Happy Halloween

Have we lost sight of the true meaning of the holiday?

In The Know: Has Halloween Become Overcommercialized?

Of those we don't speak of . . .

Well, my flu never materialized. It turns out it's just the fall. I should have known. Every single year, about the second week in October, I pick up a bizarre cold. I can tell you why . . . but you'll have to lean in close. Make sure no one is listening and I'll tell you of those who's names we do not dare speak . . .

If you were to drive a few hours south of Salt Lake you would come to a beautiful valley frozen in time. My town sits right in the center. You can still go to the hardware store, pick up what you need, and say to Carl, the owner, as you're walking out the door, "Put it on my tab."

A Friday night out means old fashioned hamburgers and huge shakes at the Malt Shop where you'll exchange small talk about getting a third cut of hay and shake your head in disgust at your cousin who just spent half his operating loan on a new Kubota tractor. You call the neighbors when their chickens are out, and you slow for sheep on the highway . . . but never come to a full stop.

You know it's time to transplant when the flax blooms and time to cover the tomato plants when the cows come home. You sit on the back porch in September and listen to the elk call, naming the gender, age and approximate weight of the animal. When someone dies, the whole community attends the viewing because you likely lost an aunt, uncle, cousin or grandparent. Everybody is related to everybody else—three generations back—and if you're not, live here long enough and you'll be adopted. You rake the neighbors leaves, attend the local halloween carnival—the hottest ticket in town— and decorate your ATV and trailer in miniature lights for the Christmas Night Parade.

Under no circumstances, though, do you ever speak of them—the ones that disappear every fall.

Their eyes peer out of squat steel sheds, with only the faint glow of heat lamps cutting through the darkness, reminding you of the ugly truth hidden inside. They cower behind great barbed-wire walls—straight out of a post-apocalyptic-distopian death camp. No one speaks of the camps. Not at community parties or the homecoming game. No one speaks of the millions slaughtered every year.

Why? Because without their sacrifice how would the cities celebrate gratitude, freedom and family?

Only we in the heartland bear the secret. Only we know the truth—when we're left with only silence. And feathers. Oh the feathers. Always drifting across the road. We never speak of where the turkeys go—not without shuttering our windows and locking the doors.

For my countrymen, fall brings joyful reminders of how much they are thankful for. But for our small town it's only a bitter reminder that eventually we all go the way of the birds.

For more holiday atrocities click hear and see the gruesome images of our family pumpkin harvest.

In Too Deep- Music Monday

Well, I think this song pretty much sums up my life.

In Too Deep- Sum 41

The band members of Sum 41 look so much like the guys I hung out with in high school I had to laugh out loud. My peeps might not have been the buffest guys in school but they were definitely the most entertaining.

I know I promised to take a break from all things blogger for a while but I had to share a very brief acronym I heard yesterday. It couldn't have come at a better time for me.

HIT CSA

What? You don't know what that means?

Well, according to Patricia Pinegar— who made awesome tee shirts for all of her children and grandchildren—it means:

Hang In There . . . Cool Stuff Ahead.

Now go find a crazy speedo and stop trying so hard to be normal. :)

And if that image doesn't motivate you to be yourself and stop worrying about outside expectations maybe this video will seal the deal.

Running to Vegas

I'm back from the Las Vegas Ragnar Relay. It was a lot of fun. I don't think I've laughed that hard in a very long time.

It made me realize a few things.

First, when the hotel clerk at the Virgin River asks if it's okay to stay in a Pet Friendly room, say no.

Second, don't be afraid to be foolish.

Make mistakes.

Don't worry about what people think.

Third, if you can't run like a track star,

run anyway.

You never know what tomorrow might bring

so don't waste the chance to stretch your legs.

Also, to the family of the runner who was killed this weekend by the hit and run driver, you are in my prayers.

We were just a little ahead so we didn't see the accident but we heard the sirens. The race changed for us after that point. He was on the shoulder of the road when he was struck. It could have been any one of us. Heart breaking for all of us.

Maybe it's not so bad to be a cow.

My friend Ali posted this on her blog and I'm stealing it.

There is nothing I can say about this video. It speaks for itself.

Except . . . I want to be this kind of writer.

Not the udder kind.

*Cough, cough*

Libba Bray rules!!

Happy Tuesday.

It's Finished!!!

I just finished revisions on my Book. Huzzah! Can you celebrate with me? No really. Get out of your chair and do a happy dance.

Even though this was technically my second draft, I basically rewrote the entire book. Twice. You should see my outtakes file. It's got a higher word count than my book. Guess I'm not one of those writers that pounds out a book in three months. I must be the other kind of writer, the one that actually has to work. Bummer.

Well for the most part, I'm pleased with my book.

Oh alright, I'm more than pleased but I'm a little superstitious so I don't want to say too much. Don't want to get too excited too soon. *throws salt over shoulder, knocks on wood and runs like a mad woman from approaching black cat*

I would still like to play with my last five chapters. I know I can make them much, much better but I think I need to take a few days and reflect, pat myself on the back, take a nap and do a happy dance. (Elaine dances so much like me it's scary.)

Because I know that I'm not finished with this very long process. But I am much closer now than I was yesterday and that makes me smile.

Busy, busy, busy . . .

I haven't actively written for the last few weeks. Sorry. I know you've all seen through my veiled attempts to keep things active by posting pictures and videos. But it's only because I've been swamped.

I am working my little tail off on my edits. Okay, I'm probably working too hard. It's just so difficult to make the words work. The plot needs to be water-tight, the prose needs to stay true to the protagonists voice, the characters need to be three dimensional, the setting needs to be the perfect blend of camp, pulp and realism to make me smile. Oh yes, we can't forget the "to be" verbs. Can't have too many of those. Must keep the story active. Show don't tell. That's the motto.

Yeah, those are fun edits to fix. (I'm dripping with sarcasm here.)

Anywho,

I've been busy. Muy, muy busy. In the most productive way. My book is coming along quite nicely. I have to say. Maybe no one else will like it quite as much as I do. Maybe no one else will like it at all. Frankly, I don't really care. I have fought to keep this story my own. If I love it, I will be satisfied. No matter the outcome. Wow, am I one tough cookie to please, though.

Maybe that's not a good thing. I don't know. It is what it is.

I just keep plugging along. In the mean time life goes on. School starts next week. I start a new semester with new students and speeches and faculty meetings. Fall yard projects need to be completed. The bathroom in the basement needs to be painted before we install the cabinets and the list goes on and on and on.

What I wouldn't give for a carbon copy of myself . . .or at least a maid and a gardener. I can't add cook to the list because cooking brings me as much joy as writing. So does gardening actually, but it sure would be nice to have somebody help me with the weeding.

I could get discouraged here, it's Thursday night and I'm a week behind schedule. Because I act all persnickety over the last ten chapters of revisions while the red hot noise for my work at the beginning of the summer has cooled to complete silence. But I won't. It's counter productive.

The only thing I can do is write on. And if it takes me Tolkien time to edit this book to my pleasing, so be it. Cause it's got my name on the first page and that's saying something.