# Clint Betts
> Letters, notes, and short stories.
Public Ghost content for AI and LLM tooling. This file includes a bounded export of public pages first, then recent public posts.
Append `.md` to any post or page URL to get the content in Markdown (for example, `/example-post.md`).
## Pages
### About Clint Betts
URL: https://clintbetts.com/about/
Last updated: 2026-09-19T21:00:30.000Z
Clint Betts is Utahn. He grew up in Spanish Fork, Utah. 84660.

He's the CEO of [Silicon Slopes](https://www.siliconslopes.com/?ref=clintbetts.com), the nonprofit that serves Utah's technology and startup community. He's also the CEO and co-founder of [CEO.com](https://www.ceo.com/?ref=clintbetts.com) and the publisher of [Utahn](https://utahn.com/?ref=clintbetts.com).

He lives in Utah with his wife and four kids.
### Home Hero
URL: https://clintbetts.com/home-hero/
Last updated: 2026-10-07T00:44:59.000Z
# Chance Nation

Giving Chances, Taking Chances, and Building Community in an Age Starved for Meaning

[Explore The Book](https://clintbetts.com/chance)
### Opening Chapters
URL: https://clintbetts.com/home-chapters/
Last updated: 2026-10-07T00:45:21.000Z
_No content available._
### Subscribe
URL: https://clintbetts.com/subscribe/
Last updated: 2026-10-07T00:45:36.000Z
## Where Clint's writing lives

- ***Chance Nation*, chapter by chapter.** *Read the book as it's written, with previews and excerpts long before it reaches print.*
- **Every letter, note, and story.** *Clint's writing lives here first, from finished pieces to the ones he's still turning over.*
- **The work behind the work.** *The ideas, books, and projects taking shape, and where they might be headed.*
### Writing
URL: https://clintbetts.com/writing/
Last updated: 2026-09-17T20:30:30.000Z
_No content available._
### Newsletter
URL: https://clintbetts.com/newsletter/
Last updated: 2026-10-07T00:46:10.000Z
Letters, notes, and short stories. Sent when there's something worth sending rather than on a schedule.  
  
Right now, that includes *Chance Nation*, the book Clint's writing on community and the chances we take on ourselves and others. Subscribers read it as it's written, chapter by chapter.
## Posts
### Chapter 2
URL: https://clintbetts.com/chance-nation/chapter-2/
Last updated: 2026-10-10T23:26:09.000Z
Coming soon.
### To Give a Chance Is Love
URL: https://clintbetts.com/chance-nation/chapter-1/
Last updated: 2026-10-10T23:41:03.000Z
I've always had a complicated relationship with chance. I spent the first years of my life in foster care and, after adoption, lived my adolescence in constant fear of being abandoned once more. I was angry at my biological parents for giving me up. Angry at myself for not being worth keeping around.

I'm from Spanish Fork, Utah. 84660\. It's where I was dropped off the day I was adopted. It's where I grew up. Back then, the streets were tractor-churned — a highfalutin way of saying it was farm country. Cowboy country. I once wore a cowboy hat for a grade school picture, but I wasn't a cowboy or a farmer. I was adopted. 

That was my identity. 

My father was a high school janitor; my mother taught preschool in our basement. Memories from those days don't come without the garage in our backyard. It was made of cinder block. It could hold two vehicles, had one of those rectangular holes for Dad to change his oil, and had a worn-out basketball hoop above the entrance. There wasn't much to it. 

I'd go out back with my mitt and baseball, wearing an ill-fitting cap, and throw that rawhide against those blocks of cinder. As hard as I could. I'd aim at a fading chalked strike zone, imagining myself on the mound at Dodger Stadium. Bottom of the ninth, two outs, game on the line.

It wasn't easy keeping that daydream in my head. Probably easy for other kids. Wasn't fair. Cal Ripken would be at the plate, wondering what pitch I'd ship, when the repressed memory of being dropped off out front would surface. The day I first laid eyes on that garage. Tears would fall. My showdown with baseball's Iron Man suspended on account of boy-made rain. 

That memory isn't mine alone. My brother Chad shaped it. He had two years on me and remembered more than I did. We spent our first years in foster care together. Most of that time, we were with a woman we called Grandma Olive. I've seen a picture of me blowing out the candles of my first birthday cake at her house. Think I had my second and third cakes there, too.

"Don't let them see you cry," Chad whispered as we got out of Grandma Olive's car to meet our new parents. I don't know whether they saw me cry. I just remember Grandma Olive pulling out of the driveway with Chad's arm around my shoulders.

I met my biological mother at a Sizzler in Provo, Utah, when I was 15 years old. Something like that doesn't just happen. You have to ask an adult first. Then you have to attend state-mandated counseling to ensure you're mentally capable of processing such an event. After a few sessions, I told my therapist I felt like the Israelites must have felt right before they crossed the Jordan River into the Promised Land. 

I was ready.

I'd been preparing for this day my whole life. I had so many questions, but, in all fairness, they were just variations of "why." Why did you do it? Why did you give Chad and me up? Why didn't you love us?

The long-awaited meeting took place in a small booth near the salad bar, with all-you-can-eat cheese bread and slabs of chicken. I was prepared to face a monster, but Andrea Mower didn't fit the bill. Not even close. She was a small, thin woman, with the look of someone who'd been through it. I don't exactly recall how that conversation went. We must have talked about our parents, the sports we played, what she'd been up to, how school was going… things like that. 

The one thing I do know is that I never asked her why. It wouldn't have been appropriate. Turns out she'd struggled with addiction to the point she'd been institutionalized for a spell. Anger disappears when confronted with something like that; it can't survive in such an environment.

Chance is complicated. One moment you think it's cruelty that happens for no reason at all, and the next you're sitting in a booth at Sizzler, coming to terms with your ignorance. Andrea didn't give me up. She gave me a chance.

We loved her from that day on. We'd get our parents to drive us up to Pocatello, Idaho, to visit her in her small apartment. As we grew older, we stayed in touch and tried to visit her wherever she was living. Chad even lived with her in Alaska for a year or so.

I was married with kids of my own when I learned she'd been placed in hospice. A hard life caught up with her. A couple of years earlier, she'd lost her voice box to a lifetime of smoking. Conversation didn't come easy after that.

At the end, when Chad and I visited her bedside to say goodbye, I couldn't stop thinking about chances. The chances I'd be blessed with a mother who loved her boys enough to do the impossible — to give them a chance at a better life. The chances I'd get an older brother by my side so I didn't have to chance it alone. 

As Andrea took her last breath, with tears streaming down my cheeks, I took her hand and whispered in her ear, "Thanks for the chance, Mom."
### Lady K
URL: https://clintbetts.com/lady-k/
Last updated: 2026-09-19T21:29:43.000Z
When things get bad, head up to the mountains. A man can do some thinking in the hills. Maybe it’s the higher elevation, maybe it’s the lack of cell service, but it’s where the man in this love story could be found once valley life became too much to bear. 

I must confess, my dear family and friends, I use the word “man” loosely here. This particular man must call a proper tradesman if he needs something fixed around the house. A real man does no such thing; a better man could’ve avoided the mountains altogether. 

Mike Tyson prophesied that a punch in the face changes the best-laid plans. Of course, our barely-man couldn’t survive a light slap from a grade-school bully, which is likely why our story begins with him lost in the Uintas, searching for solace and understanding, knowing they’d never come.

There’s a certain spot in those hills. A special spot. Sacred, even. It’s where our barely-man went after his youngest son was born with tumors in his brain and heart; it’s where he went after his oldest son was diagnosed with stage-four cancer. It’s where he goes to mourn, to think, and to talk to God. You can cry up there; the quaking aspens and bluebirds don’t mind. Just don’t cry too much. [You don’t want the bluebirds turning yellow](https://clintbetts.com/like-kings-of-old/).

You see, at the time, our barely-man thought he was bona fide. He had an important-sounding job and the perceived adoration of strangers. Back then, he took such things to heart, convinced they mattered. He tied his identity to the opinions of people he barely knew. What do you expect of a barely-man?

If only he’d listened to Joni Mitchell, who sang in the [greatest song ever written](https://youtu.be/ko0d-BQLbvU?si=fmqZaDgmNUotSDoO&t=86&ref=clintbetts.com):

*But now, it's just another show* 
*And you leave 'em laughing when you go* 
*And if you care, don't let them know* 
*Don't give yourself away*

*Oh, but now, old friends, they're acting strange* 
*They shake their heads, they say that I've changed* 
*Well, something's lost, but something's gained* 
*In living every day*

At the height of his hubris, our barely-man collapsed, spending three weeks in the hospital, unsure whether he’d ever see that sacred spot in the Uintas again. Joni Mitchell’s words, “Something’s lost, but something’s gained,” were never far from his mind. What would he gain from so much loss?

I gained you, Kelli. 

I gained a partner and a soulmate. You’re the foundation of my heart, my life, and my future. I feel so honored and blessed to call you my wife from this day forward. We hacked our way through the thicket to get here, and in every step of that journey, your impenetrable character and gracious spirit kept us moving forward.

You nursed me back to health. You dropped everything, made a plan, and helped Parker beat cancer. You're the one Henry likes to watch movies with on Saturday nights. You're the one Ollie and Gracie turn to when they need something done and done right. You’re the one the dogs love most. 

I adore you. The kids adore you. The dogs adore you. Frankly, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for loving the kids. In a world of gray and chaos, you bring color and peace. Somehow, you turned a barely-man into a man who knows what matters, what’s worth fighting for, and what it means to live a successful life.

I knew I loved you the first time I took you to that sacred spot in the Uintas. Later, when I got the side-by-side stuck in the snow while racing up the mountain far too early in the season, you didn’t get mad or hold it over my head. You did what you always do: approached the situation with grace, figured out a plan, and loved without conditions.

As we huddled together in an emergency blanket, waiting to be rescued by actual men, I thought, “If she doesn’t break up with me over this, I’m going to marry this girl.” And today, in front of our family and friends, I get to do just that.

I promise to always love, respect, and cherish you. I can’t promise ice cream castles in the air or feather canyons everywhere, but I can promise to always be right by your side, facing the unknown together.

So, in the [words of Damien Rice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M2SbH6tFLOs&ref=clintbetts.com), come, let me love you. And then, color my gray and chaos as only you can. 

I’m yours today, tomorrow, and forever, my lovely Lady K.
### Night of Rage
URL: https://clintbetts.com/night-of-rage/
Last updated: 2026-09-19T21:46:46.000Z
I grew up on Spanish Fork's tractor-churned streets. Back then, our small town was a grandmother's quilt of alfalfa fields and Larry's barber shop on Main. Its pulse ticked to Sunday services and harvest moons.

On September 11, 1996, our devout Mormon town awoke to an ordinary sunrise. We dreaded nightfall, expecting a demonic spark to ignite, sure to tear our sacred fabric to shreds. 

Months earlier, while we unwitting townsfolk wove our simple lives, a rebellion had been inadvertently invited to storm our dusty fairgrounds.

Rage Against the Machine, with their fists-up anthems of defiance, somehow slipped in like a match struck in parched grass. The fairgrounds manager later admitted it was an honest mistake: someone called about dates; he confirmed their availability, and a contract was signed. He'd never heard of the band.

Who called the fairgrounds manager and thrust this abomination into our carefully curated world? That mystery endures, as slippery as a songbird in the Utah Valley cottonwoods.

Word spread like wildfire through Spanish Fork's pews and porches, tongues clucking in that classic small-town telegraph. Some blamed the fairgrounds manager; others, our dear Madame Mayor, a title we cherished alongside our "Pride & Progress" logo.

Not unlike the JFK yarns swapped over Larry's hot lather, the more we learned, the more questions arose, conspiracies lingering like embers under a freshly smothered campfire.

Those embers fueled weeks of unrest, the most contentious in Spanish Fork's history. Lucifer himself had been invited to preach blasphemy to our youth, urging defiance where devotion reigned. A rally was organized to raise more than $80,000 to buy out the heathen band's contract, a desperate bid to preserve our hallowed streets and shield the innocent.

An inevitable exchange unfolded between a group of ne'er-do-wells and the God-fearing rallygoers. "Let the majority rule," the rally organizer cried, but the teens slipped away, laughing, off to smoke Marlboro Reds and spin skateboard tricks past curfew. 

A [frightened woman](https://youtu.be/%5F6k8fFlhvQo?t=23&ref=clintbetts.com) told an intrepid news reporter on scene, "I got a brother coming down with some dogs, and hopefully that'll scare 'em away if they decide to do anything."

Fear and loathing peaked on the Sunday before the concert, when a warning echoed from my church's pulpit. Blinds were to be shuttered, earmuffs donned, doors barred against the unholy clamor. A shadow had fallen over our once-clear streets, heavy with the ominous sound of forbidden chords that would soon explode from a Fender Telecaster.

Even as an 11-year-old, I'd long since learned to heed the elders' edicts. From that same pulpit, I was taught that Satan created The Simpsons, that Titanic should've been rated R because of Kate Winslet's nipple, and that MTV was nothing but porn.

When concert night arrived, more than eight thousand hooligans descended on our peaceful town, instantly doubling our population. The fairgrounds weren't far from my house. I didn't see it, but some say the moon bled red the moment Rage hit the stage.

I took shelter under my bed in the room I shared with my older brother. While praying in a fetal position, with the faint sound of drums and electric guitars drifting in from the distance, I heard my brother say, "I bet there's a sick mosh pit going on right now."

I began to cry.

Exhaustion must have claimed me. I woke with tear-crusted cheeks and morning light, crawling out to check whether school attendance was required post-apocalypse. My brother was already up, cranking a Rage track on our Magnavox CD player, oblivious to the ruin.

"Some of those that work the forces are the same that burn crosses," lead singer Zack de la Rocha snarled, looping into "Killing in the Name!" My brother headbanged like it was just another Thursday, as if our Eden hadn't tasted forbidden fruit.

I paused, listening. The instrumentals appealed to the sharp musical instincts I'd honed over six months of grueling piano lessons. But the words? An endless snarl: "And now you do what they told ya... now you're under control." Then, pardon my French: "F— you, I won't do what you tell me!" 

My word, I thought. I get what all the fuss is about.

In truth, the concert played out as concerts do. A smattering of underage drinking tickets, a few out-of-towners urinating on lawns, and a fair amount of reefer wafting through the air. Soon after, an ordinance was passed, slamming the fairgrounds shut to future concerts. To this day, only fairs, rodeos, and 4-H shows grace the venue.

It was then that I started eyeing grown-up intuition with a squint. We'd been promised mayhem and bloodstained streets, but all we got was a traffic jam and urine-caked lawns. It was an important night.

It was a night of rage.
### Don't Want to Be Dead
URL: https://clintbetts.com/dont-want-to-be-dead/
Last updated: 2026-09-19T21:31:52.000Z
My 1979 Chevy pickup has me driving into Bozeman, with its downtown spruced up, bright and cheerful for the holidays. It’s cold outside. To make matters worse, I’ve been battling a cold for three days. Savor this time of the year*,* people say. They’re convinced there’s something special about it.

Now is not the time for a cold. I'm not sure there's a good time, but being in the thick of one on a day like today doesn't sit right. This is my first visit to this town. The deep winter chill isn’t affecting Montana’s charm. I can see why Danny moved here a few years back.

“You gotta come out in the summer,” Danny texted last October. “We’ll take a raft down Gallatin one day and hike up Bridger the next.”

Sounded like a good idea. Danny had a knack for putting us in the mix. Been that way since grade school. I couldn’t rise to my own defense if asked to explain why I declined. Not on a day like today.

Pulling into Danny’s driveway, I button the top of my white shirt and make sure my tie is snug. I haven’t worn a suit in years; hate the way it feels. Why do people dress like this?

I kill the ignition, close my eyes, and sit in silence. My head’s doing everything in its power to avoid my heart.

The front door opens, and out comes Mandy. Danny met her after his first tour in Iraq — they married right away. She gave birth to Hugh while Danny was out on his second tour. I remember how odd it was to hold him before his father. The same thing happened with Eleanor, born during Danny's third and final tour. The tour that hurt his back and changed things.

Mandy’s wearing all black. Hugh follows behind her, holding Eleanor’s hand, trying to be tough. They’re not even teenagers yet. I hug Mandy and load the kids into the truck. It’s too damn cold to walk.

“Are we going to see Daddy?” Eleanor asks once we’re all buckled in.

Danny never talked about how he hurt his back. He didn’t talk about much of anything after that last tour. The doctor prescribed Percocet for the pain, which seemed to help for a spell. Can’t say it was worth it in the end.

We meet everyone at the church. Danny’s parents, siblings, and close friends have already found their way inside. I escort Mandy and the kids to the front pew as a middle-aged woman softly plays the piano. With them situated, I make my way up to a seat behind the pulpit.

Based on his last text message, Danny seemed to think he’d run out of options. Maybe he had. Hard not to wonder if he could’ve settled it some other way.

A hymn is sung, followed by a prayer, and then an old man in a gray suit lays out the order of things. First up is a kid in uniform who served with Danny. To hear him tell it, Danny’s a hero to those boys. An aunt speaks next, then Danny’s sister sings a song.

I can’t look at Mandy while his sister sings. I already know.

I get up to speak and pull a paper from my jacket. I’ve never delivered a eulogy. I pull the microphone close, clear my throat, and look at the paper. It’s the last text message Danny sent: 

Tell everyone I’m sorry. I don’t want to be dead.
### Like Kings of Old
URL: https://clintbetts.com/like-kings-of-old/
Last updated: 2026-09-19T21:05:52.000Z
I was fourteen the night he picked me up to haul hay. He’d spent the day building a sewing room for Grandma. He was tall, lean — alive. We talked a lot that night, lifting bale after bale; I had to tilt my head to the sky to see his face and toothy smile.

There was always a piece of straw between his teeth, always fresh. Most days were spent in a granary off Main Street, most nights at the farm managing water. Back then, we talked about water: when it was getting in, who would help it along, and how we’d survive until it came back. He never seemed satisfied with how those conversations went, but the crooked smile underneath his crooked hat never faded.

“Only thing complaining does is turn a bluebird yellow,” he’d say. It was hard to argue when he put it like that.

The town wasn’t a city yet. He’d drive his old red Chevy with blue doors down the road slow, stopping to drop a bag of fresh potatoes on a neighbor’s porch. Children ran to greet him, calling out his name. Parents told him they’d be happy to pay; he laughed off such offers. Hugs and firm handshakes, this type of thing could go on all night.

He’d save our house for last. Sometimes Grandma would come along, adding an extra bounce to his step. He’d ignore Mom’s stern warnings about not getting us too wound up. We were sad every time he left, even Mom.

He never talked about the president or the stories on the news. He only wanted to talk about family, fishing, and who needed help. That, and water.

There was never enough water.

I wasn’t one to jump at the opportunity to haul hay. He stopped by while the N64 was burning up from playing Goldeneye all day. Mom said to turn it off and do house chores or go to the farm with Grandpa. Those were my choices.

When he dropped me off back home after the sun faded, I got out of his old red Chevy with blue doors and heard him say, “I’ll be by tomorrow night with some fish and biscuits, then we’ll fill our bellies like kings of old.”

He died the next day in a car accident on his way home from fishing. Dad and I went to the crash site to look things over and found his wallet. We brought it back to Grandma. The whole town showed up for his funeral, where the local VFW did the honors.

Everyone knew his name.
### Chance Nation
URL: https://clintbetts.com/chance-nation/
Last updated: 2026-10-07T16:04:47.000Z
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