Fodder For the Facebook Machine

I have a discussion group on Facebook, Suspense/Thriller Writers, that is constantly evolving because of the site’s ever-changing policies, and what was once fun, has now turned into a burden.

In the beginning, when I was new to Facebook, the groups were pretty much worthless. They were mostly discussion groups where no one discussed, but I found a way to make it work. At the time, FB had separate areas for links and promos and such. I was fine with whatever anyone wanted to post — I just wanted the discussion group. And it was a great discussion group. Each week I’d ask a different author to pose a topic, I’d email the group members, and we’d have an interesting discussion. I learned a lot from those people.

Well, Facebook couldn’t leave well enough alone. They changed the group format, and since our original groups didn’t fit in with their new format — we had too many members — they planned to get rid of all of us. Eventually enough people complained, and they let our groups remain, but they changed them completely — got rid of the discussion forum, took away the ability for Facebookgroup administrators to send messages to the group, and combined everything else into one huge mess on the wall.

Members of the group left in droves. They couldn’t stand the constant barrage of promotion. Finally, we decided to ban any sort of promotion from the wall and turn it into strictly a writing discussion group. (No publishing, formatting, or promotion questions are allowed — this is strictly a group to discuss the craft of writing.) It actually worked well. As a thank you to the members for adhering to our rules, I set up a separate event every Saturday. Well, FB decided there was something wrong with that, and took away my ability to set up events. So I set up a separate group for promotion.

All went fine for a while until FB decided to change things again. Instead of ignoring groups, they decided to promote them — and the groups with the most members got the most promotion. Sounds great, right? Wrong! Now every author on FB who has a book to promote is made aware of our group, and we’ve been inundated with new members. Members, I might add, who don’t pay attention to the group rules, which are pinned to the top of the wall for all to see. (It’s amazing to me how often someone will “like” the rules or comment about how great the no promo rule is, and then immediately post a promo. I guess people think rules apply to everyone else but them?)

I spend way too much time every day deleting promos and banning those who posted the promo link. I used to give people the benefit of the doubt, but if I didn’t ban them, they’d simply post something else. (Doesn’t anyone get the point of soocial networking? You don’t constantly beat people over the head with the links to your books. You get to know them and then let them find you.)

I realize that FB is not a public site — we are all fodder for the great FB machine, and are subject to whatever changes they deem necessary — but all these machinations are burdensome. Still, the group is worth saving. How often on the internet, and especially Facebook, do you find a group of people who help each other with the craft of writing? So I’ll just deal with the frustration and hope that eventually the gods of Facebook decide to turn their attention elsewhere.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Follow Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Grief: “It was a long time ago.”

Last night I watched the 2002 movie Heaven Must Wait. In one scene, Andrew McCarthy tells Louise Lombard that his mother died. She told him she was sorry. He said, “It was a long time ago.”

And I started crying.

I don’t know why that line struck me as being so poignant since I’ve heard the same sentiment in dozens of movies during the past few years. Maybe it was the sadly resigned way McCarthy delivered the line. Perhaps it was the underlying truth of the words — that time passes. Probably it was the reminder that my life mate/soul mate is moving further and further away from me. Or am I moving away from him? Either way, time is separating us.

Certain parts of our shared life are still very fresh in my mind: the day we met, the last time I held him in my arms, the moment of his death. It sometimes seems we parted such a short time ago that he could still be at home, waiting for me. But the years are passing. That first year crept by slowly, as if time itself were reluctant to let him go, but the years are beginning to pass swiftly now. It’s been more than three years since he died. Soon it will be four years, then five. And some day, I too will say, “It was a long time ago.”

Who will I be then? What will I have done? Will I still miss him? Of course I will miss him. I will always miss him. He was a major part of my life for thirty-four years, but with the passing years, his influence on my life might wane. Other experiences will have an impact on me. Other thoughts will change the way I view life. And he will have no part in any of it.

I don’t cry much for him any more. Days, weeks go by dry-eyed, though I have occasional upsurges of sadness. “Long time ago” is still a long way away, and yet last night I had the first inkling that such a time is approaching. And so, I cried for the coming years when he will be so very far from me that the tears will no longer come.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Follow Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Unplugged!

I did it! Yesterday, I turned off the computer. Stayed unplugged for twenty-four hours. That was the best part of the day — being unplugged. I’ve lost much of the joy I used to get from the internet — it now seems to be mostly a chore. Even the computer games I’ve been playing are more tic than entertainment. So it was great being offline.

I wish I could say that my fishing for life expedition was as successful as being unplugged, but it was hellish. I’d agreed to drive a family member halfway to Santa Barbara. I decided that since I was halfway there, I should go all the way. Spend a quiet evening at the ocean. Take a walk by myself on the beach. Have a leisurely meal alone. Just wing it. But you know what they say about the best-laid plans of mice and men (and women) . . . well, my plans couldn’t have gone more awry.

What should have been an enjoyable trip was ruined by my companion’s ceaseless vitriol toward the people he believes have wronged him. And a quick trip ended up taking eight hours because we went the scenic route. Got to Santa Barbara after dark. Drove around looking for a place he could camp or people he knew, but everything had changed in the past twenty years, so he decided to return with me. By that time, I had no thread of enjoyment (or patience) left, so I came right back instead of spending the night. Got here at 3:30 in the morning (listening to his harangues all the way).

When you fish, you never quite know what you get. Well, despite everything, I did catch some life. I saw lovely views if just through the windshield — mountains by sunlight, ocean by moonlight. I learned how easily homicidal tendencies can rise in even a generally passive person. (I mean really, fourteen ceaseless hours? I might even have gotten off scott-free.) I learned that no matter how badly you feel for someone and would like to help, sometimes there is nothing you can do.  And I discovered I’m nowhere near as nice or as kind as I think I am.

As you can see, today, I’m plugged in again, and let me tell you — the best thing about it is that it is QUIET! (I have the sound turned off so I never hear any of the typical computer noises.)

Ah. Silence.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Follow Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Gone Fishing

I’m going to turn off my computer for the next twenty-four hours and take myself on a fishing trip. Not to fish for fish, of course — such a hobby is only peaceful for the one fishing; the poor fish are scared, hurt, and fighting for their life — but fishing for life. See what happens when I am disconnected from my usual online pursuits. Just take off for a day. Go wherever. See what I can see. Feel what I can feel.

If you want to contact me, leave a comment and I’ll get back to you tomorrow. Or whenever.

fishes

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Follow Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Excerpt From “Grief: The Great Yearning” — Day 112

I never actually set out to write a book about grief, never planned to make any of my writing public (except for the blog posts, of course), but I was so lost, so lonely, so sick with grief and bewildered by all I was experiencing, that the only way I could try to make sense of it all was to put my feelings into words. Whether I was writing letters to Jeff (my deceased life mate/soul mate) or simply pouring out my feelings in a journal, it helped me feel close to him, as if, once again, I was talking things over with him. The only problem was, I only heard my side of the story.  He never told me how he felt about his dying and our separation. Did he feel as broken as I did? Did he feel amputated? Or was he simply glad to be shucked of his body, and perhaps even of me?

It’s been three years now since the following piece was written. The wound where he was amputated from me has healed. I don’t worry about him — at least not much — but I still miss him, still feel as if I’m waiting for my life to begin. And though I don’t feel as scattered,  I understand more than ever that wherever I am, there I am.

Excerpt from Grief: The Great Yearning

Day 112, Grief Journal

I’m going through a numb phase right now. I only cried briefly yesterday. That came after I finished watching the Paul Hogan/Michael Caton movie Jeff taped—Strange Bedfellows—and I realized I’d never watch movies with him again.

Cry, not cry. Feel, not feel. It’s all the same. Just different aspects of grief. One thing they’re right about. This is WORK! I’m tired, have little energy, don’t seem to be able to think or to do anything but the most basic chores. And I can’t make myself believe anything is important. I’m still waiting to get a grip on my grief. Still feeling as if I’m in a transitional stage, waiting for my life to start.

Except that I had a life. We had a life.

People talk about “healing” when it comes to surviving a death, and it’s as good a term as any. It does seem as if the wound where Jeff was amputated from me is still bloody and gaping, though it is “healing” somewhat. It’s not as constantly raw as it was at first.

I always felt scattered when we were apart, worried about something happening to one of us when the other wasn’t there. Well, something did happen. And I was there. Now it’s just me. Wherever I am, there I am, but I still feel scattered. Fragmented. As if parts of me are strewn all over the universe. There’s no reason to worry about him, but I still do.

Click here to find out more about Grief: The Great Yearning

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Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Move It Or Lose It! Back Up Your Files

In a recent post on the Second Wind Publishing blog, Move it or Lose it –by Sheila Englehart, Sheila talks about the importance of backing up files. Sheila Englehart’s paranormal novel Warning Signs was recently published by Second Wind Publishing, but some of her earlier works can never be published. As Sheila says:

fire damageRight now. Be honest. Exactly where are your treasured works saved? Desk drawer? Pen holder? Coffee mug? Decorative wooden box? External hard drive on the desk next to your computer?

I know that you’ve read many articles about the importance of back-ups and where to store them, but did you take action?

A storm just ripped through my neighborhood. Trees tore through power lines, blocked roads, and demolished homes. As I watched the 80 foot trees behind my house part like blades of grass, my first thought wasn’t getting to the basement for safety. No.

Is my backup in the safe? If a tornado takes my house, where would the safe land? … Continue reading →

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Now that you’re back after reading Sheila’s article (if you cheated and didn’t read her article, please go read it) . . .

I do back up my files, but I’m not as careful as I should be. The disks and external drive are within a couple of feet of my computer, though I do send files from time to time to myself as attachments on emails. (That reminds me, I haven’t sent the most current version of my WIP to myself in a while. I’ll go do that right now.)

I have a partial manuscipt of another book I started a few years ago, but that is still on paper. I’d better type it up one of these days. Soon.

I hope you will take heed and back up your treasured works.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Follow Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Rubicon Ranch: Secrets — My Newest Chapter

RRBookThreemidsizeRubicon Ranch is a collaborative and innovative crime series set in the fictional desert community of Rubicon Ranch and is being written online by the authors of Second Wind Publishing.

In the current story, the  body of a local realtor is found beneath the wheels of an inflatable figure of a Santa on a motorcycle. The realtor took great delight in ferreting out secrets, and everyone in this upscale housing development is hiding something. Could she have discovered a secret someone would kill to protect? There will be suspects galore, including a psychic, a con man, a woman trying to set up an online call-girl service, and the philandering sheriff himself. Not only is the victim someone he had an affair with, but he will also have to contend with an ex-wife who has moved back in with him and a jilted lover, both with their own reasons for wanting the realtor dead.

We hope you will enjoy seeing the story develop as we write it. Let the mystery begin! Whodunit? No one knows, not even the writers, and we won’t know until the very end! If you don’t want to miss further chapters, please go to the blog and click on “sign me up” on the right sidebar to get notifications of new chapters.

(If the Christmas theme seems unseasonal, well . . . considering how long it takes to write a book at the rate of a chapter a week, in a few months, the season will catch up to us!)

Chapter 15: Lydia Gavin
by Pat Bertram

Sunday, December 23, 2:20pm

Lydia sat by Zazzi’s pool, soaking up what rays she could. She had helped Zazzi open the umbrella over the patio table, but since it was too cold to sit in the shade, she’d moved a chair out into the sunlight.

Sun.

Fire.

Lydia stared up at the pale blue winter sky and shivered with delight at the thought of that burning ball overhead. Did the Goddess love fire as much as she did? Is that why she had created so many suns?

Lydia smiled, remembering the flames curling around the hideous living room furniture. She had lied to Zazzi about not being in the house when the fire had started, but she saw no reason to tell the truth. Zazzi sure as hell wasn’t being honest with her. Lydia might not be a cop any more, but she still had her cop’s nose, and that nose told her whatever business Zazzi operated didn’t bear scrutiny. Still, the woman had made her welcome and offered her a room for the night, which made Lydia think kindly of her. And anyway, Lydia had to admit her own life no longer could hold up under a close examination.

With Nancy and her prying eyes and magpie mentality out of the way, though, she was safe, at least for a while.

How much had Nancy known? In her mind, Lydia went over every detail of her husband’s death, and couldn’t see where she had slipped up. No one knew of her husband’s abuse, not even Seth. When she and Seth were naked together, she’d kept the lights dimmed so any welts and bruises wouldn’t show, and if he’d inadvertently aggravated the injuries, he’d mistaken her groans of pain as moans of pleasure.

She’d vowed that the beating her husband gave her for having the affair would be the last time he’d ever hurt her. Things were okay at first after she got kicked off the job—he’d liked the idea of a slave wife—but then came the day he’d lost a big case. He’d blamed her, of course, saying that she’d never be a proper lawyer’s wife. He’d raised a hand to her. She dashed away. He caught her at the top of the stairs. She pushed. He fell down the marble steps. Cracked his head. She stared at him for a moment, wondering if she should call an ambulance—he’d probably be okay with immediate care. Instead, she sneaked out the back door, went for a run, and left him to die.

Dozens of people had seen her jogging in her fuchsia shorts and lime green top, and though she’d been questioned, the cops never suspected her. Why should they? She had an alibi and she’d always played the loving wife in public.

But Nancy had found out. Or had she? When the realtor said in that oh, so ominous voice, “I know you killed your husband,” could she have been merely fishing?

It didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered but those lovely dancing flames. Even Seth’s love had never ignited her the way the heat of the fire had.

As she’d watched the flames devour the furniture, the stone Lydia had seemed to melt and flow like lava, and suddenly she’d been awash in a volcano of molten tears. She’d never known such life. Love. Ecstasy.

She’d managed to wrest herself away from the flames and rush outside before her new love could hurt her as much as her past loves, and although she wanted to continue her enthrallment with the blaze, she couldn’t bear to be around the gawkers. What could they know of the love that now burned in her heart? Only the paltry excitement of destruction kept them riveted to the scene.

Lydia had wandered off in a daze, and hadn’t come back to herself until Zazzi had confronted her. She’d managed to hide her rapture behind cop’s eye—that cold calculating look was not something you ever forgot how to give—keeping her secret safe in her heart.

Lydia stared up at the sun, and took a deep breath. The air smelled deliciously of smoke and ashes and charcoal and burnt offerings. Is this what the Goddess smelled every day of creation? Lydia stretched, like a cat on a warm hearth, and wondered where to go from here.

Home, probably. She could no longer remember why she’d come to Rubicon Ranch. Had she come just to be near Seth? To try to get back together with him? To get even? To remove her competition? To warn his new love of his philandering ways?

It hadn’t been hard to find out about his affair with Nancy. She’d simply followed him one day when he left the sheriff’s department and seen him meet with the realtor. She’d only made an appointment with Nancy to see what Seth preferred over her, but had stayed to watch the fun when she realized Seth had met his match.

Were all men so blind they couldn’t see what was in front of their very eyes? She had deeply loved Seth, wanting only the best for him, and he had thrown her away, calling her a vituperative bitch. Yet Nancy, who didn’t love him, and who truly was a vituperative bitch, he had kept.

But now she was through with men and their incomprehensible needs. She had found something better. Something that would never let her down. Something that would forever burn in her heart.

Fire!

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” All Bertram’s books are published by Second Wind Publishing. Connect with Pat on Google+

Saying Happy Birthday to the Dead

Today is the birthday of my life mate/soul mate. I suppose I should say “was” the birthday — he’s been dead for more than three years. We never celebrated our birthdays, and for some reason, that seems sad to me now. I never told him “Happy birthday,” never made him a birthday cake, never gave him a birthday present.

He didn’t believe in continued life after death, and yet, when I went through his “effects” a couple months after he died, I found a quote he had saved: “Life is rather a state of embryo — a preparation for life. A man is not completely born until he has passed through death.”

cakeDid he believe those words? Did he want to believe them? Or was the quote something that caught his attention once upon a time, and he kept it whether he believed it or not? Still, I wonder — if he continues to exist somewhere, does he celebrate his death day as his birthday? Or does he still not believe in celebrating such rites of passage?

We were alike in our disinterest in such celebrations, but ever since he died, I’ve been making a point of celebrating life’s moments. So today I got the birthday cake I never got for him while he was alive. (And hey, if he doesn’t want any, then there’s more for me!) I will watch one of the movies he taped and remember when he used to sit by my side and watch with me. I will think of him, not as he would be today, 67 years old, or even as he was at the end, but as he was when we met — young, radiant, and be-coming.

I will give thanks that he shared his life with me.

And I will say those words I never spoke before, “Happy birthday, Jeff.”

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Follow Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

A Life Full of Possibilities

Connections make life worth living, but more than that, connections make life itself.

At the most quantum level, possibilities connect and become waves. Waves connect and become particles. Particles connect and become atoms. Atoms connect and become molecules. Molecules connect and become cells. Cells connect and become gametes. Gametes connect and become us. We connect and become communities. Communities connect and become countries.

A matrix of connections in our brains makes thinking possible. An entire matrix of connections holds us to the earth and makes living possible.

Despite these long strings of connections, I’m beginning to see that disconnections are almost as important as connections. When my life mate/soul mate died a little more than three years ago, the connective tissue of my life disintegrated, and my world lay in a heap of rubble at my feet.

Since then, more connections have disintegrated, adding to that heap of rubble. Some of those disconnections were interpersonal ones — friends and family. Other disconnections were intrapersonal ones — thoughts, hopes, even my very identity.

Often during these past years, I have despaired at the thought that only bleakness lay ahead of me. But bleakness is but one possibility. Within that pile of rubbish lie many new possibilities. Perhaps I am one of the lucky ones, getting to start all over with a new set of possibilities. As people have been telling me for the past three years, life is such a big place with endless possibilities I have never dreamed of. They have told me the universe is unfolding as it should, and that it is not yet finished working in my life. They have told me that wonderful things lie ahead of me.

What of that is true, I don’t know, but what I do know is that no matter what fate has in store for me, I am not yet finished working in my life. Just as I am gradually sorting through the detritus of my shared life, getting rid of things for which I no longer have any practical or emotional need, I am sorting through the rubble of my shattered world. Maybe I will find enough shards to rebuild my life into something workable, or maybe I will have to go out and look for pieces I can use to rebuild my life into something special.

Since my current responsibilities keep me from actually going out in the world and physically searching for new connections, I am starting with me, rethinking old beliefs, trying on new thoughts, discarding old hopes, and dreaming new possibilities into reality.

Because, at its most basic level, life is nothing but possibilities.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Follow Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

To Whom Do We Owe Loyalty?

In this age of consumerism, loyalty seems such an old-fashioned quality when used in reference to people. There is more talk of “brand loyalty” than there is of loyalty as a virtue. To be honest, I’m not sure loyalty is a virtue — it seems more of character trait than something to which one aspires.

Still, I’ve always been intensely loyal, especially to those I love, but also to other things. For example, while managing a fabric store once upon a time, I never shopped for fabric at any other franchise. Well, I did once, but never again. I felt as if I were being disloyal to my employer.

For most of my life, I thought love and loyalty were different facets of the same state, and if someone said they loved me, I assumed they would also be loyal, but now I know love and loyalty are two different things. Love is a deep feeling of affection and caring (and sometimes desire) for another person. Loyalty is a sense of allegiance, commitment, and dedication.

Loyalty, more than love, is what makes two people a couple. Loyalty keeps the two parties together, keeps them focused on a common goal, keeps them allied. I was intensely loyal to my life mate/soul mate, so much so that when he died, I wasn’t sure if I had the right to be happy here on Earth. Even the idea of someday being happy seemed disloyal, as if it were negating our life together.

I’m dealing with another situation now that makes me question the concept of loyalty itself. In this case, mUntitleddy loyalties are divided between two family members, and for a while, it was tearing me apart. I can’t ally myself with either party since the two will never agree, never manage to find a way to deal with each other, never even accept the other’s foibles (which, incidentally, are identical, though to varying degrees). Both expect my loyalty and resent my loyalty to the other, but neither has any real loyalty to me.

These matters made wonder to whom I owed loyalty, and I’ve realized that it’s time to transfer my loyalties to myself. There is no way I can takes sides in this current situation, nor can I help in any way, so the best thing for me to do is to do the best thing for me — if I ever figure out what that is.

It’s the same with my deceased mate. Although I will always love him, I can no longer have any loyalties to him. He is not here to be loyal to me, and loyalty, even more than love, needs reciprocation if it isn’t to become a sort of servitude. After more than three years, I now know I have the right to be happy, and if happiness happens to come my way, I have an obligation to grab hold and run with it. Anything else is bondage to a past that is getting further away every day.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Follow Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.