Bertram's Blog

Letter to the Dead

June 1, 2013 — Pat Bertram

I spent almost thirty-four years with my life mate/soul mate, and though we were seldom happy due to various matters (his illness, our business failures, assorted life issues), we were always connected by some mystical bond we couldn’t even begin to understand.

We never saw the movie Of Human Bondage, but a clip from that film showed up in a movie that we often watched, and we found that clip poignant. (She asks him, “Will we be happy?” And he responds, “No, but does it matter?” Or some such.) We’d always look at each other then, in acknowledgment of the truth. It didn’t matter that we weren’t happy. It ony mattered that we were together.

And then one day we no longer were together, and I realized we’d known the truth of it. Whether we were happy or unhappy, every minute we’d been together had been important

During the first terrible weeks and months of grief, I found comfort in writing letters to him. It helped bridge the chasm between being together and not being together. Because of our unhappiness and my relief that his suffering was over, I never expected to grieve, which seems naive of me now, especially considering that after more than three years, I still grieve for him — for us — and maybe always will.

It’s been three years today since the following piece was written, and though I don’t have the physical trauma and emotional agony, I’m still lost, still miss him, still need to be brave. How did I get through three years of such great yearning? I honestly don’t know other than by taking life one step at a time.

Excerpt from Grief: The Great Yearning

Day 67, Dear Jeff,

Did you have a good night? Are you sleeping? Do you sleep? Do you still exist somewhere as yourself or has your energy been reabsorbed into the universe? I think about you constantly—I hope it doesn’t bother you that I’m still clinging to you emotionally. I feel unsettled, and I’m having a hard time processing all this—our life together, your death, the end of our shared life.

I keep saying I don’t know how to live without you, but I do. The problem is I don’t know how to want to live without you. No one will ever take your place. No one will ever mean to me what you did, in the way you did.

It seems strange that I’m leaving here. The topic of where I should go caused our few disagreements last year. There were just a few, weren’t there? It was such a calamitous year, I no longer know the truth of it.

I look to you for how to be brave. Thank you for that day you talked to me about courage. You thought it was for you, a way of gathering your courage to face your painful dying, but it was for me—I need to be brave to get through the coming days, months, years.

Adios, compadre. I hope you no longer have need of bravery.

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+

Posted in culture, grief, life, relationships. Tags: 67th day of grief, grief and bravery, grief and loneliness, Grief: The Great Yearning, letter to the dead, quality time. 5 Comments »

Fishing for Life: Another Hill to Climb

May 31, 2013 — Pat Bertram

I’m still making an effort to fish for life, and that “fishing” so far has centered mostly around climbing hills. Today was no exception.

High on a hill over looking town are the ruins of a once magnificent house.

The house is on fenced private property, so a couple of days ago I tried to climb up the unfenced side of the hill. Being more of a hiker than a rockclimber, I didn’t quite make it. (Visions not of sugar plums but broken limbs danced in my head.)

Determined not to give up, today I found a break in the fence, and quite daringly climbed up the steep old driveway, but it turns out half the town uses that old road as a hiking trail, so all that derring-do went to waste.

Unfortunately, the ruins, while still fascinating, weren’t quite as attractive close up. Graffiti? Why? Doesn’t anyone have a sense of awe anymore? Is it necessary to desecrate everything? Apparently so.

Still, the house was fascinating, and the views magnificent. The hills in the background are my “backyard” where I go walking every day.

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Posted in being me, culture, life, photography. Tags: desert, hiking, Hill Top House. 1 Comment »

The Far Side of the Mountain

May 30, 2013 — Pat Bertram

I still haven’t turned off my computer for an entire day, but I have been curtailing my online activities in an effort to live more of an offline life.

A couple of days ago, I went on a quest to find a trail to the top of a local mountain, but I never even got to the other side of the mountain to find the trail. Distances are deceiving in the desert, since there is no human-made structure for comparison, and it took me two hours just to get to the mountain and swing around it a bit. I had to save enough energy, strength, and water to get back, otherwise I would have made it around the mountain.

Bell Mountain. Elevation 3848 ft. The 30120th highest peak in the US.

Today I did the next best thing — drove to the other side of the mountain and tried to hike up the far side. Did well for a while, but the steepness defeated me — even on flange of the mountain, there were places where it sloped greater than 45 degrees. (It’s the steepness that makes it a mountain, apparently. Otherwise it would be just another desert knoll.)

Getting closer!

Still, it was an interesting trip, and maybe I’ll try again someday.

The world below.

I didn’t have any great insights, just the same one any intrepid mountain climber has about halfway up a steep slope: What goes up, must come down.

My car, far below, circled in red, near a water tank.

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Posted in culture, life, photography. Tags: Bell Mountain, desert mountain, desert walk, hiking. 10 Comments »

A Barebones Kind of Writer?

May 29, 2013 — Pat Bertram

As a project for a writing group, we were supposed to post the last sentence of a couple of our chapters, but it was hard for me to find last sentences that say much. It’s usually my second and third to last sentences that have the meat, with a final, very short sentence to deliver the punch, such as these chapter endings from Light Bringer.

She thrust the magazine at Mac. “This isn’t a picture of my parents.”
But the frantic beating of her heart told her it was.

She turned around slowly, and clutched at her chest.
The ghost cat was inside the house.
And so was something else.

Wisdom lay stretched out on the borrowed couch, eyes closed in feline bliss. The skin on its belly rippled gently as if being caressed by unseen fingers. A chuckle reverberated in its chest.

“Shakespeare was right,” Emery said. “‘Hell is empty. All the devils are here.’”

Still, I did manage to find several ending sentences that were a bit longer than most and even made a sort of sense by themselves:

Lying awake, staring at the dust motes dancing in the moonlight, he thought he could hear voices murmuring in the wind.

After the sun set, they headed home in a rich, warm alpenglow that turned the world to gold.

A skinny, hairless cat with luminous silver eyes sat on the porch and stared at them, a quizzical look on its face.

Could it be that they were all following a script of someone else’s devising?

They were met with a burst of color, a song of pure joy that seemed at odds with the harsh environment of the laboratory they had entered.

Hugh shot them a disgusted look, then he and Keith plunged into the light.

Hmmm. I might have to change my opinion about my writing. I always thought I was a barebones kind of writer, but there seems to be a bit of poesy to my descriptions, especially with longer passages, such as this one:

She looked just as he remembered. The lithe body that moved as gracefully and effortlessly as a song wafting on a breeze. The shoulder-length brown hair that glimmered red and gold in the sunlight. The smile, big and bright and welcoming. Only her clothes—a pale green blouse and cotton shorts—struck a discordant note, as if he were used to seeing her in more exotic attire.

“Hello,” she said when he neared. The single word sounded as musical as an entire symphony.

“Hello,” he said, a goofy grin stretching his face. He felt a harmonic resonance and knew, once again, they belonged together.

After several seconds, her smile faded. “Do I know you?”

“Of course. We met . . .”

He gazed at her. Where had they met? Though it seemed as if he had always known her, they must have met somewhere, sometime; but when, in his pathetic little life, could he have met anyone so special? It slowly dawned on him he couldn’t have—not until this very moment.

Ducking his head, he whispered, “I’ve made a terrible mistake. We don’t know . . . We’ve never . . .”

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Where to buy Light Bringer:

Second Wind Publishing

Amazon

Barnes & Noble Nook

iStore (on iTunes)

Palm Doc (PDB) (for Palm reading devices)

Epub (Apple iPad/iBooks, Nook, Sony Reader, Kobo)

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Posted in books, fiction, writing. Tags: Colorado, fiction, Light Bringer, mystery, novel, search for identity, Second Wind Publishing. 5 Comments »

Laziness, Catness, and Patness

May 28, 2013 — Pat Bertram

In an effort to add spontaneity, color and vitality to my life, I went to the county fair. Just walked around, ate giant onion rings and funnel cake, rode the Ferris wheel. (Could ride one of those all day. Maybe next time I’ll get a wristband for unlimited rides and just go round and round and round. I wonder if that would wind my life into a higher gear or maybe wind me back to a simpler time?)

I saw a white tiger, visiting from the local zoo, but as much as I would have liked to admire the poor thing, I couldn’t bear to see it in that cage. (Of course, I’d hate even more to see the thing out of the cage, stalking me!) As I passed the cage, I heard the handler tell the gathering crowd that cats were some of the laziest creatures in the world. Huh? Lazy? The poor cat was in a cage, singing for its supper. Okay, so it wasn’t singing, it was yawning, but still, it was the primary advertisement for the zoo, so it was working as hard as the man maligning it. Besides, laziness is a human judgment. A cat can only be a cat. Its nature is to take it easy until it is time not to take it easy. That is not laziness. That is catness.

And anyway, who’s to say laziness is wrong? Most of us have been raised with a work ethic that is almost religious, and who is to say that is the right way? I am not advocating living off other people or shirking one’s responsibilities, but if you’ve worked hard enough to pay your bills with a bit set aside for emergencies, why is it lazy not to put forth more effort?

Years ago, I did the billing for a law office. Worked one week a month. In that one week, earning just a dollar or two above minimum wage, I made enough for all my living expenses, paid for the upkeep of my car, went out to eat when I felt like it. (It was a simpler time, of course, and my needs were simpler than most people’s.) The rest of the time I walked, read, wrote snippets of poetry, and did whatever I felt like. I still remember the looks of incomprehension and disdain I would get from people when they found out what I did. It wasn’t the week I worked for the lawyers that concerned them but the three weeks I didn’t. They couldn’t understand why I didn’t feel the need to work, and they couldn’t understand how I managed to fill all those non-working hours.

Maybe that lifestyle wasn’t laziness, either. Maybe it was Patness.

But, back to the fair . . .

The excursion did what I wanted — gave me something different to eat and do and think. Not bad a bad exchange for a few dollars. And I did it mostly on the spur of the moment, which is one of the things I am trying to relearn — doing things without planning. I woke up with the idea of going to the fair, and as soon as it opened, I went.

Maybe next year I’ll see you at the fair! We’ll meet by the Ferris wheel . . .

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Posted in being me, culture, life. Tags: are cats lazy, county fair, Ferris wheel, laziness, work ethic. 3 Comments »

Fishing For Life

May 27, 2013 — Pat Bertram

Today is the 3 and 1/6-year anniversary of my life mate/soul mate’s death, and I’m still sad, still missing the spark to get my life going again. For thirty-four years, he was my spark — everything was so much more vibrant when he was in my life — and without something to spark my interest again, my life will continue to feel sad and flat.

A few days ago, in Dreaming My Life into Being, I wrote about my plans to go fishing for life. Well, today, I went. (The second part of that plan was to turn off my computer for a day, and as you can see, I didn’t do that, but following through on half a plan is better than doing nothing, right?)

Today’s fishing trip wasn’t a major journey by any means, just a long hike through the desert on a quest to find the trail to the top of Bell Mountain. I’d climbed halfway one day, but gave up when the trail petered out to 60-degree angle. There is no way I could have climbed that sort of slope with only my tennis shoe-clad feet and bare hands — who am I trying to kid; there is no way I could ever have climbed that slope — so I turned around and came back. (Slid down halfway, I’m sure, though I don’t remember. It was in the midst of the worst of my grief, and there are blank spots of pain in my memory.)

Bell Mountain

I’d recently read online that there is a trail to the top, though it’s on the other side of the mountain, so my quest today was to make my way to the other side and find the trail. Again, I had to turn back. I’d walked for two hours, and perhaps another two hours would have taken me around to the trailhead, but then, I’d have been too exhausted to make my way back. So once again, the mountain defeated me.

The way back.

Just because one goes on a fishing trip doesn’t mean you’ll get what you went for, but still, it was a lovely day in the sun with just enough wind to keep me from dying of the heat. So I did catch something — a bit of life.

I also caught a thought. We talk about life being a journey, but it’s always a forward motion or maybe even sideways. No matter how far we go, we continue on from there. Unlike other physical journeys, such as a hike, we don’t have to return to home base. So we can give it all we have without needing to keep anything in reserve for the return trip.

I hope I remember that when next I feel as if I can’t continue my life’s journey.

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Posted in being me, culture, grief, life. Tags: Bell Mountain, desert hike, fishing for life, giving life all we have, grief at three years, life's journey. 1 Comment »

Big Brother of the Publishing World

May 26, 2013 — Pat Bertram

Lots of buzz going around about Amazon lately. They bought Goodreads, the readers social networking site. Stephen King has refused to let his latest book be turned into an ebook. Amazon is supposedly offering a refund to anyone who bought Jaime McGuire’s book now that she is going with a traditional publisher (the refund is at her expense of course). Amazon is trying to corner the new domain market for things such as dot books (.books). Amazon has acquired a patent for a means to sell “used” ebooks. Amazon and Warner are teaming up to create a fan fiction platform so fans can make money off their derivative fiction. And on and on and on.

I don’t know what of that is true. Some, of course, maybe even all of it. But the overlying truth is that Amazon is the largest retailer on the planet, and they seem to have no plans to curtail their expansion. (People hate Walmart. Why don’t they hate Amazon? I’ve never been able to figure that out. Maybe because Walmart has competition so people can afford to hate Walmart but Amazon is a force beyond reckoning? Or because Walmart has salespeople we see where Amazon’s employees are hidden behind computer screeens?)

As the world’s largest retailer, Amazon has become the controlling partner in the publishing industry, having a say in almost every facet of the business.

Major publishers fight Amazon and bow to them at the same time since their books are sold in great numbers on the site.

Small presses need Amazon, both its Create Space printing arm and its ability to reach readers.

Self-publishers love Amazon because it allows them to “publish” without ever having to do the work of actually publishing their book. (They compare themselves to Dickens and Grisham, though both those men published their books and peddled them on their own without the help of a super-giant monolithic business.)

People think of Amazon as a sales platform, similar to a blog platform, when Amazon is no such thing. They are a retailer, taking the works that others have created, and selling them (or even giving them away). Because people don’t understand the business of Amazon (the business of Amazon is Amazon) they tend to think that it is a service, and when Amazon flexes its considerable financial muscle, these people start complaining.

My publisher uses Amazon, of course. In this book climate, it’s suicidal not to. And as long as my publisher is willing to publish my books, that’s the way things will be, but if they ever turn me loose, I have no intention of republishing on Amazon. I’m not even sure I’d turn my books into ebooks. I might truly self-publish via Crate Space as I’ve heard it called — pay to have the books printed up — and then . . . well, no point in getting ahead of myself. I have a publisher for now, and maybe forever.

A friend, however, is planning on taking her ebook rights back from her publisher and self-publishing via Amazon since she is convinced she can do a better job on her own, and perhaps she might. At the moment, Amazon seems to be favoring self-published authors, and yet, what Amazon gives, Amazon can take away.

I’ll leave you with the same advice I gave her: be careful. You might be fine, but just be aware that Amazon/Kindle isn’t the sinecure it sometimes seems.

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Posted in books, culture, internet. Tags: Amazon, Amazon and Goodreads, Amazon buzz, Kindle, largest retailer, selling books on Amazon. 8 Comments »

Dead Man Walking

May 25, 2013 — Pat Bertram

In the movie The Nature of the Beast, Eric Roberts tells Lance Henriksen that “dead man walking” refers to an inmate on death row when he’s on the move. Anytime they take the prisoner anywhere, they make sure all the other inmates are locked down and that the condemned man is accompanied by several armed guards. As they walk, they announce, “Dead man walking,” because this is the most dangerous sort of person in the world. He can do anything to anyone without any repercussions. He has nothing to lose. He’s already going to die, so what can they do, kill him twice?

Listening to that exchange, it struck me that we are all dead men walking. We are all on death row, condemned to die, just waiting for the day when life executes us.

When my grief was at its worst, a bereft friend who was also struggling for reasons to live told me about a woman who had lost everyone she had ever loved, was now alone in her old age, but was the most joyful person my friend had ever met. We marveled at that because it seemed incomprehensible to us, but perhaps the woman knew something we didn’t. Perhaps she knew that we are all dead men walking, the penalty of death has already been handed out, and so we have nothing left to do but live each moment until the sentence is carried out. Maybe the truth is that within the prisons of our aging (and sometimes disabled) bodies, within the prisons of our responsibilities and financial burdens and fears, we can do whatever we want.

Of course, most of us have no interest in killing, robbing, or doing anything that will land us in the slammer; our desires are more socially acceptable and carry fewer penalties. And perhaps it’s not even a matter of doing what we want, but simply living each day as it comes and being open to whatever happens.

A woman who lost her husband many years ago recently told me that things will get better in ways I never imagined. She said she believes that we are all blessed and will know joy to the degree that we have felt sorrow.

Perhaps that, too, is a lesson the old woman learned, and now she is experiencing that joy. Maybe someday we all will. If nothing else, it’s something to believe in, that despite (or because of) our sentence of death, we will be blessed with unimaginable joy.

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Posted in culture, grief, life. Tags: dead man walking, Eric Roberts, finding joy despite loss, joy and sorrow, Lance Henriksen, life and death, The Nature of the Beast. 7 Comments »

Embracing the Play of Writing

May 24, 2013 — Pat Bertram

I watched Talent for the Game the other day, and one of the points made in the movie was that baseball is big business. It seemed ironic to me that in our world play becomes business, and business, such as the business of writing, becomes play. (Most writers nowadays write for the love of writing, with always the dream of making a living at it as a goal, a dream that is slowly being eroded by the sheer masses of books, especially ebooks, on the market, so for most writers, the business has become play.)

Then it dawned on me that maybe writing, like baseball, has always been about play. Sure, both fields have their mega stars who make most of the money, but still, there are sandlot games and town leagues (mostly those leagues are softball, but let’s not let technicalities get in the way of a great analogy). Generally, anyone who wants to play baseball or softball can, but not everyone manages to turn the fun into profit. Writing is much the same. Anyone who wants to play can, but only a very small percentage ever makes a living at it.

I know people who won’t watch professional sports because they say the pros play for money and not for fun, that the players don’t seem to enjoy themselves, which takes the joy out of the game. In the same way, some of the major authors, the ones who are best at the business of writing, write the worst books. Obviously, most people don’t agree with me since they snatch the books up as soon as a new one comes on the market, but for me, after more than two or three books in a series, the authors lose their sense of play, and the books lose their luster.

Like baseball, writing is an inherently frivolous pursuit, made important only because of our frivolous lives. Okay, maybe our lives aren’t frivolous, but most of us don’t spend our days out in the wilderness gathering nuts and berries, hunting for meat to put on the table, chopping wood to keep warm, finding cover when it snows or rains. Writing in itself can’t do any of that, but wouldn’t it be nice if it could? I’d write a feast for us all, where we could come together and enjoy good food and good company at only the cost of a few words.

And no, I’m not advocating we junk civilization and go back to primitive times. I’m not much for the outdoors (except for walking) and frankly, I prefer indoor plumbing. But you have to admit, no matter how you look at it, writing is not a serious activity. It’s about making believe. Playing dolls and building worlds. We use words instead of toys, but basically, it’s the same thing.

Maybe we’ve been looking at writing all wrong. Maybe instead of celebrating the folk who embrace the business of writing, we should be celebrating those who embrace the play of it.

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Posted in culture, life, writing. Tags: baseball as business, baseball as play, baseball is like writing, Talent for the Game, writing as business, writing as play. 1 Comment »

Paeans to Teachers, Mothers, and Ancient Civlizations

May 23, 2013 — Pat Bertram

Mike Simpson, chief editor of Second Wind Publishing, posted a blog today about the heroism of the teachers of Moore Oklahoma using their bodies in an effort to protect their students from the wrath of nature, and teachers of Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut, trying to shield their students from a gunman. He says, “Can you imagine such fierce love, such a totally unreserved willingness to perish for the children they taught? Servicemen and women go to combat knowing that they may be killed or desperately wounded. In the face of that, our nation recognizes their courage and lauds them with high honors—rightly so. Yet when a teacher goes into a classroom intending to impart a daily dose of education to a group of children and ends up putting herself or himself in the path of death for the sake of those kids, I ask myself: is there any individual anywhere who should be more highly honored? In moments of crisis and tragedy, our truest selves emerge. And if we ever wanted to know the “stuff” of which the teachers of Moore and Newtown are made, we found out with perfect clarity.”

“Where the Wind Comes Whistling Down the Plains, Teacher” by Mike Simpson is a blog post worth reading.

While you’re at the Second Wind blog, check out Mother’s Day 2013 by J. Conrad Guest and A Day in Turkey with the Hittites by Mickey Hoffman. Mickey’s travelogues are among the best I have seen/read, making me feel as if I were in these exotic places with her.

And, what the heck, while you’re there, you might as well also check out What is Your Character’s Favorite Color? — by Pat Bertram. It’s an older post, doesn’t really fit in with the theme of this article of paeans, but it is a perennial favorite of the Second Wind blog readers, so that’s sort of a paean.

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