Archives for September 2007

The First Romance Chapter competition closes on Tuesday, and I’m still in the running to move on to round two, but it’s getting down to the wire. Out of the three hundred entrants, I was number three for a long time, but I’ve dropped to number 11. The top 15 go on to the next round, so I only need a few more votes to keep me in the running (what, do those other people have lovely groups of knitters supporting them, too? They do? Do we know them?).

If you haven’t cruised over and read my entry and voted, will you consider doing so? It’s silly, and there’s a typo or two (sob), but if you like it at all and want it to move on so you can read chapter two, please consider giving me a 10 (1-9 votes are thrown out). You have to join their site in order to vote but they won’t
sell your email or spam you if you opt out of their emails.

(If you voted before but you weren’t logged in, it didn’t count. Please vote only once — they’re watching for IP fraud. And dude, isn’t it exciting?)

So. Yeah. It’s here.

And thanks.

As a reward: (Have I shown you this one yet? I don’t remember. But no worries, it’s cute enough for another view.)

X marks the spot:

(They were sleeping before I snapped the picture.)

PS – If you’ve already voted and want to vote for a great chapter by a different writer or
just want a good read, here’s the chapter that’s been sadly overlooked. Tough Girls in Love. I
think this one should win, and I mean it. I loved this chapter, and few
people have voted for it, perhaps because it starts with a T, and the three hundred chapters are listed alphabetically. It’s just hard to get that far when reading through the list. Go give her a 10, too! Here’s a teaser, the first few lines of her chapter:

    I’d never had such a hard time getting a man naked.
   
When was I going to see some skin? I already had used my scissors to
slice through the front of the man’s leather coat, fleece pullover and
flannel shirt. The guy was cursing me out for cutting his coat, but it
wasn’t like I had a choice. Somewhere, he had two extra holes in his
body.

There, don’t you want to read more?

When you drive to work, and you take the bike off the rack in the dark, and you notice the front wheel has turned backwards during the drive, make sure you UNTWIST that 1/2 turn, and not turn it in the same direction and ride away, because your front wheel will have been turned 360 degrees, and the computer cord will have twisted around the front post. Therefore, your computer connection that changes the gears automatically for you (that sweet, sweet technological perk) will have come unconnected and you will be stuck in 1st gear forever and ever or until you get it fixed, and you will feel like a hamster within thirty seconds. You will then ride the three blocks back, spinning the wheels furiously, and then you will drive to Starbucks for a coffee and a ham and cheddar breakfast sandwich.

Guess what I did today?

I rode my bike to work! Dude!

Now, given that I live more than 30 miles from work, and given that my bike is a beach cruiser and we don’t go up hills together, period, the whole ride would have taken me more than four hours, one way.

Obviously, I didn’t ride the whole way. If I did that, I’d just be ready to turn around and take a $50 cab ride home.

Nope, last night when I got off work, I went to Target and bought many, many, many bike lights (it’s DARK at 5am). I went home and attached them all (I felt very butch. I hate doing things like that with the screwdriver. Always makes me cranky). But now my bike lights up. I even put flashing things on the air-valve-stem thingies (that’s the technical term). I think I could now land planes using my bike lights.

I borrowed a bike rack from a co-worker (but I think I’ll buy one now, now that I know what it’s like), and last night I attached it to the car. I wasn’t really sure I’d done it right (although Lala says I did, and I trust her bike-judgment), so I used four hundred or so bungie cords to strap it down even more firmly. If I am a nervous bike-rider, I am an even more nervous driving-while-bike-is-hanging off-the-back-of-car kinda gal.

But I did it. Got up at 4:20am (no jokes), only twenty minutes earlier than I normally do, got ready, and drove to Livermore. I parked about two and a half miles away from work in front of someone’s house who will surely get the cops out later to check on my extremely dirty vehicle ("Officer, it must be stolen. It looks like it’s from Oakland" *gasp*).

I put my helmet on while sitting in the car which felt funny and probably looked even funnier, then I took the bike down, hopped on and rode away. I rode away!

It was so cool!

It was actually literally cool, too, but I was comfortable in my tee-shirt. I rode through the dark early morning, on broad, well-lit, bike-laned streets. I rode past sprinklers spraying, getting lightly misted as I passed. I rode past fields that smelled of fertilizer, boxes lying at the ends of the rows ready to be filled. Then the fields moved into vineyards, dark grapevines with heavy leaves, the smell of dust. Then onto the huge property where I work, past the badge gate (where I forgot, after getting out my badge, that you must put on BOTH backpack straps when you ride and not leave the backpack dangling, or you will come close to falling while the guards watch), and in to work.

I was so PLEASED with myself.

It’s a little thing. A very little thing. Instead of 31 miles to work, I’m driving 26 miles. That’s not really very environmental. It just kills me that there are no public transportation options available to get to my job (we work 6am to 6pm, and BART-bus connectors don’t start until later — we aren’t allowed to adjust hours), but this feels like doing a good thing, albeit the smallest thing. Riding five miles. Plus, it’s 40 minutes of motion, which I NEVER get on my work days — by the time I get home at 7pm, I’m just too beat to go for a run, or even a walk.

This way, I start the day with a little ride. Boosts my energy, or at least it did today. And at the end of the day, I HAVE to ride the bike in order to get to the car to get home. No choice in the matter, no being lazy. Doesn’t matter if I don’t have the motivation, I’ll HAVE the motivation, you know?

I am so excited. That was so fun. Oh! I’ve shown you before, but this is my bike (photo from Raleigh website):

There are some obvious differences. I took off that six-pack holder (with its built-in bottle opener) and put on a basket, and I added forty-two thousand watts to any place I could stick watts.

PS – I keep meaning to point you to my friend Rachel’s new blog! Please go tell her hello, tell her she’s sexy, and make sure you vote in her poll and make sure she knows her name is spelled wrong.

Hey, what’s that bright star I’ve been seeing in the early morning on
my way to work? It’s hanging in the east, and it’s gorgeous. I know you
know.

Me, I’m at work. Long, long, long work hours lately — worked an 18
hour shift on Saturday on the final day of my work week, then had
Sunday off, and I was back on Monday for 72 hours this week. It’s all
by choice, working for people that need time off (the gal I’m working
for today is in Italy, bless her), so I can’t complain, but I can
whinge just a little bit.

How ’bout a few pics, then?

I took an afternoon last week and spent it in the City. I had the best
time that day — I had lunch with Lala and then I went and wrote in a
cafe near Dolores Park. Then I wandered up into the park and had a
little lie-down on the grass in the sun, and then I got salted caramel
ice cream with fleur de sel sprinkles from Bi-Rite Creamery. Then I
took BART back downtown and prowled Stacey’s Bookstore for a while,
then met up with Lala when she got off work, and we went to Fritz and
had Belgian fries with Belgian beer. While I was waiting for her to
meet me, I read my book up on the top of the new Westfield Mall.

Isn’t that something? I don’t care for malls, but that space is pretty incredible.

And then last week, we went to the Ladies’ Banjo Society Picnic, at which you need neither to be a lady nor play the banjo. But they did have a banjo choir, which was pretty rad.

Lala’s in the white cowboy hat in the back.

We took Harriet. She did not play the banjo.

And this is a shot of Lala in Leona Canyon near our house.

It’s this amazing canyon right in Oakland, but it feels so far
away — I think it might be the only place in Oakland where you can’t hear the freeway. The smell of the creek down there, all dusty and blackberryish
and riparian-moldy is exactly the same lush smell of the creek I grew
up playing in. And it’s an off-leash area, since it’s part of the East
Bay Regional Parks District, so Clara can romp through the poison oak
with impunity. Thank god she sleeps in a crate, not our bed.

It is not new for me to discover brand-new obvious things. Like when I was asked about how I got into dispatching. "Well, I went to school forever and ever and got a Master’s degree in English and creative writing, and then I decided I hated teaching, so then I got a job that requires a high school diploma." And then (this was a couple of years ago) I remembered something.

Oh, my. When I graduated from high school, I was accepted to good schools. But I was one of those kids who just wasn’t quite ready to fly the nest. I decided to do the community college route after taking a semester off. (My parents worried I’d never go back.)

And I remembered this: I picked up a application to be a dispatcher for the Pismo Beach Police Department. I think I filled it out — I don’t remember if I ever got to the testing process or not. But I remember desiring it, thinking it would be a great job.

So here I am, years later, fully college edemacated, working as a 911 fire/medical dispatcher. And yep, it’s a great job (especially when one can fit the writing in at work, like I did today and yesterday).

I remembered something else, that’s the point I’m getting to, oh so very slowly. While at work, I can’t monopolize the internet computer that I share with my partner, so I have to write by hand and type it out later. I think the very process of writing longhand, and writing romance at that, brought back a memory: Me, aged ten or eleven, lying in a hammock on a warm summer day, Sugar Daddy candies close at hand, reading my handwritten romance novel out loud to my best friend Evelyn (Evelyn Bailey, if you google yourself and find yourself here, email me, wouldja?). I wonder if I still have that little novella. I know I didn’t finish it (even back then I had trouble with endings) but I remember it was something about a boy (older, at least sixteen) who kissed — KISSED — the protagonist who was probably named something like Violette or Meaghane. I think I got to the kissing scene, wrote it, and then ran the hell away, not knowing where to go after that (and thank god I didn’t).

(Hi, do I like parentheses today or what?)

It was nice, though. Writing by hand, suddenly remembering that. I have lofty ambitions sometimes, like everyone else. But honestly, I’ve always been more drawn to the more prosaic. Yep, I’m smart and driven, but I work a blue-collar job (literally) and I want to write romance novels (among other things).

Nothing wrong with either.

I confused you with Scott Simon! I confused his sweet, overeager voice (when dealing with baseball only; at all other times he is professionally calm and undereager) with your fine, controlled live-from-Baghdad one. I don’t know how to explain how I did that except that I was not well-enough caffeinated.

And not only did I confuse you two, but because of the tunnels in the knitters’ underground (this is how we get wool from Canada), YOU FOUND OUT that I mixed up the two of you. And now, forever more, instead of thinking of me as Rachael Herron, writer and avid NPR aficionado, you will think of me as Rachael Herron, that girl who doesn’t know how many minutes are in an inning AND can’t tell voices apart when listening to her factory-installed cassette-tape radio on her way to work.

I hope you will forgive the gaffe.

Don’t tell Scott, huh?

Be careful over there.

Yours very truly,
Rachael.

** edited to add:

Also:

Dear Corey Flintoff, Scott Simon, and Ira Glass (who is not part of this but I adore you, too),

If you would like a pair handknit socks to make up for the confusion, please specify color and size. I am not kidding. Nor am I a stalker. I just like to knit socks.

Yours very truly again,
Rachael.