Brodi Ashton's Blog, page 13

Burying Uncle Glendon

The directions to the ranch are as follows:

Once you hit the dirt road, take a right at every fork. If you pass the "Last Chance Ranch", you still haven't gone far enough.

About three hours into the drive, you see this: and this:

And then after you pass the Last Chance Ranch, you hit the Johnson Ranch. 



And that's where we buried Uncle Glendon. A true cowboy.

Glendon Johnson
His brother, my father-in-law, dedicated the grave, paying respect to the extreme power of nature in this part of the world. The man-made structures here can be about as inconsequential as a layer of dust over the landscape, easily wiped out by a strong wind or some other force of nature.

And yet, the Johnson ranch still stands, and will go on as the final resting place for Uncle Glendon, and his two children who preceded him in death, until nature decides otherwise. 

How often, with today's technology, does the title of pallbearer mean physically laboring to lower the casket of a loved one deep into the earth? 

How often do children get the chance to aid in the burial of a beloved elder, while dust suspended in the air clings to the tears on their cheeks? [image error]

How often do we get to cover our hands in the dirt that our loved ones are returned to? Tiny hands filling the empty space, sure of the how, but unsure of the why.

Dust to dust... The old giving way to the new...

It was an unforgettable experience. We'll miss you Uncle Glendon. 

[image error]

Has this Ever Happened to you when you're holding the door open for someone?

You know how you're walking into a building and you can sense someone behind you, and you think to yourself, is that person behind me close enough that I should hold the door open for them?



Because if you think the person sounds like they're just a few yards behind you, you should hold open the door so it doesn't slam in their face. But have you ever held the door open and then looked behind you and the person is like a block away?



And then you're in that awkward position where you're holding the door forever, and the person behind you has to jog, or at least look like they're making an effort to jog because you're sitting there waiting for them to come through the door you're holding open?



And then the person you're waiting for is an elderly person, who has sped up her shuffle walk now that she knows you're waiting, and everyone involved in the situation knows it would be better if you just went inside the stupid building instead of standing there making an old lady get the lead out of the walker, but you can't help but think you'll seem rude if it looks like you're giving up on her by slamming the door in her face (well it would be in her face if she weren't moving at mosey-speed)? And you would never want someone to think you're ageist?



And then five minutes later, after several other people have entered and exited the building, and the old lady (you've since named her Bertha, but only in your mind) has merely halved the distance, and did she just clutch her chest? And did you hear someone say, "Why does she hate old people?"



Yeah. That was my morning. Who's with me?



Anyone?



*self five*



I'm on a road trip today, so if it takes me a while to respond that's why. But I will be reading every comment!

Ask me Anything Day!

Hey y'all. I thought it'd be fun to make this Ask Me Anything Day.

Do you have a question about publishing? Writing? Revising? Hair Dyeing? Ask away in the comments, and I'll answer in the comments. (Novel idea, isn't it?)

And a shout out to the lurkers! Do you read my blog but never comment? Come on over and say "hi"! I will say "hi" back! And nobody will be hurt in the process!

Do you have questions about writing routines? My fondness for Diet Coke? My input on the cover for EVERNEATH? Ask away!

Okay, this should give you lots of ideas for questions to ask. Only, please don't leave me hanging. It would suck to be all, "Ask me anything day!" and then I hit the refresh button on my blog and, like, nobody's out there. That is always my biggest fear in doing this type of post. 

To start us off, I'll take a question from our beloved Question-Maker (who has made a special trip from his home in the space between rainbows and dreams).

QM: Hi Brodi. It's great to be back. So, here's the question I've been dying to ask: Do you ever find yourself questioning that whole "shower once a week" strategy?

me: Bite me, Question-Maker. 

Next!

Seven Easy Steps to Reading a Revision Letter

So, last Friday I got my revision letter for the sequel to Everneath (EVERNEATH 2: IT'S EVERNEATH-IER). This is always a scary time, I think for most writers. Unless you're Stephenie Meyer. She probably writes her own revision letters. Because she can do that. Because she's Stephenie Freakin' Meyer. 

When I know my revision letter is coming, I like to prepare myself. I look in the mirror and say:

"Your editor likes you. She likes your book. She likes your characters. It's not personal."and

"Remember revision letters are just more writing. You like writing."

Then I get all existential:"Remember your book is just a bunch of words. Made up of tiny letters. Which are really just blips on a computer screen. Why are you so attached to blips? What did they ever do for you?"

and then I get personal:

"Seriously, reflection, your hair is, like, white."and then defensive:

"Shut up, mirror-me! The box told me I'd look like Sarah Jessica Parker!"

Then you get the actual letter. I have a process for this that involves seven easy steps. I'm not saying this will work for everyone. I'm just saying it works for me. Seven Steps to Reading a Revision Letter

1. The moment when you get the revision letter, spring back from the computer as if it is rabid. 

This will give you literal space between you and all of your mistakes.

2. Jog a few laps around the kitchen island, shouting old World War II phrases of battle, like: "Mayday Mayday!" and "Tora Tora Tora!" and "Vive l'Empereur !"

This will get your blood flowing, thus getting you ready for the next step, which is...3. Reading the letter.  

Not you, though. You still stay away from the letter. Let someone more responsible, and less prone to hair dyeing mistakes, read the letter. In my case this person is Sam.

4. Have your more responsible half read all of the positive sentences from the letter, and skim over the rest. 

This will sound something like: "Blah blah blah... Oh, she really likes the ending. Blah blah blah blah... oh, she uses the word 'potential' a lot here. Blah blah blah."

5. Print the letter. While it is printing, stand next to the printer with your significant other, counting the pages as they print. Say things like, "It's probably going to be nineteen* pages long!" so that you can be pleasantly surprised when it is shorter.*caution: Aim high because you really don't want to hit that number.

This time, it was seven pages long.

6. Go to dinner, and have your significant other mention briefly some of the highlights of the things your editor wants to change. 

This way, when you read the actual letter, you can already have some ideas as to how to fix things. You can even convince yourself that you were going to fix these things anyway, and her letter just confirms it.

7. Finally, blog about reading the editorial letter before you read the editorial letter. 

Um... check.

I just realized my "Seven Steps to Reading a Revision Letter" program doesn't involve actually reading the letter. So, I guess I should end this post and read it, since I got it three days ago. Unless you don't want me to go.

*eyes unread revision letter on kitchen table*

Cuz I could totally stay. And hang out for a bit. We could talk and stuff.

*imagines revision letter mocking me*

I mean, really. One more day of freedom won't hurt, right?

My Hair Disaster. Do not adjust your Computer Screen.

I don't know if it's the weather.

I don't know if it's hormones.

I don't know if it's an attack of the crazies.

But about once a year, I feel the need. THE NEED. To dye my hair at home.

As Edward is drawn to Bella, I am drawn to the Nice-'N-Easy aisle at the Rite Aid. 

Each time, I say, "This time it will be different. This time it won't be a disaster."

Isn't that the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?

As I went to take a picture for the blog this morning, I was face to face with all of my hair disasters over the years. This is a screen shot of my computer. Take a look at the bottom row of pictures: There's the time I tried to go brunette: But it wasn't "brunette enough" for certain people (Bree Despain).

So I went to Walmart. 30 minutes later, it was this:



Two weeks later, it faded to this: and it settled into a nice greenish dirty blond color. My hair rejected the brunette.

This time around, I tried blond. The first dye job resulted in orange roots.

The second resulted in brassy roots.

Most people would've stopped at that point. Most people are smarter than me.

I tried to compensate by using purple to counteract the brass. The bottom half of my hair turned actual purple. The top half became a bright yellow.

It looked like I had a dead canary on my head. There are no pictures because I cried. I literally bawled my guts out. I woke up the next morning with that sick sinking feeling that you get when you wake up with a dead canary on your head. You know that feeling? Probably not. Because you wouldn't get yourself in this situation.

I went to the store to by some more purple. When I got home, Sam tried to wrestle the box out of my hands. The conversation may have sounded like this:

me: "I have to fix it!"

him: "You've been trying to fix it for 24 hours now!"

me: "But this time will be different!"

him: "Your hair will fall out!"

me: "Better bald that than the Canary-Head!"

I pushed him out and slammed the door shut. Locked it behind me. And like a crack addict who just scored a hit, I greedily tore open the box and laughed maniacally at the mirror. The girl in the mirror showed a lot of teeth, and an entire ring of white around each eye. She was spooky.

Anywho, it only took six dye jobs (no, that is not an exaggeration) to get to this: [image error]  And honestly, the picture doesn't do the purple and yellow streaks justice. 

Enjoy it now. Because it's all about to fall out.

By the way, I originally wanted to dye my own hair so I could save money. 

I spent $60 on hair dye and $30 on deep conditioners. Oh, and $20 on two hats that I plan on wearing for the next few months. 

Here's to frugality! *clink*

Please tell me I'm not the only one who does this. Pretty please.

Thoughts on Tab, Puke, Movies and Pop Tarts (a post brought to you by Sam)

It is October.  It is the Baseball playoffs and using a baseball analogy, I have been called in to relieve Brodi.  You see, last night, Brodi didn't feel very well and only got a couple of hours of sleep.  She should be fine, but now she gets to rest.  



But, about 5am, I hear Kid B - who does not believe much in speaking - calling out to me, 'Daddy, its puke. I puke-y.'  You are right Kid B, you are puke-y all over your bed.  So, it has been a fun morning taking care of him.  He has handled this all without crying, though.  He just keeps telling me 'So-rry, So-rry.'  I inform him that 'Sorry' does not undo the puke-y on the floor...just kidding.  I just give him a hug and tell him that it is OK.  He is a tough kid.  If you have any suggestions on quick fixes to this, I am all ears (I would be all hands as well, but I am too busy cleaning things up).  He actually seems totally fine and hasn't puked since early this morning, so I think we are past the rough stage.







[image error] We saw 'Contagion' a couple of weeks ago.  Let me tell you - when you see that movie and then a week or two later, your boy is sick...you want to pick up the phone and call the President of the United States and yell 'My boy is sick, it is probably a deadly virus and we are all doomed.'  Good movie.  It was awesome in the theater as well.  There was a man that kept clearing his throat thru the whole movie.  Loudly and grossly.  He probably did it ever 3-4 minutes.  And every single time that he did it, all 100 movie watchers would audibly gasp.  Every single one of us thought this guy was killing us with every 'aaacccckkkkk' he let out.  If anything like this movie ever happens, we are locking ourselves in our basement with a HUGE supply of Pop Tarts, Diet Coke, Tab and Twizzlers.  We will wait it out.  On a sidenote - I think that Tab may actually turn out to be the cure all for all diseases and trouble.  Drink Tab and it will basically fix whatever is wrong with you. *This statement has not yet been proven accurate, nor has it been  approved by the FDA.







When I read things, I like the actual thing, not an EReader.  I get two newspapers delivered to our house, every day.  I still get magazines delivered to our house (Business Week, Sports Illustrated, Entertainment Weekly and Consumer Reports).  I still buy books.  With that said, I recently purchased a book on our Kindle.  And I liked it.  I like how it keeps its place as to where I am in reading...I like that it is small and easy to carry around...I like that I can use my phone's Kindle App to read the book as well and it takes me to the last page read, with whichever device I am using...I will still be a book buyer guy as well as a newspaper guy, but I can say that I like the e-reader much more than I thought I would.



Thanks for putting up with this post.  I gotta go check in on Kid B to make sure that the puke-y is really gone and that it aint coming back.[image error]

Four Things on a Monday Morning (With Pictures!)

Four Things!

1. Sam was getting a root canal the other day. I sent him a text to let him know I was going to be in my Zumba class.

Here's what the text said after autocorrect:

I figured this was the best way to break it to him.


2. We love our pop tarts. So much that when Kid B saw them in the store, he brought them to his face and snuggled them against his cheek.

Fighting the waif look one box at a time.
 3. Yesterday my family got together to watch our church's general conference. The men in were captivated.

I can hear better with my eyes closed too.
4. Do kids ever look cuter than when they are on a bridge in the mountains?

They're cute until you realize that Necie (the lone girl) is triumphantly displaying the snake she just killed. Kidding. 


So, how was your weekend?

My Ode to a Body Part... and Why I Don't Have a Future in Poetry

I've had a dilemma in my life. I can either be physically fit... or I can be writer. I haven't figured out a way to do both. 

But I vow here and now that those days are over. I've been doing Zumba (and by "doing" I mean "stumbling over my two left feet and spontaneously clapping) and then I've also been doing Pilates (and by "doing" I mean "watching the people around me work their cores, and marveling at their strength"). Anyway, after a few weeks of this, something strange happened. I went to bed one night, and when I woke up the next morning, I wasn't alone. There was something small and unfamiliar near my stomach region. 

I ran to the bathroom mirror to find this:

Objects in mirror are less defined than they appear. Also, objects in picture are not my abs. They are a representation. To picture my abs, take this picture, add seven layers of fat and then subtract the hip dents.


That's right. The stranger in my bed was a stomach muscle. (Okay, there's a sentence I never thought I'd type).

I was so excited, I had to write about it.

So here is my ode to my stomach muscle.

ODE TO MY STOMACH MUSCLE (I'm not really creative with titles)

Oh stomach muscle.Little stomach muscle.You are so littleYou are more like a chicken nugget taped to my belly

Are you so lonelystuck on my tummy with no otherstomach muscles to keep you company?

Are you so coldwithout that warm layer of fatthat for so many years cushioned youfrom the harsh elements of the world?

I will keep you warm I will cover you in t-shirts and cardigans and Spanx I will keep you companyI will cradle youand love youI won't jar you or jerk you around and we will sit on the couchand watch moviesand read booksand we will never have to go outand... wait. Stomach muscle? Where did you go?Crap! Stomach muscle?

The only problem is that my stomach muscle is not a loyal friend. If he is neglected, or unappreciated, he will disappear on me, without a word. 

What about you? Anyone out there sit in a chair for a living? What do you do?

And... what are you up to this weekend? Anything fun? Will you be writing poems about body parts? [image error]

Top Five Signs you have a Book Coming out in Three Months

Hey y'all. I thought I'd start this Wednesday off with a list. Because that's what I like to do. 



Top Five Signs you have a book coming out in three months:

5. You wander around the house, making declarations (in passive voice) of all the things you are NOT going to do.

ex: 

"Hair shall henceforth be air-dried, and no amount of forthwithing will entice me to useth the flat-iron."

and

"Dinner shall forthwith be microwave-worthy, or it shall not be."

(Then your hubby answers: "It shall not be... what?" and you answer back: "It shall not be... made. At all. Or stuff.")

4. When you venture out of the house and into the sun, you flatten the palms of your hand against your eyes and dramatically shout, "It burns! It burrrrrnnnnnns!"

3. Casual conversations become critiques of your book. 

Neighbor: "Are you going to the pig roast on Friday?"

you: "How come nobody understands the strength of Nikki and Jack's love?!"

Neighbor: "Huh?" you (thinking it was a logical train of thought): "You mentioned pigs, right?"

Neighbor: "Yeah?"

you (realizing logic is probably something you never had): "Nevermind."

2.You bemoan the fact that the New Years Holiday is encroaching on your launch date. Thankfully, you have an agent who reminds you launch dates are like birthdays: Except for the participant, nobody really notices them.

And the number one sign you have a book coming out in three months:

You make stupid lists like you're David Frakking Letterman.

The Tomato that Launched a Thousand Accusations

Hello, y'all. 

I wrote you a song. To be sung to the tune of "Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall":

Ninety-nine days til my book comes outNinety-nine days left to goIf only each day didn't feel like a year,I'd still be sane by January 3rd. 

Sing it loud! Sing it pretty!

If you're looking for a way to pass the time, you can enter the Goodreads massive EVERNEATH giveaway here.

So I have a friend who keeps me in tomatoes. About every other day, she brings me a bowl full of these beauties:

The bowl is usually full, but I ate them before I took the picture


Today, as I was sitting at the computer snacking on these little beauties, Sam was wandering around the kitchen, getting ready to leave for work.

We were talking about random stuff. He crouched down, presumably to pick up some crumbs off the floor, then he ran something under the sink. He walked over to me, asked me a question, and nonchalantly put a tomato into the bowl. 

me: "Did you just sneak a tomato into the bowl?"

Sam (looking guilty): "No."

me: "I saw you." Pauses as realization hits. "You picked up a tomato off the floor... and tried to sneak it back into the bowl!"

Sam (caught in the act): "I washed it off first."

me: "I doesn't matter!" Digs the offending tomato out of the bowl. "You tried to trick me into eating a tomato off the ground!"

I handed him the tomato. 

Sam: "I knew you wouldn't eat it if you saw it, even though it's totally clean because I washed it."

me: "I would've eaten it, if you hadn't been so sneaky about it. It's not the fact that it was on the floor. It's the deception involved."

Sam: "You know tomatoes are covered in dirt from the outdoors before they hit your mouth, right?"

me: "Yes. But outside dirt is much cleaner than inside dirt."

sam: "So, you wouldn't have eaten it!"

me: "Shut up."

This is what comes after thirteen years of marriage. I knew he would never want a tomato to go to waste, and he knew I'd never eat one off the floor. Some people would think it's boring to know everything about your partner, but on the contrary... this morning it was very exciting. Passersby stopped to listen, hands cupped to ears, wondering about the fate of the offending tomato.

Accusations were thrown. Punches were not. But they were contemplated. 



So, how well do you know me? I love these tomatoes more than anything. When I finished off the entire bowl, and I wanted more, did I eat the offending tomato?