’s one of the reason’s I blog — to help me figure out those half-formed ideas, which is why it bothers me that I’m reticent to talk about the things that I’m trying to comprehend.)

Beyond my own safety, physical or emotional (I’m really too sensitive to easily accept discord), there is the issue of hurting other people’s feelings. While I might think they are simply reacting to headlines or to group-think, they believe they’ve researched an issue, though how can someone research an issue if they only delve into one side of it? But still, they don’t need me (or want me) to point that out. It’s a good way to end up with no friends.

But whatever . . . This post was not supposed to be a reiteration of my worries about discussing certain topics, but about how often I’ve had this same conversation with myself here on this blog. One of these days I’ll go back to infrequent posts, in which case I won’t be thinking of what to say or what not so say. I’ll simply keep my mouth shut and my fingers off the keyboard.

(I’m still trying to keep to my unofficial New Year’s resolution of daily blogging, but I have a hunch I won’t make it. Not that it matters. As I mentioned yesterday, if an opinion is just an opinion, what’s the point of figuring out the truth.)

***

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

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Opinions

September 6, 2026 — Pat Bertram

I saw a quote, author unknown, that said, “A person is starting to progress down the road to wisdom when he begins to understand that his opinion is just an opinion.” I don’t know about being on the road to wisdom, but I’ve always known my opinion counts for little. I’ve never been able to talk anyone into believing anything that I do (not that I ever really wanted to); in fact, I can barely get anyone to listen to any of my opinions, especially those based on years of research because of course, to them, their opinions trump mine.

What seeing that quote did was turn on a light in my head. If my opinion is just an opinion, then so is everyone else’s, which means, I can give their opinions as little credence as they give mine.

Which leads me to wonder: if opinions are not anything beyond a mere attitude or personal view of something and don’t really mean anything, then what’s the point? More than that, if everyone’s opinion is equal, it means that the opinion of a person who has spent a lifetime studying a subject, such as history or politics, is exactly the same as the opinion of a person who watched a ticktock video and now thinks they know the truth.

This wouldn’t matter if, in fact, opinions didn’t mean anything, but they are dangerous in the hands of people who know little. For example, some of the young people who want socialism think it means being social. That’s a dangerous opinion since it can lead down a road most of the people in the USA don’t want to travel. Opinions are also dangerous when vented in front of people who don’t believe those opinions, because to certain groups, their opinions are the only “right” ones and everyone else needs to be excoriated for their views. Most dangerous of all, of course, are news media that packages opinion as fact.

On the other hand, sometimes opinions really are useless. For example, more than three-fourths of the country wants secure elections, but the people in Congress who are supposed to be representing those three-fourths refuse to do what people want.

So . . . opinions. Everyone has one, they say, though most people have a whole slew of them, some based on nothing more than “feelings.”

I don’t know what to take away from this “opinion” post, but the quote, at least, made me think about opinions in a different manner. Will it change anything? Probably not, though by giving this topic a piece of my mind, it might help bring me peace of mind. So that’s something.

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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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Preparing for Visitors

September 5, 2026 — Pat Bertram

Until the hyperawareness of other peoples’ germs that held during the Covid years, if I had company, I always cleaned house super well before guests arrived and didn’t worry about cleaning after they left. During those years, I wasn’t all that concerned about cleaning beforehand, though I made sure to clean extra well after any guest left.

Now? I’m not sure what to do. I’m expecting out-of-town guests in a little more than a week, and of course, I want the place to look it’s best, but I don’t think I have it in me to do a deep clean twice in a short period of time. (Once before and once after.) Actually, I’m not sure I have it in me to do it once, so I’m taking it easy, doing a bit at a time. Mostly the house is company-ready — fairly neat and presentable except for hard-to-clean corners, but I feel as if I should put in an effort.

Luckily, they will be staying at an Airbnb across the street, which gives us all space as well as comfortable quarters for them (and their own bathroom), so I won’t have to give up my bedroom for them. I imagine I’ll end up doing what I always do when it comes to housework — do the least possible until I get one of those rare urges to clean every corner and polish every surface. Hopefully, the urge will come before they get here. If not, well, they are getting older, too, so perhaps they will be as blind to dusty corners as I am.

Meantime, there is the yard. I’ve mostly been keeping up with that, too, and what doesn’t get done will just have to be chalked up to . . . I was going to say old age, but honestly, not working as hard as perhaps I could is more of an inclination than a physical impossibility.

There are some areas I can’t do much about. During one of my lopping sessions, I trimmed an overgrown bush, and what was left was mostly trunks and a few branches that were too thick to cut. The bush is growing new leaves, and perhaps there will be enough of them to cover the scraggly mess of branches, but if not, oh, well. The same goes for the area where I pulled up dead sunflowers and cut back the pumpkin vine to allow more room for the rest of the wildflowers to grow. Again, I’ll just have to hope it looks all right, and if not, it will be another case of “oh, well.”

The third mess I made in an effort to clean up is in my raised garden. I lopped off the heads of the marigolds that were taking over to give the remaining plants breathing room. Since I ended up with a lot of empty spaces, I fill in with my collection of fairy houses.

With any luck, the yard will dazzle. In the next week or so, it’s possible the chrysanthemum will pop, the holes in the gardens will fill in, and the grass will continue to green up in the cooler weather.

For sure, though, there will be plenty of pretty sights to see. As I’ve learned, it’s only me who sees the holes where I chopped things back. Everyone else sees the overall beauty as well as specific plants, which makes my concern just that . . . a concern and not a problem.

***

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

Posted in being me, dealing with old age, gardening, home, house, life, photography. Tags: , , , , . 2 Comments »

Quite Contrary

September 4, 2026 — Pat Bertram

There are always contrary things to see in a garden — mildew that shows up on a lilac bush, weeds that infest a lush lawn, insects that hungrily eat everything in sight, plants that die without giving a reason. So many things!

Luckily, some of those contrary things are fun enough to keep gardening from being a totally frustrating experience. For example, the morning glories that showed up in my garden a couple of years ago. (Leftover from the previous owners, I think. Apparently, the flowers were waiting to see if I would be a good caretaker before they showed their pretty heads.)

Those first morning glories were dark purple with a sun-like shine in the center, but this year, for some contrary reason, they came in all shades of blue and purple. The blue could indicate a more alkaline soil, but the soil has always been alkaline (a leftover gift from ancient oceans).

Still, they seem healthy, glad to be alive, and preening before my appreciative eyes.

***

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

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Telling the Difference Between a Flower and a Weed

September 3, 2026 — Pat Bertram

So, you want to know how to tell a weed from a flower. Come to think of it, you probably don’t. If you are a gardener, chances are you already know. If you aren’t a gardener, then you probably don’t care. Still, I came across two foolproof ways of telling the difference that I thought were both funny and apropos.

[Are we still allowed to say “fool” proof? Isn’t “fool” a derogatory term? Something that is foolproof is something that is safe even from the mistakes of a fool. I looked up synonyms — surefire and infallible would probably be better terms, unless, of course, I am talking about myself. And I do admit, I can easily be “fooled” by the various things that grow in my garden.]

Digression aside, one of the infallible ways of telling a weed from a plant is to pull up the plant in question. If it pulls up easily, it’s a flower. If it resists, it’s a weed. I can vouch for this bit of not-funny wisdom. There is a weed that grows copiously in my yard — leafy spurge. With roots that resemble large carrots, it cannot be pulled up. It must be dug up, and even then it’s hard to remove. A spurge weedkiller only partly damages the plant while killing all flowers in the vicinity. Oddly, another impossible-to-pull-up weed is a different plant from the same family. Instead of a carrot-like root, it has roots that spread underground while the leafy part grows above ground in a mat. The stems of this particular spurge are so thin that they cannot hold together enough to pull up the root. Luckily, a spurge killer will get rid of it, though again, the problem is that the poison also destroys all nearby vegetation.

The second way of telling if something is a weed is to cut everything down. What grows back will invariably be a weed.

Ironic, isn’t it, that supposedly the best way to tell if something is a flower rather than a weed is to destroy it.

The weeds that grow around here tend to replicate, so after a while, some identification is possible. Even though I can’t get rid of it, I can recognize both the mat-like prostrate spurge and the tall leafy spurge. (There are 2,000 different types of spurge. Yikes! Luckily I only have to deal with two of them.) I can also recognize the yellow wild mustard by its frilly leaves and the purple wild mustard by its horrible sour milk smell. And I know dandelions, of course, as well as a few of its relatives. Then there’s kochia, also known as fireweed and often confused with ragweed, that was brought here from Eurasia as an ornamental plant, but it’s pretty much taking over Colorado. Apparently, it likes our soil and climate (and doesn’t seem to care that the sentiment is not returned). It’s easy enough to recognize and pull up when it’s young, which is necessary because left to itself, it can grow up to seven feet. (The photo accompanying this post shows the kochia that once blocked access to my garage until I managed to dig it all up.) Though there are maybe only a dozen weeds that infect my yard (I got tired of listing them all) they are so ubiquitous, there might as well be thousands of them.

I better stop this — I’m just depressing myself with all this talk of weeds, which is funny since this was supposed to a rather humorous article about telling weeds from flowers. I guess I missed that target!

***

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

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Spinning My Wheels

September 2, 2026 — Pat Bertram

During my years of studying grief, both from the inside and the outside, I learned that anger is not a stage of grief, but an integral part of the process. Since much of grief is visceral — a response to perceived danger — grievers experience a tremendous fight or flight hormonal upsurge. The panic they feel after the death of a life mate is a natural part of this survival mechanism; it alerts them to the danger of being suddenly alone. Anger is the other side of this mechanism, the part that generates the energy necessary to take action.

Sometimes anger is an emotional response, especially if there is a direct action that prompted the anger, such as a doctor who downplayed the seriousness of the loved one’s illness, taking from the griever the opportunity to say goodbye. Other times, even though that anger feels emotional, it’s strictly a physical response to the flood of hormones in the systems of grievers. Their minds scurry around trying to find a reason for how they feel because as rational beings, people cannot accept unfocused anger, so they search for a target, for a reason for the anger. People can always find a reason, which masks the truth that in many cases, the anger came first, and the reason for the anger second.

Listening to liberals haranguing people who believe in a more conservative lifestyle, I wondered if this same lesson I learned from grief could hold true in a wider context. Almost everyone who screams about fascists, racists, whateveraphobias, boomers and even Gen Xers, are left-leaning people. In almost every discussion, it’s those people who descend into name calling rather than trying to find a common ground or to explain why they think the way they do. The hatred and anger is almost palpable, more so than if it were merely an act put on for the benefit of their peers. (Not all, of course, and this is strictly my own experience with people who disagree with those who have a more patriotic outlook and isn’t supposed to be sweeping generality, though why I’m justifying myself, I don’t know except that in this angry age, I prefer to deflect that anger before it gets focused on me.)

Like with grief, could the anger have come first and then only later did that anger go in search of a target? I know that many younger people are angry with their lives and seem to want to tear down the country and the system they think created the situation, but the anger seems so over the top. Are they just angry and their political stance is what they chose as a target for that anger? Although some studies show no real difference in mental health between the rights and the lefts, others show that left-leaning liberals are almost twice as unhappy as other people, and more than half admit to mental health issues. Some say it’s because they don’t have the foundation of religion and family and community that conservatives have, but I don’t know. My main focus today is about whether the anger or the tear-it-all-down ideology came first. If it’s the anger, then once they tear it all down, they will still be angry but with nothing left to focus it on. Then what?

With any luck (good or bad), I will be gone by the time that question finds an answer, but still, I do wonder.

I also wonder if that anger is catching. I do know people who think alike tend to support each other in what seems to be folie à deux, so it could just be that they exacerbate each other’s inclinations. It could be that the anger makes them feel alive, drugged as they are on adrenaline, but it could also be something else. For example, the only times I got blindingly angry, ready to smash someone with a baseball bat, was when my bipolar brother would dump his anger on me, back when we were both stranded in California. Out of his presence, I was fine, but oh, that reflected anger was more than I could handle. Well, almost more. I did handle it, and we all survived that situation, but it sure was bizarre to experience especially since I tend to be a rather phlegmatic person.

None of this matters, I suppose. To be honest, little of what I write about matters since there’s nothing I can do about any of it, but here I am, spinning my wheels anyway.

***

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

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Pretense

September 1, 2026 — Pat Bertram

It’s funny to think how often I’ve done this: sitting at my computer, staring at a blank “page,” trying to think of something to write about.

Nowadays, the problem isn’t so much what to write, but whether or not I want to write what’s in my mind, but still, whatever the reason, I am sitting here as I have so often over the nineteen years since I started this blog, just . . . staring.

You’d think this would be my prompt to forget about trying to blog every day, but then, what would I do with all the time I would have spent staring at the blank page? I’m already spending less time playing the hidden object game that once fascinated me and spending even less time reading news commentary articles, which leaves me with a lot of free time already. Giving up blogging would add even more free time to the free time I already don’t know what to do with.

Oddly, the days still pass quickly, perhaps because the early mornings are spent outside working on the yard, which takes at least a couple of hours. And then, of course, I need to get cleaned up and cooled down, and that adds to the gardening time or subtracts from the free time or whatever the math might be.

Periodically, I toy with the idea of not paying attention at all to the larger world (that is, the world larger than my own enclosed space) because really, it gains me nothing other than a deep-seated sadness at what I fear could be coming. (The fear isn’t irrational since the globalists and the sell-out politicians have been pushing us in a collective direction for more than a hundred years, but still, what good does it do me to give it mental space?) On the other hand, if I could forget about the outside world, I’d miss out on learning such things as “sciolistic.” What a lovely word! It was used by a cabinet member and refers to people who pretend to knowledge they don’t have, and that does describe too many of the folks in Congress. They seem to have perfected “pretense.” Not just the pretense of knowing what they don’t know, but also the pretense of working for the citizens they were elected to serve. (Too often the citizens they are serving are themselves.)

Of course, who am I to denigrate anyone for pretense, since here I sit, staring at the blank page (well, it’s not so blank right now, come to think of it), pretending for all the world I have something to say.

I suppose I should give myself credit for at least trying to say something, no matter how inane, but all that the effort really says is, “Look at me!”

And maybe that is good enough. Since I spend so much time alone, there’s no one to see me. Well, except for me, of course, and I’m not sure that counts as being seen. It also assumes that being seen is important. Perhaps it is. Though, of course, it could just be more pretense.

***

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

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My Mental Landscape

August 31, 2026 — Pat Bertram

“People will allow their faults to be shown them; they will let themselves be punished for them; they will patiently endure many things because of them; they only become impatient when they have to lay them aside.”— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

“A man does not mind being blamed for his faults, and being punished for them, and he patiently suffers much for them; but he becomes impatient if he is required to give them up.” — Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I’m not sure which of the above quotes is the real one — I’ve seen both quoted and can’t find a definitive source. I suppose the difference could be in the translation, but either way, they basically say the same thing — that people are okay with being shown their faults and being blamed for them; they only resist when they are asked to change.

Does this still hold true today? It seems as if nowadays, no one admits to any fault. If they are shown what might be considered a fault, they not only fight the allegation of “fault,” but also insist on holding tight to that particular behavior in the belief that they can act anyway they want and to heck with everyone else.

I get the impression that today people are taught that they are perfect the way they are, and to a certain extent, I do believe that’s true since each person is uniquely themselves and beyond compare. But the problem with that idea is that it doesn’t give people any reason to try to improve, because why should they if they are already perfect? And without any incentive to better themselves, they can fall into a depressive state, because part of them — the part that needed the affirmation — still believes they fall short. A terrible thing to believe — that you are perfect, that you are the way you are and will always be that way because the truth is, no one really is perfect, and to believe otherwise seems to bring with it a whole lot of hopelessness.

(To be perfect in the eyes of God, as many people believe, is completely different than being perfect in one’s own eyes and in the eyes of others. It’s possible to accept a God-given perfection while at the same time accepting one’s human limitations.)

If, on the other hand, a simple word was added to the affirmation, it would make more sense. You are perfect the way you are for now. That way, you can celebrate who you are while you are doing your best to improve yourself. Being kinder, perhaps. Not being as self-absorbed, for sure.

This is all hypothetical, of course, because when it comes to me, I am perfect. Um, that’s a joke. Sort of. I don’t deal with perfections. I deal with today, and always today arrives with the attempt to do better than yesterday. Exercise more or eat better food or be less judgmental or clean house or whatever. Just something that makes me a bit more than I was yesterday, and perhaps a bit less than I will be tomorrow. On the other hand, if someone pointed out my faults, I would bristle, bite my tongue and try to ignore them. (Both the person and the faults.) I’ve always been my own worst critic, and since I do periodically clean my mental house and take stock of my emotional responses, I am wounded by criticism when it is heaped on me by others.

So, am I agreeing with Goethe or refuting him? I don’t know. I’m just wandering through my mental landscape, seeing what I can see.

 

***

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

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Authors and Their Publishers

August 30, 2026 — Pat Bertram

I’ve collected four epic fantasy book series, and the behind-the-scenes revelations of the authors’ dealings with their publishers are stories in themselves. In the first book series I read, The Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan, the author was apparently allowed to do whatever he wanted, go way off into the hinterlands of his story, and turn the original six-novel series into a massive and overblown fourteen books. His digressions cost him readership (though not money, which is why his wife-editor and his publisher let him do what he wanted), and those digressions, what fans call “The Slog” are what made them prefer the substitute author who wrote the ending after Jordan passed away. Although I’ve reread the series multiple times, I discount the ending completely, and skip over all the digressions, as well as his annoying female characters who tend to think the story is about them, even though none of them are prophesied to save the world from the Shadow. In this way, I edit the books to the way they should have been — a focused six-book series — but apparently, the extra money in the publisher’s pocket offset any need to create an edited masterpiece.

The next series I read, the unfinished Kingkiller Chronicles was the opposite. Although he had written the entire epic before he sought a publisher, they edited the first book so much that the second needed to be rewritten to match the first book. Then, when it came time to publish the final book of the trilogy, it turns out Patrick Rothfuss was at a loss. He’d have to scrap the 300,000 words of the book and start over, which he tried to do, but stress of all kinds — marital problems, mental issues, and trying to live up to his reputation — laid him low. Apparently, he thought he could still finish the project because he offered an unpublished chapter of the final book for anyone who would donate to a certain cause. Fans donated a ton of money, but he couldn’t come up with the chapter. Nor could he come with the cash to reimburse everyone since it went to the cause. Fans are incredibly angry with him, but it’s really the publisher’s and editor’s fault. Since they had the entire series in their hands, they should have edited the whole thing at once before publishing the first book to prevent the numerous problems they caused by doing it piecemeal. That way, the three books would hold together, and they’d each have been ready in time for their publication date.

The third series, Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn by Tad Williams, the one I’m reading now, had the perfect relationship with his publishers and editors. Even before a single word had been written, they were there, helping, offering suggestions, editing, and they stuck with him through the entire writing, editing, and publishing process. What’s amazing to me is not only that almost unheard-of author/publisher relationship, but with all that, there are some decidedly amateurish writing issues, such as a torrent of similes. Way too many! In one case, I found six similes, all unrelated, in a single six-sentence paragraph. And no one caught that stylistic issue? Still, for better or worse, of the four series I own, this is the only one that was ever finished.

The fourth one, the Master Li and Number Ten Ox series by Barry Hughart was supposed to be a seven-book series, but problems with his publishers destroyed his desire to finish, so there are only three books available. Apparently, the first book, Bridge of Birds, won major book awards, but his publishers never bothered to let him know. They also screwed up release of his books, so that when reviews were published, the books weren’t available. Also, with the third book, they published both hardback and paperback at the same time, which considerably reduced the sale of hardback books, making the publishers decide not to publish any more of his books in hardback, which limited his income. They also refused to consider promoting his books to any other market than the fantasy market, which again limited sales of his books. All of which made writing less than profitable. And killed his enthusiasm for the project.

My experience is closest to Hughart’s in that my publishers killed my desire to write. The first publisher fought with me over every little thing. I accepted a contract with him on the condition that I got to approve the final copy, but he still insisted on editing my books without telling me. Even worse, he (or the college kid he had edit them) actually added mistakes. I gave him one final chance, again with the caveat that if he made any changes, he’d let me see them, but he didn’t. In fact, he took a perfectly formatted book, one that was ready to be published (I’d been formatting books for him for years on a volunteer basis— silly me — so I don’t know what his problem was), but he redid the formatting so that there was no gutter allowance. (The gutter allowance allows room for the binding of a book, otherwise the text disappears into the binding.) He finally fixed the formatting and removed the mistakes he added, and mostly got it correct, but was angry with me for “self-publishing on his dime,” as he said. Though how can it be self-publishing when he has yet to send me any royalties?

My second publisher was great for the first book. He sent me the gallows to check, did a perfect cover, published in a timely manner. A truly awesome experience. Then, I don’t know what happened — Covid maybe? Anyway, whoever edited my second book for that publisher made a terrible change to my formatting, and by the time I realized what a mess of my book the editor had made, it was too late for the problem to be corrected.

[They separated the beat from the dialogue, putting each on a separate line, so it was impossible to tell who was saying what. A beat is the bit of action that is used in place of “she said.” For example:

The way it was supposed to be:

She sighed. “I am so disappointed in how the book turned out.”

They changed it to:

She sighed.

“I am so disappointed in how the book turned out.”

It’s not a big deal with a single bit of dialogue, but with a long back and forth, it got complicated. Even I couldn’t tell who was speaking since the person sighing and the person speaking could be two different people.]

I know the story is something to be proud of, but the way it was published utterly broke my heart as well as my will to write any more novels.

Hughart is dead now, so his series will never be finished. As I am still alive, there is a vague chance that I might write another novel, but I doubt it. It doesn’t seem worth the aggravation.

***

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

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