Bertram's Blog

If People Are the Same, Why is the World Different?

November 23, 2012 — Pat Bertram

This world of the early twenty-first century seems completely different from the world of fifty years ago, and for some reason yesterday, that struck me as odd. Except for the accoutrements of our lives, such as computers and clothes, why would things be different? Most people want the same things now as they wanted then — a safe world for their children to grow up in, a degree of comfort and security and happiness, a chance to succeed either in their chosen career or in their daily lives, freedom to live the best way they know how. So why is life today so different from what it used to be?

Admittedly, those were not the halcyon days people remember them as being. There was strong prejudice in certain areas in the United States, though not all people or neighborhoods or cities participated in the prejudice against blacks, woman, gays. There did seem to be restrictions against what women could accomplish, though women who wanted to accomplish big things often managed to succeed anyway. But most women thought they had it good, staying at home, taking care of their husbands and children. Is it any better today when women are forced by circumstances or custom to work?

People are still basically the same, yet now married couples seem to be unable to find a way to stay together. Back then, divorce was rare, and now it is all too common. The number of single parent homes are increasing. Children are being shuffled between parents. Some children have too few parents, and some have too many. You’d think that with the fluidity of life today that people would be more accepting of each other, but our society is still pigeonholing both men and women, forcing them into roles they might not want. We seem to always be categorizing people, foisting labels on them, making them conform to fashionable ideas and attitudes. And we seem to be even more polarized now than ever before, whether religion or politics, with less tolerance for opposing points of view.

Looking back on those long ago days of the mid-twentieth century, it seems a completely different world. Children played in the streets, walked to and from school, rode their bikes to distant neighborhoods, ran errands for their mothers, walked to the park for pick-up games. Were things safer then? Or was it simply that people were not bombarded with images of peril on TV and the internet and so did not know how unsafe they were? No matter how graphic newspaper stories and photos were, no matter how detailed radio news became, they were still static words and images, without the horror that today is thrust into our lives in full color, making us fearful for our safety.

If things were safer then, and it isn’t an illusion of nostalgia, then why were things safer? As I mentioned, people want now what they wanted then. Is it simply that there are more people in the world? Is it that the neighborhood schools have been consolidated into district schools so that the neighborhood is no longer a separate entity? Is it that we move more frequently now so we ever gets to know our neighbors? Are we less trusting, perhaps, and if so, why? Does it make a difference that someone isn’t waiting at home when kids get home from school? Or maybe it’s that no one is home during the day and so whole neighborhoods are deserted, giving us a feeling of being ungrounded? Is it that two salaries or two jobs are necessary to maintain the same level of comfort that one mediocre salary could handle back then? If so, why is that? Is it simply inflation (or perhaps a conspiracy to kill the middle class as some people believe) or is it that more things are necessary now, that a comfortable life today needs more equipment than a comfortable life fifty years ago?

There used to be one car per family, one television, one telephone. (Some families had two of each, of course, but most only had one.) Now each person in each family seems to have their own mode of transportation, their own television, their own telephone, their own computer. Games were simple back then, too — a bat and ball, board games, jigsaw puzzles — and you needed someone to play with. Now expensive game consoles take the place of neighborhood companions. After school activities seem more structured now, though family life seems less structured — families eating meals together at a set time used to be the norm and now is a special occasion. But then, families themselves are different.

I don’t know if any of this is important or if it means anything. Whatever once was no longer exists, and we can only live in the world of today, but it does seem strange to me that despite people’s goals remaining the same, the world has changed so much.

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Pat Bertram is the author of the conspiracy 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, life, relationships. Tags: are things worse today, is safety an illusion, predudice, twentieth century, twenty-first century, what people want. 4 Comments »

Giving Thanks for Words

November 22, 2012 — Pat Bertram

Every day I find something to be grateful for, even if it’s only that the sun is shining, that I once had a great love, that I have open spaces to explore (both in my head and in the world). Even when all else seemed bleak these past thirty-one months since the death of my life mate/soul mate, even when I had no hope, there was always something to be grateful for (most often that he was no longer suffering), so I don’t need to set aside a special day of thanksgiving.

Still, during this season of giving thanks, there is something I am especially grateful for, something worth celebrating . . . words.

Words convey thoughts, ideas, hopes from one person to another. They connect us from continent to continent, enabling us to bond with like-minded people all around the world. I have exchanged words — and friendship — with people from New Zealand, Australia, Canada, the Nederlands, India. And for this I am grateful.

Words allow us to read and to write, to find entertainment and enlightenment in worlds created out of nothing but letters strung together. Words allow a story, concocted in one mind, to come to full realization in another. For most of my life, these worlds of words have been my life, or at least a major part of it. Now that I too am a world-creator, I am grateful for the words with which I build my stories.

Words give comfort, especially when distance (either geographic or emotional) does not allow a touch of commiseration. I am especially grateful for all the words of encouragement you (the readers of this blog) have given me during my time of grief, words that touched me. I hope some of my words touched you.

Words mean hope. With words, there is always the hope that we will be able to come to an understanding of each other, and perhaps find peace. (Of course, people would have to shut up long enough to listen to each other’s words; one-way words cause conflict and confusion.)

Words mean community and continuity. Words, both spoken and written, presuppose that there is someone to listen, and that is community. Telling our his-stories and her-stories to each other creates both community and continuity. They tell us who we were, who we are, and who we hope to become.

If there were no one to hear our words, if we existed solely in ourselves, we’d still need words to communicate our feelings and ideas to ourselves. This ability to put our thoughts into words gives us the power to know ourselves and to understand greater truths.

So this week, whether you celebrate the U.S. Thanksgiving or not, stop for a moment to give thanks for words. They are we.

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Posted in culture, life, relationships, writing. Tags: communication, significance of words, Thanksgiving, touched by words, words. 8 Comments »

Today Is a Good Day and I Am Feeling Fine

November 21, 2012 — Pat Bertram

On the advice of a friend, I have been doing a daily affirmation, telling myself I am happy, but it doesn’t work for me because I’m not sure I want to be happy. Un-unhappy, yes. Unsad, yes. Contented, of course. At peace, for sure. But happy? It’s not a state I’ve ever aspired to. I’ve always believed other things are much more important, things such as love, truth, purpose, freedom, kindness, integrity. Happiness means many different things to many people, but to me, happiness has an element of giddiness, of being glad to be alive, of effervescence, maybe. I prefer being centered, not tipping toward happiness or sadness, but unafraid of my tomorrows, satisfied with my yesterdays, at peace with my todays.

To that end, I have changed my daily affirmation to “This is a good day and I am feeling fine.” This affirmation was gift from my yoga instructor, a short meditation to help us get through the holidays. She suggested we sit quietly, breathe in thinking “This is a good day,” and exhale thinking “I am feeling fine.” And it works for me. Of course, it helps that my days now are good, no real traumas, no sock-to-the stomach bouts of grief, just a slow gentle roll into sadness now and again, and a slow gentle roll back to center. The few tears, when they come, seem more nostalgic than debilitating.

The past couple of days have been especially good — lovely weather, clear skies, warm sun, breezes no stronger than a breath. And I am feeling fine. No overwhelming aches and pains, no worry or stress to weigh down my shoulders. I’m standing tall, breathing deep, opening myself up the world and the future.

I’m still not sure where I am going, what I am looking for, what I expect to find. For now, it’s enough that I am continuing to open myself to possibilities, continuing to believe that today is a good day and I am feeling fine.

***

Posted in being me, culture, life. Tags: daily affirmation, finding happiness after grief, grief and nostalgia, happiness, I am feeling fine, today is a good day. 4 Comments »

Love, Truth, Purpose, Freedom

November 20, 2012 — Pat Bertram

Linda Bonney Olin interviewed me for her blog the other day, and the interview turned out to be special, at least for me, because it made me realize what my values are and how those values find a place in my books.

Linda asked me: Why did you choose to write A Spark of Heavenly Fire?

I responded: “A Spark of Heavenly Fire came about because of a Washington Irving quote: ‘There is in every true woman’s heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity.’ When I read those words, I could see her, a drab woman, defeated by life, dragging herself through her days in the normal world, but in an abnormal world of strife and danger, she would come alive and inspire others. And so Kate Cummings, the hero of my novel A Spark of Heavenly Fire was born. But born into what world?

“I didn’t want to write a book about war, which is a common setting for such a character-driven story, so I created the red death, an unstoppable, bio-engineered disease that ravages Colorado. Martial law is declared, rationing is put into effect, and the entire state is quarantined. The world of the red death brings out the best in Kate and some of the characters she comes in contact with while bringing out the worst in others. Most of all, the prism of death and survival reflects what each of the major characters values most. Kate values love. Dee values purpose. Greg values truth. Jeremy values freedom. Pippi, who values nothing, learns to value herself.”

Next Linda asked if my fiction reflected my personal values, and I realized that of course my fiction (and non-fiction) reflects my values. Like Kate, I value love. Like Dee, I value purpose. Like Greg, I value truth. Like Jeremy, I value freedom. Like Pippi, I am learning to value myself. (You can read the entire interview here: Love, Truth, Purpose, Freedom: Pat Bertram.)

More than those qualities, though, I value kindness, and an innate kindness permeates all of my books despite the horrors the characters have to contend with. Though my heroes all have a love interest that helps form the story, none of my books can be classified as romances. The romance angle is not the main focus, and the romance is never conflicted. My couples in love treat each other kindly, showing a united front against the horrors of their world. For the most part, that’s the way I lived, so my characters can do no less.

***

If you would like to interview me, please let me know. I don’t usually open up this way, preferring to interview others, but turnabout is fair play. You can supply the questions, or I can, whichever you wish.

If you would like me to interview you instead, you can find the questions and instructions here: Author Questionnaire.

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Posted in blogging, books, fiction, writing. Tags: A Spark of Heavenly Fire, author's values reflected in their characters, blog interview, Linda Bonney Olin, values. 2 Comments »

You Are Invited to Participate in a Blog Chain — “The Next Big Thing”

November 19, 2012 — Pat Bertram

I accepted an invitation to participate in a blog chain called “The Next Big Thing,” and since I don’t like to artbitrarily tag people, I’m extending an invitation to anyone who would lke to participate.

The idea is to answer 10 questions about your WIP or a new project and in turn “tag” 5 other writers who will write posts on their blogs.

My post will be up on this blog during the week of 11/26 – 12/02, so yours (which I’d link to) would be any time the following week, 12/03 – 12/09. You’d then invite 5 authors to do the same thing you’re doing, & link to their blogs, as well as back to mine (as the one who invited you to partake). Obviously, I’ll be linking to your blogs rather than the specific posts since those won’t be up yet when I post mine.

In step form:

1. I write a blog answering the interview questions, and put links to your blog (and 4 others whom I invite). I also credit the blogger who invited me.

2. You write a blog answering those questions and put links to 5 others of your choice, as well as linking back to my blog. (All our blogs will follow the same format, so when mine is posted, you will be able to see how to format yours.)

You are now finished!

3. The 5 authors you invite answer the questions; each one puts that blog up the week after yours goes up (yours would post the week of 12/03 – 12/09; theirs go up the following week) and each one credits you as the inviter & puts a link to your blog.

4. They in turn, tag 5 other authors, & the cycle continues.

So, you’re done once you put your own blog up and list your 5 authors.

The idea is that each person gets shouted out a) as an invited author, and then b) 5 times as the one who invited.

Would you be interested in taking part? The questions are below.

Ten Interview Questions for the Next Big Thing:

What is your working title of your book?
Where did the idea come from for the book?
What genre does your book fall under?
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Leave a comment if you’d like to take part in this blog chain. Nothing dire will happen to you if you don’t participate, of course, since this isn’t anything like a chain letter, but saying yes might get you a few new readers.

***

Posted in blogging, internet, writing. Tags: Blog Chain, blog promotion, Interview Questions, The Next Big Thing. 9 Comments »

Showing My Particular Vision of the World

November 18, 2012 — Pat Bertram

All the books about writing I ever read stressed the importance of genre. The books recommended choosing a readily recognizable genre and sticking to it. Apparently, readers like to know what kind of book they are reading and don’t take well to authors who hop from one genre to another (and if readers do accept it, agents and editors sure don’t). The books also suggested developing a series character in that specific genre, one who is so compelling people will be waiting for the next book. And readers who come late to the series go back to read earlier books, so sales take on a life of their own, each book helping to sell the others.

Seems simple enough, but I ignored the advice. Each of my books is a stand-alone novel without a series character, and each straddles a shadowy line between genres. Since I didn’t create a series that helps promote me and my oeuvre, I have to start over each time a new book of mine is published, promoting each book individually, finding a new readership.

I’ve experienced all the setbacks that bedevil authors — too little support, too many rejections, too much time dedicated to writing-related activities, such as editing and promotion, and not enough time dedicated to writing. But the most disheartening of all is the difficulty of generating momentum with non-genre, non-series books.

And yet . . .

We can only write what we are compelled to write. We each have a vision, and we must be true to that vision, true to ourselves, true to our stories.

Diane Arbus, noted American photographer, said, “I really believe there are things nobody would see if I didn’t photograph them.” And so it is true with writers. We see things, either in the world or in the world of our imagination, that nobody would see if we didn’t photograph them with our words.

Each of my books shows a particular vision of the world as I know it. A Spark of Heavenly Fire shows the horror of an all-too-possible pandemic, the even more horrific steps the government is ready to take, and the various ways, both heroic and craven, people might react to such an eventuality. More Deaths Than One shows the unthinkable results of mind control experiments, experiments that have actually been perpetrated without our knowledge. Daughter Am I is a more light-hearted romp, a treasure-hunting tale of finding oneself in a most unlikely way. And Light Bringer, my latest novel, hints at a world where the Sumerian myth of a tenth planet — a planet of doom — is fact.

The disheartening aspects of writing without the scaffolding of a genre are more than offset by the joy of having created four unique visions of the world, dozens of characters who would not have life without me, vivid word pictures that exist only in my books. Like my lake of flowers from Light Bringer:

Becka kept running, needing no footpath to lead her to their destination. She could feel the music tugging at her, guiding her, singing her forward.

At first a faint red trumpeting, the music swelled into a full orchestra: orange church bells, yellow bugles, green violins, blue flutes, indigo cellos, violet woodwinds.

Beneath it all, she could hear the grasses murmuring, “Hurry, hurry.”

And then there it was, spread out before her in a shallow thirty-foot bowl. A lake of flowers— chrysanthemums and tulips, daisies and daffodils, lilies and columbines and fuchsia—all blooming brightly, all singing their song of welcome.

What things would people be deprived of seeing if you didn’t photograph them with your words?

***

Posted in culture, fiction, life, writing. Tags: Diane Arbus, importance of genre, stand-alone books, word pictures, writer's vision, writing what we are compelled to write. 3 Comments »

A Romance with Books

November 17, 2012 — Pat Bertram

I watched the 1987 movie 84 Charing Cross Road yesterday, and it struck me as particularly poignant considering the current state of the book business. Some people call this movie a romance, though basically, the relationship between Helene Hanff and Frank Doel is little more than a business relationship. The true romance is Helene’s love of books — not just the content of the books, but the volumes themselves.

With the advent of Kindles, Nooks, Palm Pilots, IPads and other reading devices, bound books seem to be valued less and less. Ebook readers sneer at those who profess to love the smell of the book and the feel of the pages, but the truth is, there is a mystique about a printed volume. It exists as a thing separate from its words. You can hold the tome in your hands, riffle the pages, sample a word here and there. There is a tactile connection between reader and story, linking the two parties in a very physical way.

You love your ereader. I get that. I understand you love the ease of being able to cart around an entire library of downloaded stories and novels for a minimal cost. I understand that ereaders, with their ability to zoom in (or do I mean out?) and make the words larger for those with vision problems allow people to keep reading long after their eyes have given up on them. I also understand that such reading devices are the wave of the future.

But . . . here’s my dirty little secret. (Not much in the way of dirty little secrets, I admit, but it’s the only one I have.) I don’t own an ereading device, and I have no intention of getting one until I am forced to. For me, reading has always been a Zen-like experience where I become the book. Not the story. The book. My eyes would be focused on the page. One hand would be grasping the book while the other turned the page, quite mindlessly, I might add. The book might be resting on sternum or stomach, depending on my position. And the story osmosed through my body and into my soul without referencing the words.

For most of my life, I was a constant reader. That’s all I wanted to do, so for several years I did temp work to give myself maximum amount of time to read. To feed my habit, I would take out stacks of books from the library and buy bagfuls of new and used books. Often, I would pass the purchased books on to my mother. One time, I included Oh, God in a stack of books I gave her, and the language appalled her. I shrugged it off, saying I didn’t notice. That really upset her. “I don’t know which is worse,” she said, “that you would be so blasé as not to be bothered by the words, or so naïve as to not know what they mean.”

I tried to explain to her that I didn’t read words, but that upset her even more. I suppose it does sound weird, but it’s the truth. At least, it used to be. As I got older and my eyes weaker, the osmosis didn’t work as well, and I had to start reading words. I did not like that at all! Oddly, my eyesight has changed, and I now have perfect vision about nine inches from my eyes, (though I can’t see beyond that) so I can do the Zen reading thing again, but since I have a hard time finding non-trivial stories to osmose with, I don’t read much any more. (I used to feel guilty at having “wasted” my life reading, but now I’m glad I did.)

Anyway, the point is that while some people love their reading devices, others don’t seem to find the relationship rewarding, and I bet Helene Hanff would have been such a one. All those books she ordered from 84 Charing Cross Road are probably now available free from Google books (because really, who among us except die-hard literature students like Helene would pay to read the unabridged prose of John Dunne), but reading the books on a Kindle wouldn’t be the same for her as reading a leather-bound book with gilt edging. And, although my reading tastes are much more plebian than hers, reading on a device wouldn’t be the same for me, either. I don’t see myself having a Zen-like experience with a Nook or a Kindle.

The lesson of this movie is that it’s important to do things when you can, because one day it will be too late. Helen supposedly carried on a great friendship with Frank — or at least with the bookstore where he worked — but she never once called him, never once sprung for a ticket to London until after the store closed for good. (I’m not giving away any spoilers — the movie begins with her visiting the empty store.) And so it was with me and my romance with books. If I hadn’t wasted my youth reading but waited until now to carry on my romance with books, the romance would have been over before it had even begun.

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Posted in books, culture, relationships, writing. Tags: 84 Charing Cross Road, Kindles, love of books, romance with books, the zen of reading, Zen-like experience. 9 Comments »

DeBacle (499 Word Contest Entry)

November 16, 2012 — Pat Bertram

A couple of days ago I wrote Requiem For a Writing Contest to honor the passing of a 499-word Dan Brown tribute contest that used to be sponsored by a writing group I belonged to. Yesterday I posted a previous entry to the contest, and today I’m posting a third entry. This story snippet won a first place prize, and rightly so. The acrostic is made up of all the names of the members of the Writin’ Wombats, the group that sponsored the contest. I had fun doing the acrostic, but it took hours to come up with a message that made at least a little sense. (FYI — FCR is an acronym for First Chapters Romance, a major writing contest with a book contract as a prize put on by Gather.com. Most of the people in the Wombat writing group met because of that contest, but I didn’t meet them until months later when I entered another first chapters contest on Gather — The Court TV Search for the Next Great Crime Writer contest. I came in about 6th or 7th, but in a round about way, because of that contest, I ended up with a book contract anyway.)

DEBACLE

Robert studied the words on the scorched document.

“Since you say it’s a victory, it’s vital I am not judged unless death intervenes. Just accept my elementary suggestions. Keep everything nice. More importantly, keep everything ready, and never destroy data. Always leave enough people around to create art. Think how you’ll persevere and ultimately live. Be eclectic and know everything. Reason won’t end now. Don’t you jape our heroes nor jail a man inappropriately. Each day and night accept joy in loving liberty.”

Four men, three Alsatians and one stray cat gave their lives to protect this message, and one woman severely burned her hand to save it from a fiery end, yet it seemed to be gibberish — the words, even the sentences made sense, but taken as a whole, they meant nothing.

The legend surrounding this fabled bit of parchment held that it contained the names of some very special people — writers who might make a difference, might even change the world. Why not? Other people had penned words that touched the hearts of millions. Of course, there was that one man whose very initials drew scorn and caused contests to be run in his dishonor, contests known only by the hated initials DB.

But this paper had nothing to do with that DeBacle. It was ancient, extending all the way back to the beginning, back to an era known by the cryptic initials FCR.

Robert sucked in a breath. Cryptic. That meant code, didn’t it? Perhaps the message was encoded. A simple substitution code perhaps. No one but he was intelligent enough to create a code more complex than that. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a magnifying glass, intending to take a closer look at the matter, but a sound deflected his attention.

Drip. Drip.

Immediately an image formed in his mind of an albino with a severed hand, blood dripping from the stump. Wait. The albino had been in a previous book. And his hand hadn’t been severed; he’d been killed. Sheesh. How was he supposed to keep track of such details? He had more important things to do like . . . like . . . oh, yes, decode this message.

Clump. Clump.

A new sound accompanied the drip. Goosebumps covered his skin as the clumps drew closer. All the more reason to figure out the code quickly. It wouldn’t offer him immunity from a murderer, but it would give him a bargaining chip.

Drip. Drip. Clump. Clump.

No time to decipher the message now. Where could he hide it? He considered eating it — eeyuw — but once the words were digested, the meaning might still elude him.

Too late. The door burst open.

Sophie rushed inside, hair dripping, high heels caked in mud. “It’s raining out there. A day fit only for Wombats. Any luck figuring out the message?”

Heart hammering like an anvil, he managed a single word. “No.”

“Could it be an acrostic?”

“A what?”

“An acrostic. You know — you take the first letters of each word in order and see if they spell anything.”

“I knew that,” Robert said crossly. “Of course I knew that. I am a world-renowned cryptographer.”

He wrote out the first letter of each word, added appropriate spaces, and stared in amazement at the list of names that began with Sy and ended with Jill. Here was the solution! But which would be the next great wordsmith? And which, if any, would be the next DeBacle?

***

Posted in fiction, writing. Tags: acrostic, Gather.com, spoof, writing contest. 3 Comments »

The Lost Secret (499 Word Contest Entry)

November 15, 2012 — Pat Bertram

Yesterday I wrote Requiem For a Writing Contest to honor the passing of a 499-word Dan Brown tribute contest that used to be sponsored by a writing group I belonged to. Today I’d like to post a previous entry to the contest. Although the entry was supposed to be a spoof of The Lost Symbol, it now seems as if it would be an interesting story in its own right. I’d have to rewrite it, of course, to lose the similarities between the beginning of this story and the beginning of DB’s, but it might be fun. Someday.

THE LOST SECRET

The secret is how to live.

Since the beginning of time, the secret had always been how to die, or rather, how to make others die — and he’d learned that secret well. Now he needed to learn an even greater secret — how to live . . . forever.

The thirty-four-thousand-year-old Voltari gazed down at the crucible cradled in his palms. It was filled with blood, the blood of all the innocents who had died that he might live.

Drink it, he told himself. You have nothing to fear. Yet he knew the truth — he had everything to fear. Without death, there is no reason to live. Without death, time yawned immeasurably. Without death . . .

Oh, hell, just drink it.

As was tradition, he’d adorned himself in the latest ritualistic garb — well-tailored white shirt that covered his pale chest and expensive dark suit that made his thin shoulders seem broad. Around his neck hung a noose — a “power-tie” as the brethren called it.

The assembly of brothers encircling him all were adorned in the same funereal regalia. Only the color of their ties varied, from a new-bruise maroon to bright artery-gushing scarlet. Many of these men had powerful stations in life, the rest had powerful stations in death, yet the Voltari knew their ranks meant nothing within these walls. Here all were equals sharing an unearthly bond.

As he surveyed the daunting assembly, the Voltari wondered who in the outside world would ever believe this collection of beings would assemble in one place, much less this place. The room looked like a vault from a great and private banking institution in Switzerland.

The truth, however, was stranger still.

I really am in a Swiss bank vault, with gold stacked everywhere.

The Voltari’s forebears had come to Earth four hundred thousand years ago in search of the gold they needed to granulate like fine sugar and suspend above their world to keep the atmosphere from escaping into space. When the transplanted Voltari workers rebelled at the arduous and unending task of mining, refining, and storing the gold, their leaders had created a race of slave workers, which they facetiously named homo sapiens sapiens, to do the work for them.

And the humans, all unwittingly, had done their job. Most of Earth’s gold now resided in this vault and dozens like it all around the city. In days, weeks at the most, his fellow Voltaris would be arriving for the gold, and he had to make a decision. Now.

He could choose to stay on Earth and rule his financial kingdom forever, or he could choose to return to Votari and be . . . no one.

There was a third choice — not to choose, in which case he would join the ranks of the dead in the netherworld.

The secret is how to live, he reminded himself.

“It is time,” a voice thundered.

***

Posted in fiction, writing. Tags: gold, spoof, The Lost Secret, writing contest. 2 Comments »

Requiem For a Writing Contest

November 14, 2012 — Pat Bertram

I entered a 499-word Dan Brown tribute contest — at least, that’s the name of it. It’s not so much a tribute but a contest to see who can present the best spoof of DB. As the Almighty Contest Administrator (ACA) wrote:

What can be said about Dan Brown? He’s one of the most successful commercial authors — not just of our generation — but of all time. He has an English degree and writes very solid sentences. For his short chapters, he is very diligent about making sure there is a hook at the end of every one of them. This makes the pace of his novels very brisk—they are a quick read. For this, he has become an extremely wealthy man. Good for him, he deserves all the comfort and luxury money can buy.

But logic in his scenarios and raw intelligence in his plot twists? Well, I suppose we’re asking too much.

I tied for first place in the DB contest, which wasn’t hard to do since there were only two entries. Two years ago, when I also won, there were thirty or more stories entered, but “everything has its time, which passes all too soon” (as the ACA’s said). The contest was for a writing group called the “Writin’ Wombats,” and so many of the members have moved on to greater glory, either becoming successful authors or publishers, or finding triumph in other businesses, that they no longer have time for such silliness.

Still, I enjoyed the writing exercise, and I’ll be sad to see the end of this contest.

The following story snippet is my entry. (The cover for the story was created by Rand Phares, and is not now or ever will be the cover of a published Pat Bertram book. And, despite what the cover says, I haven’t yet reached New York Times bestselling author status.)

REVENGE

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents on Robert Langdon— except at occasional intervals when he managed to take a shortcut through an art gallery or coffee shop — and violent gusts of wind swept him onward as he struggled to flee the mermaids, rock stars, steam punks, and academics who were chasing him through the scanty streets (for it is in Mt. Vernon that our scene lies), fiercely agitating Robert who had had enough and wished his creator would kill him and put everyone out of their misery.

“Dammit,” ACA screamed. “This is not the Bulwer-Litton Contest. This is the DB Tribute Contest!” He shredded the entry and tossed the bits off his deck. Then, realizing what he had done, he looked around and sighed in relief. No one had seen this contribution to global contamination, so it didn’t count. And anyway, the entry had been written on toilet paper and would soon degrade.

The sound of pounding brought him to his feet. He hurried into the house, yanked open the front door and snarled, “What?”

A thin, bespectacled man stood there, hopping from foot to foot as if he had a full bladder. “Hurry.” The urgency in the man’s voice mirrored his behavior. “We have to leave. Now. I’m Robert Langdon.”

ACA snorted. “You can’t be. You’re so short.”

“Print adds several inches,” Robert said. “Listen. DB says you’re in serious trouble.”

“For what? Running a contest?”

“No, no. Your life is in danger.” Robert held out a hand. A few shreds of suspiciously familiar paper lay on his palm. “This message came to me, like manna from heaven.”

“And you think the message came from DB,” ACA said flatly.

“Yes. DB, the Divine Benefactor—my creator. And yours.” Although the last two words were spoken reverently, the dubious look in Robert’s eye clearly said he could not imagine DB ever being able to create such a colorful character as ACA. “Read this.” He laid the bits of paper end to end to reveal the message: aca-m-ust-flee-or-they-will-kill-him.

ACA rolled his eyes. “Those are isolated bits of a paper I just tore up. The edges of the pieces don’t even match.”

“Who cares about a few minor details? DB sure doesn’t. And you are in danger. There’s a gang of Wyverns waiting for you outside.” Apparently noticing ACA’s look of incomprehension, Robert added, “Wallabies?”

“You mean Wombats?”

“Ah, yes. Wombats. Sorry. I’m a bit dim, but I am what DB made me.”

ACA peeked outside. The Wombats were camped on his front lawn, armed with pens, netbooks, tablets—writing furiously.

“They’re planning a terrible writing accident for you. Come. We must go.”

ACA slipped out the door and followed Robert around the side of the house. He smiled to himself. He’d get even with his erstwhile friends. After this contest, he’d do another. And another. And another.

“There he is,” he heard Kat call out. “Write faster before he gets away.”

***