A short, short story about a considerably longer story.
There are friends in my life whose careers have long lived and died by their popularity. Their incomes are connected to their ratings, their endorsements are awarded based on their “likes”, and their sense of self are, unfortunately, gauged by retweets. They are ever-dependant on the whims of others.
At least they come by it honestly.
It’s a fickle world that surrounds us. Our tastes change by the moment. One day we’re a fan of something or someone, the next day we have moved on to the next shiny thing. We’re like ravens struck by the beauty of glitter. It’s the age of sociopath media, and we are almost all fully complicit slaves to the cycle. It is this that makes me fully understand, and oddly appreciate, that the inter-web is a wonderfully useful resource, and the woe of my existence.
It does, however, have its place in my life, and certainly in the purpose of this piece.
You see, it’s this thing I wrote that I’m supposed to promote. (Hey, an incidental rhyme) It’s a novel called We Made A Pact. The feedback from those who have read it has been generous…enthusiastic, even. And that’s a nice feeling to be on the receiving end of kind words. But for me to be completely honest with you, I should point out that I’m not the guy who loves the limelight. Certainly, as I have said many times, I would love to sell a million copies! (I’d like to sell a thousand, actually) What writer wouldn’t want success? But at the expense of what?
Likes are not my endorphin. Retweets do not compel me to interrupt a conversation. Ratings do not matter in my life. (Although debuting at #3 on at least one best sellers list was a short-lived thrill.) I’m just a guy who likes to write. The key to that, I’m told, is to sell novels and write more. Ironically, the flashing-lights look-at-me side of things is the evil companion of this goal.
Narcissism, blatant self-indulgence, and shameless self-promotion are not my thing. Writing is my thing. Pouring my mind onto the page is my thing. Letting whatever the character in my mind decides he or she wants to happen, happen, is my thing. As I once described it in a less flattering manner, “Dreaming up shit and barfing it onto the page”, is my thing. But I’m not one to shy away from the work side of the equation. So here it is…the words attached to my novel page on the publisher’s website.
We Made A Pact is not a love story. It is a story of a promise made between soul mates who loved their entire life. The type of love that comes with maturity, in which each touched a part of the others mind that no words could ever reach. Beginning in Paris, crossing decades and ending in the small town of Oceanside, the story is carefully told to Leigh by Leonard, her mother’s lover, as he explains a side of her life, a side of her mother, that she never knew.
I will say this about my work. There are no tinges of pallid in the writing. Not one. Not fifty. My main character has a deep, abiding respect for the woman in his life. That’s something I’m quite enthusiastic about promoting.
I hope you’ll read it.
In the meantime, I’ll be focused on Limerick. The place, not the rhyme. Because it’s writing time.
Albert Berkshire is a storyteller. His first novel of fiction, We Made A Pact, is published by Friesen Press. It is available in hardcover, paperback, and in various e-book formats. Just follow the links if you’d like to check it out. I hope you will. Public reviews are always welcome. For a shorter, and less frequent rambling, Albert is found on Twitter @albertberkshire, and semi-socially at www.facebook.com/AlbertThomasBerkshire