Yes, we do Kayak.

Jeff and I never go anywhere, because in our giant black mafia van we get around 14 miles per gallon if we're lucky. So any trip anywhere's going to cost roughly the same amount it would take to bring our family to the local waterpark. So we might as well go there, right?

It actually makes me ache inside. I love taking trips. I love nature. I love hiking and outdoorsy stuff. So when family or friends come to visit, I tend to push to go do stuff. It's an excuse... we need to show them around, right? And it's even better when Uncle Anthony and Aunt Jessica come, because they're the same way. They love adventure and the outdoors! SO yesterday, we spent the whole entire day going places and seeing things and doing things. It was wonderful.

And I am exhausted.

My kids looking down into amazingly clear water which springs out of the ground--the origin of the river that runs through our town. There are some magnificent trout there. Not for fishing however, just for looking.

I admit I tasted some. The most delicious water I have tasted, I think. I was tempted to fill my waterbottle, but I think that's probably illegal.

And here's how we felt by the end of the day:

We have a winner!

Thank you all for tweeting and liking my book, Lightning Tree! For those of you who didn't win, take heart. I will be doing other giveaways, and I'm keeping your names in the pot for next time. But today's winner is...


Michal Asay! Thank you, Michael! Email me, please, at thedunsters at gmail dot com and we'll arrange delivery.

You all are awesome!

The right way to fall apart

Primarily this has been a venting blog. When I started it in 2005, that's what I called it. I had in big, bold letters across: Warning. This is a venting blog. I took it down soon after when I realized that it was a pretty cheesy thing to put on a blog header and that all blogs (or at least, back then, when blogging first started, and they were all more like online journals instead of family scrapbooks or promotional fronts for business) were venting blogs.

I have avoided this blog for a while I think partly because now my family reads my stuff :) Nobody read this blog for a long time. Also, I'm a published author. How much of my personal life/feelings do I really want the world to pay attention to?

I've realized lately that I just need to keep being myself. If people find that odd or unprofessional, that's something I've decided not to worry about.

My challenges have been hard ones to get through. I went through a really terrible and frightening situation when I was a young adult, which left me a single parent, scrambling to manage being a full-time employee, full time parent, preparing frenetically and ambitiously for the future. I did not think very much at the time... I just did stuff. Hard stuff. And I was constantly on the edge. My head was so full of worries and impending problems I couldn't solve that I just had to pray a lot, not think... just do.

Then I met Jeff and we got married, and life seemed (and was, and is) miraculously wonderful. How strange and miraculous to have someone who really thought I was a good person. Who really loved me. Who supported me. Not something I've had a lot of in my life.

Together, Jeff and I weathered a lot of (now that I look back on them) very difficult challenges. We blended a family--twice. We went through getting him through school and underemployment, and unemployment. We went through a long, stressful, arduous process (both emotionally and financially) to bring two daughters home from Ethiopia. We went through Jeff having a difficult, not-very-rewarding-or-encouraging work situation.

And then we moved. Picked up roots and started over. Started a new job that was so much better but also very stressful because of more responsibility and visibility. We rented for several months while looking for a house--the first time we've done that. It's not as fun as you think it will be. We moved, and adjusted--it takes me about six months to not be horrified at any big change in my life--

and then life slowed down for us, finally. About a year ago we looked around, looked at each other and realized, "wow. Is this what it feels like to have a normal level of stress?"

And I promptly fell apart.

OK, I don't mean dysfunctional falling apart, like not being a good wife or mom or author or church member or whatever. BUt it's like Heavenly Father was keeping all these feelings and stress I've had sort of harboring somewhere in the deep freeze of my subconscious, and then He allowed everything to thaw.

My whole life, people have expected me to be strong, and capable, and independent. When I went through all the stuff with my previous marriage, my bishop was like "she's doing great." My parents were like "Sarah's so strong." My friends were like "Wow, your'e so awesome." But what was really going on was, Heavenly Father was helping me stay together by having me not deal with it all just yet.

How do you fall apart gracefully? How do you do it compassionately and charitably, so you don't hurt others around you with your emotional difficulty? How do you examine and challenge ugly, ugly feelings and worries and irrational thoughts and frightened, distorted realities while keeping the world safe for your children?

I have seen people fall apart in lots of ways. I worked at a residential treatment facility for two years. I've seen all sorts of destructive ways to fall apart.

But the thing is, those people get the attention they need when they collapse so spectacularly. It is a lot harder to just walk up to someone (say your bishop, or a therapist, or someone like that) and say, "hey. I'm really struggling. I need help," and have them believe you when you're saying it so rationally. And calmly.

How do you ask for help?

Lately, I have felt a bit of resentment toward those around me who are "falling apart" destructively but get so much attention for it. I want yell, "Hey, it's really, really hard for me, too! BUt i'm not doing these destructive things! Does that make me less worthy of nurturing, of being given slack, of the benefit of the doubt? Does it make me less likeable, that I'm trying to do it *right?*"

And then the other day, I was lying in bed with Jeff and we were watching Buffy or something else fun and I realized something. I looked up at our 10-foot ceiling, out our balcony window at our five acres of land, and I suddenly remembered how very, very, very blessed I've been.

Heavenly Father is aware of me. He is nurturing me. He has seen the difficulty Jeff & I have dealt with and he's lightened our load, given us miracles, given us everything we could possibly want. We have been blessed for falling apart, and putting ourselves back together, gracefully.

In the end, I really am very independent. I don't want people fawning all over me or discussing me in ward counsel or acting all solicitous and worried. What I want are a few good, supportive friends. People I can love who love me back, who understand, who can handle the good, bad & ugly and love me more for it. And who will give me a chance to do the same for them. And this last year, Heavenly Father has blessed me with this as well. Jeff has become one of those people. He was before, but not entirely, because I wasn't in that place yet. Now he is. And I've made some friends who are, actually, more family than friends. I find that blessing far more precious than any other I've been given.

I'm doing my best. It's really hard. I'm tempted to do so many stupid things. I don't have fifty people patting me on the back for it not doing them. But I have realized I only need a few, the ones who matter. And I have those. And people who might judge me or think I should be doing more or doing things better--in the end, Heavenly Father knows my heart and he's the one who matters.

But I still wonder lately--what's the right way to fall apart?

A question for you readers.

Lightning Tree Giveaway :)

OK. I have good news for whichever of y'all haven't had the opportunity to read my novel, Lightning Tree, either because you don't have money for books (which I understand) or you tried to check it out of the library and there was a giant long waiting list you just didn't have time to worry about:

I'm giving away a copy FREE.
And guess what? Not that many people are going to know about this, because this is the first giveaway I have ever done. So you have a great chance of getting a free copy. Here's the plan. You have the chance of getting your name entered into the pot 5 times. You can get an entry for doing each of these things:

1) Share Lightning Tree on twitter.

2) Share Lightning Tree on facebook.

3) Like the Lightning Tree Facebook Page.

4) Like Lightning Tree on Goodreads.

5) Share and like my book trailer.

Once you've done one or more of these things, leave me a comment letting me know how many entries you get. Next Monday I'll do a drawing (or if I get a lot of entries, I'll use a web device that randomizes & chooses) and announce who won. And you'll get a free (signed, if you want) copy of my book! If you win and you have a copy already, you'll have one to give as a gift. And if you've done any of these things already, let me know in the comments, because it counts!

Thank you guys! Excited to see who wins! If I get a ton of entries, I'll give away two free copies just to keep the chances good :)

A Photo Essay to Catch you all Up.

I have been a terrible blogger.

I have made promises and reneged on promises.

But anyway. Just so you know, my heart's still in it. LIfe has just caught up with me. To Life! Le-Something!

Rather than try and TELL you everything I've been doing lately (if you are not my facebook friend and already know) (Dave) I will create a photo essay. A picture's worth a thousand words and I think I owe you followers of my blog approximately... several thousand. At least.

There. That should hold you for a while, right? Putz?

If you have any questions (and I don't blame you if you do) comment & I will answer.

My Guilty Collection

I have a secret.

Sabrina's hand tightened about her coffee cup, and she was pierced by the love and pain she could not express for her patient... so proud and obstinate, and caged within his yearning for the girl whom he knew to be so wrong for him.

OK, lots of secrets. Or no secrets. One or the other.

She saw the proud nostrils expand as he took a deep breath.

Anyway, one of my remaining secrets is my guilty addiction. Before I reveal this deep dark secret of mine, guys, you must promise first that you will not judge me. Like many addictions, mine developed during a dark period of my life. That dark period of everyone's life, when you worry all the time about how you look (and to be honest, you do look pretty gawky, particularly because you refuse to shave your legs just yet and insist on wearing knee-length shorts to school anyway, and think that the best hairstyle in the world is to braid your wet locks, then un-braid them the next morning so your hair is crunchy electric waves standing out from your face, and you just learned how to use Sculpie and you've sculpted dozens of pairs of dangly, awkward earrings that almost match the overly large T-shirts you wear in order to hide the fact that you are suddenly wearing training bras).

The dark Saint-Sarnes are cursed in our family. They never find lasting happiness. There was another who in the Great War was injured on the Flanders battlefield. He had married while on leave... when he returned home badly disfigured the girl ran screaming from his bedside.

I remember my adolescence mostly in books. I'd read new ones every once in a while but mostly I stuck with my favorite series. I'd cycle between Laura Ingalls Wilder, L.M. Montgomery, Beverly Cleary, Lloyd Alexander, Robyn McKinley, Joan Aiken, L. Frank Baum, Cynthia Voigt, Judy Blume, and (yes I admit it) Ann M. Martin and Carolyn Keene. (andfrancinepascal. Full confessions here. k.)We read classics in English. And later, I learned to love Babara Kingsolver and Jane Austen and other authors with more redeeming value. But I'll admit it... I love myself a good thriller. A good, well-written serial mystery. Elizabeth Peters/Barbara Michaels is my favorite. The adult version of fiction written for pure entertainment value, but still intelligently written.

His kiss had ripped open the heavens for her... his words plunged her into despair.

I'm not doing a very good job confessing. Sorry. The thing is, alongside more redeeming classics, and less redeeming but still not-badly-written commercial fiction, I have a hidden, competely unwholesome, glee-filled attraction to...

Hers was a face Renoir could have painted, but she didn't know. Dashing young doctors had found her plain and dedicated. Male patients had not found her the sort they could flirt with. Only children had ever loved her.


Harlequin Romances.

You're gasping in horror. I can hear it. Either that, or raising an eyebrow slightly and shaking your head. OK, you must understand. We're not talking about the Harlequins of today. Or even thirty years ago. The ones with all the sex and infidelity and ugh? No. I'm talking about these babies.


50's, 60's to mid-70's (and if you're really lucky, 30's and 40's) era Harlequins. With the red pages. No sex. Well, maybe a bit of necking.

'Nice girls always make it difficult for a man to be kind,' he growled. 'Being chaste they immediately assume they are being chased. Like Gaul they are divided into thorns and sweet meadows, and Lord help the man who blunders among the thorns.'

My introduction to these little gems occurred when my best friend Lavinia, who was also a book lover, went with me to a flea market. One of the items for sale was a large cardboard box filled with Dozens of harlequins. Dozens of books? For only a dollar? It was obvious this was the best deal on the planet. We bought them and came through the front door exclaiming over the excellent bargain we'd made. Lavinia's mother forced a smile, told us how "nice" it was, and then took her aside and talked to her about how they were dangerous books, not the best to read, and she had a choice but she really should just throw them in the trash. *My* mother looked at my half of the booty (unintentional pun, sorry) when I got home and laughed. "Those are really silly books," she said. "But you can read them if you want." she then proceeded to go through the box with me, skimmed the titles and publish dates, took out several that she deemed "innappropriate" and let me have at it.

'You're a darned little prude for a nurse!' with a touch of anger he pulled her against him and sank his fingers into her hair.

I loved them. Back then, it was about travel to far places and learning about romance and enjoying a brainless fairytale. And yes... on occasion there were romantic scenes that set my heart pounding a bit faster and my imagination going. What would it be like to be crushed up against a man's chest and kissed until your lips were bruised? My fourteen year old mind couldn't quite fathom it, but knew there was something exciting about it.

Tiny sparks of green fire gleamed in Nadi's eyes as she came to his side, followed by the laden tray.

As I grew up, these stories became more and more obviously fake, however. I will forever be grateful to my mother for her reaction when I came in the door that day. The laugh. The warning that they were "silly." In a way, that was the best insulation from unrealistic expectations in relationships that I could have received. Because as I grew older, and developed relationships, a few of them romantic, and as I really began to travel and form opinions and see what was real around me, I very clearly saw the silliness in these shallow, formulaic, stories, and the hilarity in these one-dimensional, improbable heroes and heroines.

When she walked into the room, she was like an oil painting in a room full of watercolors.

But I still read them, and I still love them. I could explain why, but oh, you won't understand. It's a combination of my weird sense of humor, a fascination with history and how people lived in the past, women's issues, feminism, human relationships and how people perceive them over time, the way Idealized Womanhood was perceived....

"You have ears like a hawk!" Exclaimed Mrs. Saint-Sarne.

And of course, there are the one liners. The ridiculous titles. The awkward, doe-eyed portraits often with strange and incongruent backgrounds. The improbable plots.
"I like games of chance, Sabrina, but I don't like the trick played on me, that I should get trapped like a silly pup in those absurdly large eyes of yours! I could break you on this rail... come on, say it! Say you love Black Douglas! Admit it to me and I'll let you go!"

Really, the only sort of understanding I could give you is a sampling. Which I have done. Old Harlequins have been a source of comedic entertainment and bonding for the female members of my family. We collect them. We pass them around. We gleefully read passages aloud to each other. We choke with laughter over titles and pictures when we open a stack of harlequins on Christmas morning.

The best one so far (a gift from me to my mother last christmas):



I challenge you to ever find something that awesome in your stocking.

(quotations taken mostly from Black Douglas by Violet Winspear, published 1971. A childhood favorite that the dogs eventually ate, but which I found, to my utter delight, in a local book thrift store, just recently. Sorry, I'm not lending out my copy. I know you're pretty disappointed.)

Writing the Dark Stuff

As some who've read Lightning Tree know, I write about controversial issues in LDS history, but I have worked hard to keep my storytelling about the main story--about the journey my main character takes, and if historical events come into play they come through the eyes of my character, and they are relevant only in how they affect my character. In Lightning Tree, Maggie, my main character, was a child when the Mountain Meadows Massacre happened. At the time, it was not a topic discussed openly among those who she would have known and associated with. I don't portray it specifically except in her dreams and flashbacks, which reflect her worries about Pa Alden, who *was* involved with Mountain Meadows--how much, she doesn't know until the story is nearly done.

(This article orginally appears on my professional writing blog... if you're interested in reading more go here. (bratty of me, I know.) :)