Tom Kepler's Blog, page 25

Increasing My Facebook Page Reach

For months my main presence on my Facebook page was just the automatic posting from my blog. 

Needless to say, I did not have much "reach" or have many people "talking about" my page.

Having some time to play around on my computer for the last few weeks, I have increased my reach, and the status posts have been talked about much more. I plan to research more, but here are a few points that might help others.
When finding something to share on your personal Facebook site, use the pulldown and share the post as your page, rather than your personal site.Funnily enough, the number of posts you put up affect the number of people you reach.In order to have people talk about your posts, you have to post something worthy of comment. This will require some analysis of who your followers are.The formula of splitting posts between sales, personal, and education still seems a good one. Images are powerful. My greatest reach and most talked about posts usually are or include images.I use Google news that includes personalized searches for items that would be of interest to readers. I also use Google image search for visuals that will be good. (Consider copyright laws and provide links or get permission if necessary.)Respond to comments. Don't piss anyone off--or do if that's the kind of page you want.Don't obsess unless you feel the compulsion.Use your posts to define the unique value of your page. Humor counts.Enjoy the community and the climate you create on your page. If you aren't enjoying yourself, then others probably aren't either.My biggest learning lesson has been that reader response is serendipitous. I can analyze and plot and spin, but sometimes (or even oftentimes) reader response just happens. That is why it's good to try to post more frequently. Don't over-do it, though. I have one or two Facebook pages I've considered leaving because of the high volume of uninteresting or similar posts.

That's it for today. I'll do a follow-up post after some more experience and research.

Post a little more as a Facebook page, mix it up, and throw up stuff you find interesting. Then even if you don't get much "reach," you're still getting some joy and entertainment.

Copyright 2013 by Thomas L. Kepler, all rights reserved

A Day Out with Mom #6: my mom is Butch Cassidy

We're at the supermart--you know, the kind that is super-sized and you have to bag your own food--and Mom begins bagging the groceries while I pay.

She puts the groceries in plastic bags, pulling each bag from the wire contraption where they hang in big bundles. After filling a bag, Mom neatly closes it with half a knot and then places the bag in the cart. Then she reaches for another bag . . .

Mom uses these bags at home for garbage, one a meal, so she likes to have as many bags on hand as possible.

I pay and then help bagging the groceries, not stuffing the bags so we will have a few more to use at home. The plastic bags come in bundles of maybe 100, perhaps five or six bundles hanging on the rack dispenser, awaiting my amateur efforts at bagging. I do a pretty good job--maybe something I should consider for a second career.

As I turn the cart to the door, I wait for Mom to grab the handle for the steadiness and guidance she needs in her 88 years. We are pushing side by side when in a sudden snatch and run, Mom grabs a bundle of bags, folds them into the shopping cart, and sets off in a gallop for the door. It's a bag heist, and I'm the driver! I sprint with mom so I won't be left holding the bag.

Mom's white-knuckling the cart, and as I push I swear I hear the TV theme song from Hawaiian Five-0 and Jack Lord's voice, "Book 'em, Danno."

And then the huge sliding glass doors loom like some horizontal, transparent guillotine. I'm the Sundance Kid, afraid to jump, and Mom is Butch Cassidy at his sardonic best. Instead of, "Hell, the fall will probably kill us," my mother laughs, "Those sliding doors almost didn't open we were moving so fast!"

Oh, sweet sunshine, we are out the door. Glancing over my shoulder, I see no blue-shirted employees wolf-packing after us through the parking lot. I guess the one third of a cent price for a bag isn't worth busting an 88-year-old great-grandmother. I won't be busted as an accessory to my mother's crime. I won't have to visit Mom in the big slammer.

I tell myself she didn't know what she was doing because she's blind. Yeah, that's right! That's it! That's the thing to tell the judge. I'm even believing it.

After all, she's my mom. 

Copyright 2013 by Thomas L. Kepler, all rights reserved

A Day Out with Mom #5: my mom is Butch Cassidy

We're at the supermart--you know, the kind that is super-sized and you have to bag your own food--and Mom begins bagging the groceries while I pay.

She puts the groceries in plastic bags, pulling each bag from the wire contraption where they hang in big bundles. After filling a bag, Mom neatly closes it with half a knot and then places the bag in the cart. Then she reaches for another bag . . .

Mom uses these bags at home for garbage, one a meal, so she likes to have as many bags on hand as possible.

I pay and then help bagging the groceries, not stuffing the bags so we will have a few more to use at home. The plastic bags come in bundles of maybe 100, perhaps five or six bundles hanging on the rack dispenser, awaiting my amateur efforts at bagging. I do a pretty good job--maybe something I should consider for a second career.

As I turn the cart to the door, I wait for Mom to grab the handle for the steadiness and guidance she needs in her 88 years. We are pushing side by side when in a sudden snatch and run, Mom grabs a bundle of bags, folds them into the shopping cart, and sets off in a gallop for the door. It's a bag heist, and I'm the driver! I sprint with mom so I won't be left holding the bag.

Mom's white-knuckling the cart, and as I push I swear I hear the TV theme song from Hawaiian Five-0 and Jack Lord's voice, "Book 'em, Danno."

And then the huge sliding glass doors loom like some horizontal, transparent guillotine. I'm the Sundance Kid, afraid to jump, and Mom is Butch Cassidy at his sardonic best. Instead of, "Hell, the fall will probably kill us," my mother laughs, "Those sliding doors almost didn't open we were moving so fast!"

Oh, sweet sunshine, we are out the door. Glancing over my shoulder, I see no blue-shirted employees wolf-packing after us through the parking lot. I guess the one third of a cent price for a bag isn't worth busting an 88-year-old great-grandmother. I won't be busted as an accessory to my mother's crime. I won't have to visit Mom in the big slammer.

I tell myself she didn't know what she was doing because she's blind. Yeah, that's right! That's it! That's the thing to tell the judge. I'm even believing it.

After all, she's my mom. 

Copyright 2013 by Thomas L. Kepler, all rights reserved

"River's Daughter": my flirtation with erotica

First of all, when looking up a definition of erotica, I had to try to spell it three times before getting it right--and, dang me!--I just misspelled it again (and fixed it).

"River's Daughter," one short story of the collection Who Listened to Dragons, Three Stories , is the second of four fantasy short stories that I have so far written that explore the concept of the "water elemental," the incarnation of the essence of water.

The collection Who Listened is now available for the month of July for free.

Each of the four stories will match the water elemental's personality to the season. The first story was subsumed in the novel The Stone Dragon , where the protagonist Glimmer meets a water spirit in the winter as an ice naiad. "River's Daughter" is a water elemental during spring, when the world is growing and life is beginning. 

The ice naiad in The Stone Dragon expresses its "love" as chilling cold. In "River's Daughter," the "love" is that of impregnation, of the desire to quicken with life. This led me, as this post's title states, to "flirt" with erotica in order to concretize that "spring flood" in human form.
 .
Here are definitions of "erotica" from the Free Online Dictionary:
Literature or art intended to arouse sexual desire. Well, the subject matter includes sex, but the intention in writing, the goal, was not arousal. Is the procreative energy of nature sexual? I guess the literal answer, according to biology, is yes . . . (Fine Arts & Visual Arts / Art Terms) explicitly sexual literature or art. No, descriptions are suggestive, using indirect or metaphoric description. I wanted to put into human form that power of life desiring to reproduce itself.Literature or art dealing with sexual love. A longer inquiry into what is meant by dealing is necessary, but the short answer is yes. The anthropomorphic depiction of water in spring flood as a woman does deal with sex and reverence for life. I suppose that can be ascribed to sexual love. (Mr. Webster defines anthropomorphic as ascribing human characteristics to nonhuman things.)Hence I see my flirtation with the erotic as a stylistic necessity--as Mr. Webster defines flirtation: experimenting with or coming close to reaching or experiencing. 

Excerpt from "River's Daughter":

"He trembled at the sound, the old woman forgotten, his horse and gear forgotten, all forgotten but the song. It entered him, filling his veins with a fiery nectar. He stumbled, drunk with the pounding of his heart. Awkward, blinded by the liquid singing, he left the woman, pulled to the river."

I don't believe I've given too much away. I haven't even mentioned the foil to the river spirit!

This story and two others are available for free this July at Smashwords: Who Listened to Dragons, Three Stories. 

Enjoy your summer reading.

A Day Out with Mom #4: the Catch-22 of Getting Old

Mom and I entered Dad's room, wondering what his extended-care existence would be like today.

He sat in his wheelchair, alone in the room, staring at nothing--half-asleep, he said.

We sat with him, asking how he was doing. Even though it was scheduled to be somewhere between 105 to 110 degrees in temperature, Dad said he was cold. We pulled the blanket that wrapped his shoulders more tightly around him. We put on his brown cotton jersey gloves.

"Ahhhh," he said, wiggling his fingers, "warm."

He had, we found out in the course of our early conversation, eaten a big breakfast, including three fortified milkshakes, which broke the facility's record. This we found out later, was not exactly accurate. He had drunk one milkshake and eaten hardly anything.

He didn't want to go outside or for a "roll" through the corridors, so Mom and I sat and watched Dad doze. "Is he asleep?" Mom asked me. "Almost," Dad replied.

"We're getting out today," Dad said. "We're just going to roll right out the door. I want to go home."

"When you're strong enough to stand and move some on your own. When you are eating."

"I'll eat more when I get home."

"I couldn't even get you in the car, Dad. You weigh too much, and I can't wheel you home in the wheelchair. It's too far."

"That's true," Dad said, "so let's use the car." I didn't respond, caught between agreement and disagreement.

"Let's just sneak out," Dad said. "Nobody's paying attention. The door's right there. Now's the time, let's do it!"

It was really tough when Mom and I said good-bye and left. Why weren't we taking him? Why did he have to stay? So what if he couldn't stand or walk--he'd get into the car somehow. Just get outside and go for it!

I can't say I don't understand. I absolutely do. I'd want to get the hell out of Dodge, too. Quality versus quantity is a killer issue.

When is it time to leave the body? When is the appropriate time to go? Aren't we supposed to help the sick and elderly and keep them living? When my dad says in his lucid moments he's "all washed up" because he can't remember, stand, walk, or feed or clean himself, is it despair or accuracy?

I have no answers, except for the legends of saints, mystics, and medicine men who say, "It's time to die," and then lie down (or sit up) and do so. It would be best that it be that clean and simple, but that would require--from whatever spiritual or scientific perspective--to be a whole or complete person, self-actualized in the highest sense.

Most of us are still standing in line, waiting for our ticket to be punched. I hope mine gets punched before it punches me.

In the meantime, I help keep my father comfortable, respecting and noting the times he recognizes his situation, yet I also allow that miracles happen, that he might wake up one morning, say, "I'm hungry," eat, and then ask for physical therapy. I respect his signed declaration to be allowed to pass with dignity. I understand responsibility can be complex.

The thing is, I don't have control over this situation, nor does the care facility, nor does my father, although he has the most individual control. Nature has the greatest control, and I hope to have the wisdom to accept that the power that wears down mountains also acts upon those who climb them.

By the grey hair upon my head, I am sobered by this reality. Don't ask anything of me beyond that awareness. 

Copyright 2013 by Thomas L. Kepler, all rights reserved

"T 'Uk's Dilemma": a free fantasy short story about Post-traumatic Stress Disorder

The 4th of July is a celebration of a declaration of freedom, of fighting for a cause and defending what we believe in.

One of 3 short stories that I am offering for free this July is called "T 'Uk's Dilemma." At a little over 1,000 words, the flash fiction is a look at two of the characters in the novel The Stone Dragon, the Tucker brothers.

They are a tragi-comic pair of brothers who, out in the middle of nowhere, own two inns, each on the opposite side of a stream, and who compete for business with one another. "T 'Uk's Dilemma" explains how their eccentric behavior came to be and precedes The Stone Dragon chronologically.

T 'Uk finds himself torn between a warrior's obligation and the Way of the Sisters of Hospitality, a tradition in which his mother had raised him. Also, in The Stone Dragon, some characters practice the Silence of the Saints, a form of meditation.

Having practiced Transcendental Meditation most of my life and seeing how effective TM is in dealing with Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, the short story is a study of just how life-changing the stress of violence can be to the mind. I tried in the story to find a metaphor to convey the fracking a mind can experience by overwhelming events.

This short story and two others are available for free now at Smashwords: Who Listened to Dragons, Three Stories.

Free and Discounted Books During the Summer/Winter Promotion at Smashwords

For this July, my four books available at Smashwords will be free or discounted.

All you have to do is to go to the book's page, use the coupon, and download the e-Book. Smashwords formats the books for all platforms--e-readers, pads, and computers. Kindle (mobi) format is included.

Here is my Smashwords author page link, a handy portal to all my books. Download coupons are listed at the book sites (SW100 for 100% off and SSW75 for 75% off).

These books are available for free:
I Write: Being & Writing (an introduction to consciousness-based writing & education) Who Listened to Dragons, Three Stories (an intro to the Dragons of Blood & Stone universe) These books are available for 75% off:
  The Stone Dragon   "Tom Kepler uses Glimmer's story to examine the nature of magic, of power, of consciousness, of the grand adventure of becoming."  Love Ya Like a Sister (a young adult novel, called "gritty" by some, where values prevail)
That means that all my books distributed through Smashwords are available either for free or for $1.00.

The sale will last for the entire month of July. You will find many Smashwords authors participate in this summer promotion.

Enjoy! And please review my books. Reviews are the life-blood of an author because of the insights they provide readers.

A Day Out with Mom, Part 4: My Father's 93rd Birthday

Today's day out with Mom was a family outing.

I pushed my brother's wheelchair, and Mom walked beside, one hand on a handle to guide her. My job was to push the wheelchair, ensuring that I didn't crash it or move too close to a wall or step-off on the right, my mother's side. We entered the extended care unit and continued to my father's room, the room too far for my brother to travel with his walker, my mother too blind to find her own way.

It was my father's birthday, and we wondered where the caregivers had parked his wheelchair--in his room, the hallway, or in the dining facility. We found his occupational therapist tucking him back into bed, sheet and blanket up to his chin. Working popping a balloon back and forth had worn Dad out.

His card read, "We love you, Dad, and wanted to spend your 93rd birthday with you. It's good to be together."

I read the card and arrayed Dad's gifts across his chest after showing him them: a green knit shirt from home to match his new pale green plaid lounge pants, cut yellow roses from Dad's plants at home, and a dozen "two-bite" cupcakes.

Dad's mouth trembled and his eyes teared up, something I have rarely seen. My brother had not seen my dad until now, my brother's convalescence being too much for travel. His eyes teared also.

Mom saw none of this, of course, and said, "We've come to all be together on your birthday. If you start eating and get stronger, you can come home."

"No, honey," my dad said, "I'm too much for you to care for now. I'd make you sick if I came home."

Mom patted my dad's hands, and they held hands as we sang "Happy Birthday." Then a caregiver took photos of our family together.

Later as Mom and Dad talked, I looked at the photos on the camera's image screen.

This is Dad's life, I thought: his wife of 67 years, his sons, aged 61 and 59. This is his life, except for my sister, who has gone before.

Then I thought again: No, this is our life. These are the ties that bind, the manner in which the many are stitched together into one. Best I pay attention and learn.

Copyright 2013 by Thomas L. Kepler, all rights reserved

The Effectiveness of a Bad Start: How I Write a First Draft

The idea of a writer sitting down and just writing something out perfectly the first time is a wonderful fantasy. For me, anyway, that's just what it is--a fantasy.

It appears that I am perfecting the art of the lousy first draft--even more, actually: the art of the lousy beginning of the lousy first draft.

What does this mean? I ask myself, and you should feel free to ask yourself this question, too.

The answer that rings true for me is centered in the truism that we not only write to express what we know but also to discover what we know.

Writing is a reflective act that leads us to knowledge that we have not consciously considered. It connects aspects of the world as we see it in new ways, creating something more than what we thought we knew. Any creative act, anything new, taps into that energy that is continually creating the world. That is a limiting statement, though. We do not tap into that source of creativity; we are that creativity.

That's a pretty cosmic statement, so how does that match up with the fact that I appear to be really good as writing lousy beginnings to lousy rough drafts?

I have imagined a piece of writing in its wholeness and then just written it--a few poems, like the contractor pulling out the blueprint and then going at it.

However, writing for me is more a process, a journey, a relationship with an idea and ultimately with myself. I begin the process, start the journey, am open to the relationship, and it expands, unfolds, grows.

I often start a story with an image or an emotion or a vague idea or sense of a reality. Writing the story is as much a discovery for me as it is for the reader.

This is the first draft, of course.

And now I can get to the wonderful experience of writing bad beginnings to failed first drafts. I start and then stop, perhaps pleased at first but then recognizing a better angle or more dynamic character. I start again and, pleased or not, refine or embrace the idea or emotion-- and the story in my head becomes dynamic.

I'm not exactly thinking on paper; I'm doing more because creating is more inclusive, more unifying, more synergistic. The experience itself, at least for me, is worth the effort--there is that much fulfillment within the act of creation itself, never mind the product.

The product is actually a by-product. I find unity within myself and then happen to notice that I've created unity outside myself. If I've done a good enough job during the creating and the drafting and the reflecting--then maybe readers, engaging in the unity of the product, find also greater unity within themselves.

So that's why I am glorifying the wondrous possibility of allowing ourselves as writers--as creators--to experience that rapture of the blank slate, the field of all possibilities, the source of thought--the lousy beginning to a lousy first draft.

To expand ourselves, we must venture into terra incognita. Who knows what lies beyond the boundaries? I can't wait to find out.

Copyright 2013 by Thomas L. Kepler, all rights reserved

A Day Out with Mom, Part 3

Getting ready for her day out"Now you need to fill out these forms over at that counter," the man at the California DMV office tells me. "Your mother can sit and rest while you do that." He has just finished guiding her hand to where she had to sign, first in one place and then another. "This second one has to be tiny," he had said, and then, "Oh, you did just fine."

The process was interrupted a couple of times with squirt gun fights between the state employees who are celebrating the first day of spring with a little water. One woman clerk whispers, asking if Mom wants to squirt the man who's been assisting us. "What? What did she say?" Mom asks. "She's pretty shy," I tell the woman, an easier answer than explaining that by the time I loudly explain the request in Mom's ear, the tactical advantage would be lost. After a couple of other water retaliations between the employees, Mom gets it and says, "It's nice that they can work and have fun."

I lead Mom over to a square of chairs and sit her next to two young women.

"These young ladies will keep you company while I finish up," I tell Mom. "Then you can go home and take a nap."

"A nap!" she says. "I'm hungry. I want tacos."

"Good choice," the young woman next to Mom says with a slight smile. "I had them for dinner last night."

As I leave to fill out the form, I hear my mother say, "My other son fell off the roof and broke his leg. Could've killed him." The young woman leans toward Mom and makes some remark.

Later, our business done, a young man opens the door for Mom. She smiles up at him sweetly as I lead her over the threshold. "Thank you." He smiles back.

"Everyone is so nice here," she says. "And it didn't take us much time at all."

"Yes, the DMV is known for that," I tell Mom.

* * *
On the way home we hit the supermarket again.

As we walk past a wall of small cans, Mom asks, "Do you like tuna fish?"

"Mom, that's cat food."

Laughing, she says, "Your grandfather once got caught eating dog food. 'Lee, that's a can of dog food you're eating,' we said. 'Tastes pretty good.' He was always able to laugh at things like that. You're more like that than your brother and sister, more like me, too, than your dad."

We pass the fresh cakes and cookies section. "How much do these cost?" she asks.

"Mom, remember we're trying to save some money," I tell Mom, although I'm really trying to maintain some continuity in her diet. She's been loading up on her favorites, and sudden changes in diet can affect her her heart medication.

"OOOOO-Kaaaayyyyy," she sighs, accepting completely my suggestion. "We've got enough money for that rabbit food, though," she comments, referring to the kale I've bought to help ensure she gets her vitamin K.

"My dad had rabbits during the depression," she says. "All kinds and colors of rabbits. He raised them and sold them for food to the folks living along the river in tents. He had a sled that was pulled by mules. Sometimes he drove it along the river and gave away extra food from the restaurant. I'd go along." She pauses, remembering. "Those were hard times. When my parents adopted me, someone just dropped me off at their place, and they signed a paper. It wasn't such a big deal back then."

"Do you want to go back and look at the cakes again?" I ask, my resolve disappearing.

"No, that's okay," she says. "I want to be getting on home so you can make those tacos! You're a good cook."

"Thank you, Mom."

I have to admit, for a vegetarian, I am getting pretty good at not over-cooking the ground beef. I include frijoles with the meal for me to use for the taco stuffing. The last time I cooked tacos, Mom looked at the beans and asked, "Didn't you cook any beef?"

"Yes, Mom," I said. "It's almost done."

As I remember her sweetly smiling up at me, I'm not surprised that doors open for Mom and that clerks take all day to help her. It's a nice feeling, helping this kind woman enjoy her years.

Even though her eyes do not see, she does not walk in blindness.

Copyright 2013 by Thomas L. Kepler, all rights reserved