The first Bedlam Farm was one beautiful and self-contained world, close to a small town yet apart from it, with its rolling hills, beautiful old barns and wonderful porches and views. The new Bedlam Farm is different, it is really in the middle of two worlds, and this view, from a neighbor’s pasture just to the South, captures this duality. To the front, a state road, busy much of the time, to the north, small houses and farms, to the South and the rear, big open spaces, woods and pastures. Behind the farmhouse, 17 quiet and beautiful acres of woods. A few miles down the road, a wonderful town with a bookstore, food Co-Op, arts center, restaurant and hardware store. We live on the edge of two worlds, and we are richer for it. Not as pastoral as the Mother Ship, nor, perhaps as beautiful. But the right place for us at the right time.
We are happy here. We wish for Bedlam Farm to find it’s lover, and we know it will. In the meantime, we live happily on the edge of these two worlds, a front and a back.
I passed a milestone in my digital and creative world today – sometime after four p.m., I got a bunch of e-mails pointing out that I had passed the 10, 000 “like” mark on Facebook. Isn’t it curious how this idea of being “liked” has entered the popular vocabulary and imagination. I went to look at 5 p.m., and it said I had 1001 likes. Is this important? Does it matter? A few years ago I would have scoffed at the idea that “likes” on Facebook would matter to me, but they do matter, and they are important, if not always in the way people think. 10,000 likes is a big deal. I appreciate it.
A Facebook “like” is a vote, an affirmation. It says a user appreciates the page and the content. It doesn’t necessarily mean the user will subscribe to all of the content, but it is now a significant benchmark of whether a page has a significant enough following to be taken seriously. A “like” is only one way for Facebook users to engage. Many read without “liking,” others see the site in a way that is shared or linked.
Facebook and Google have become skilled at spotting algorithmic software programs that inflate likes. When the number of “likes” rises, Facebook make elements in the page available to more potential users. In marketing terms, “likes” are only one of the ways in which a viable site is measured (check out this useful piece from the online media site “Convince&Convert.” “Likes” are only one measure. “Shares” are another, and so are literal engagements – traffic on apps, purchases through the site, and comments. Facebook is complicated. When a user “likes” a page, he or she is expressing an intent to subscribe to at least some of the content, but only a small percentage of “likers” actually see all of the content every day. “Liking” a page is not the same thing as subscribing to everything on it, that depends on individual preferences and Facebook software. For the Facebook algorithm, “liking” a page carries weight, but not as much as comments and other interactions that pass through the page. That shows what marketers call direct engagement.
The readers on my site are active and engaged. And they comment quite a bit.
The number of “likes” is especially valuable to a writer like me. My publishers pays close attention to likes, because it provides my work a dedicated and substantial audience. In publishing, it is generally argued that a writer needs between 40 and 50 thousand likes to sell a lot of books. One or two thousand “likes” are considered impressive. Marketers generally say a business needs at least 300 likes to be viable on Facebook.
Interestingly, and this is why “likes” are important, people who “like” a site are more than 300 times as likely to buy something – let’s say a book – from the creator of the page. They do, in fact, see themselves as joining a community they wish to be part of. Approximately 33 per cent of social network users knowingly follow brands, products, (books) or services on social networks. So “likes” are a critical factor in building an audience willing to follow one’s product or work. Or make contributions to the maintenance of a site. I was reluctant to permit contributions, but it turns out to be a strong move for the blog and Facebook page despite my hesitation. I see from the contributions that people appreciate, rather than resent, the opportunity to support something they like as long as the process is restrained and the site remains free and accessible. I didn’t know that.
For the writer, this business of “likes” – we used to only worry about reviews – has become critical. Traditional media outlets like magazines, newspapers and commercial TV are weakening all the time, so it is difficult for publishers to make people aware of a writer’s work. And sites like Amazon are flood with cheap and free books that compete with mine, so it is difficult to stand out there.Facebook – and the blog – are a new and increasingly important way for me to find my readers and talk with them. They are talking back.
The growth of my Facebook page has been remarkable. My blog has been in existence since 2007 but my Facebook page is a little more than two years old. Eighteen months ago, there were less than 5,000 likes. At this rate, I will make it to 40,000 or so likes in a couple of years or sooner, if there is some new and dramatic publicity about my work or if something I write goes viral.
So I’m not turning up my nose at these “likes.” Each one is a vote for me and my work, and many have stayed with me to form a community that has become well-informed about me, cohesive in its interest in animals and spirituality and the other topics I write about. I will continue working to grow this community. It is good for business, sure, but it has been even better for my personal growth and creativity. Thanks for the “likes.” And the contributions. I will continue to try and earn both.
It was up to 5 degrees around ll a.m. this morning and I looked out of the front door and there was Flo, my new pal, looking up at me. I went outside and she seemed to be complaining to me, I suspect because she wouldn’t mind coming in the house. Maria and I have reversed roles a bit, as we have a habit of doing. No way Flo is coming into the house, she says. We have three dogs inside, she is perfectly find in her hay and blanket nest up in the woodshed, and if any cat is coming into the house, she added, it ought to be Minnie, not Flo. Maria says Flo has figured me out and turned me into a cat lover. We have been cuddling a bit lately, and I do feel close to this cat, who has been hiding out on the farm but months but it is now an open and official member of the community.
She is just right for me, not too slithery or clingy, but affectionate and I am in awe of the way she staked out the farm, put the dogs in their places and won me over me. I am much more of a dog person than a cat person. Mother has been gone for two months now, and I have never expected her to return or show up at Bedlam Farm. I suspect she has done what Flo just did – staked out some other place and moved in.
I like her style. She had swatted each of our dogs squarely on the nose and they are given her no grief and a wide berth. I agree with Maria that we don’t need any more animals living in the house. I also believe that barn cats – especially those who get their shots and are fed every day, as ours are – live good and healthy lives. They stay away from the road, have lots of dry and protected spots in and around the barns, and get plenty of attention to boot.
I suppose I could be worked on a bit and let Flo into the house every now and then, but Maria is holding firm. The barn cats are fine. I can’t disagree with it, but I also get a chuckle as she becomes the hard-ass and me the squish. It fits, I guess. I respect the life of the barn cat, and I don’t (usually) project my own emotions onto it. Barn cats face some dangers but if they are at least partially cared for – Flo goes to the vet for the rest of her shots today – they can live their lives fully and independently. I respect that. But you can’t blame Flo for trying.
In the night, out sight, beyond consciousness, in the bitter cold, someone, something paints the window, something to remind us that we are small and our worries and troubles are trifling, that there are forces in our lives so much more powerful, more enchanting, more timeless than we are. Mother Earth has her own art gallery, and it creates continuously, magnificently, eternally. I woke to this painting on my window, just before dawn.
Artists and writers sometimes drift into arrogance, believing they have created notions of light and design that touch and inspire people. Once in awhile I am reminded that we are all copycats, mimics, poseurs really, nature is the true artists, and can create ideas, designs, inspirations – light itself and color – far beyond the imagination of simple human beings. Jack Frost is an old cliche, an old idea, a sappy one in some ways, yet when I woke up this morning I had the sense a true artist had slipped into the bedroom and graced my windows with something you could not buy or duplicate or imagine.
