Rachael Herron

(R.H. Herron)

Archives for December 2008

Perfect Chemistry Rap

I've never seen a book trailer that made me want to buy the book. I'm kind of stymied by them, actually. An ad? A little movie, for a book? What's the point?

That was, until this one. From galleycat:

Shortly after Simone Elkeles sold her latest YA novel, Perfect Chemistry,
she began thinking of unique ways that she could promote the story of a
romance between a rich white girl and a Latino gang member in a Chicago
high school to readers. "Book trailers are great, but in order for mine
to stand out it needed a 'wow' factor," she told us, "or at least a
'that's totally off-the-wall and goofy' factor." Elkeles was a big fan
of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air as a teenager, and loved the way
the show's theme song told the character's story. So she began writing
a condensed version of her novel as a rap song.

A young adult novel, as a rap video. I thought that it would be so horrible it would be worth watching. It WAS worth watching, but it's not horrible. In fact, it's so damn cute that you need to see it, too, and I absolutely know I'll buy the book, if only to honor the spirit that went into making the trailer. I'd embed it here, but you should probably go watch it in high quality, so go HERE. And enjoy.

(And Lala? Get to thinking about my cowboy rap, kthx.)

Radnom

That should so be a word.

  • It is official, sugar gives me headaches. I had a chocolatini last night, and it was more sugar than I've had in forever. This morning I have that slight, nagging headache (it is not a hangover, that's a different headache, trust me).  But GOD, was that drink the best.
  • Giving up sugar hasn't been hard (strangely) and I've dropped fourteen pounds with almost no exercise. (It's not that I don't want to run — I just haven't been able to find the time around writing, working, traveling, and being sick. Today, a run! (Or not. You know.)
  • I am so not in the mood to edit. Let's blame it on the sugar last night (but oh, was it gooooood). I'm actually making quiche right now for the first time, in avoidance. Maybe after the quiche is done I need to go out into the world to write. It ain't happenin' at home. (Quiche is asparagus and feta. I hope I haven't screwed it up. Cooking now.)
  • Harriet is now officially so old and senile that she really doesn't know where or where not to pee, so now the dogs are sleeping in the living room (no carpet). It worked okay last night, but we felt guilty. Anyone have a favorite brand of doggie diapers? (Seriously, any ideas are greatly appreciated.)
  • I do, in fact, think I'll catch the ferry to SF and write there this afternoon. Maybe get some clam chowder. Or oysters!
  • My current favorite square (it changes hourly, honestly) on my blanket is this one:

Quar

       I can't remember whose this is, and I'm comforted by the fact that I could pull out the map and find out, and I might, but for right now I'm just loving touching it. It's so SOFT.
  • Five minutes to quiche. Then I'll eat a piece. Then I have to spend an hour editing. Okay? Okay. 
  • La just found a dead dog and had to come home to wash the blood off her hands from moving it out of the road. Poor La.
  • THIS QUICHE IS SO DAMN GOOD! Feta + heavy cream = divine. I don't want to ever eat anything else. (I used the Cooks Illustrated quiche lorraine recipe but subbed asparagus and feta. That's the smartest thing I've done in a long time. Store-bought crust, natch.)

Quiche

  • I need another piece.

Siena, Violet, Germany

Bear with me.

Six or seven years ago, I went with my little Mama to Italy. In Siena, we stayed at Alma Domus, an old convent converted into a hotel. It's still run by the nuns there, and down below the rooms is the cell where St. Catherine (patron saint of Italy) received her stigmata. (In the church you can still view her head and her finger. Deliciously grotesque.)

It was the most wonderful place to stay, maybe one of my favorite hotels ever, and I believe it was something ridiculous like $30 a night.

It was a small, narrow room, and dark. I opened the shutters to the french doors while Mom used the facilities. The view that was on the other side of the doors was completely unexpected, better than anything I could have imagined. I waited for Mom to exit the bathroom. I demanded that she shut her eyes and cover them with her hands. I led her by the shoulders out onto the narrow balcony.

I told her to open her eyes.

Siena1viewduomo

All of Siena, with the Duomo front and center, at our feet.

That's not even where I was originally headed. Well, then. I promise I'm rambling slowly to a point today; forgive me if it takes a while to get there. But I love that memory. Her excitement at that view was like when a kid finds a bike under the Christmas tree. Only better. Damn. 

So, in Siena, while wandering around, somehow we ended up (as people do) in a pharmacy, sniffing things. We found a package of violet soap. (I love violet because my mother's mother had a little pot of solid violet perfume. When I was little, there was no more perfume left in the tiny pot, but Mom kept it because of the gorgeous smell. I loved to stick my little snout in it.)

Now, this violet soap in Siena was like NO other violet I've ever smelled — it was the distillation of violet's very essence, amplified to capital letters: VIOLET! I AM SO VIOLET! We bought a package each. The hotel room was between the pharmacy and the town square, so we dropped our goodies in the room and went on tromping around the city in the light rain. 

When we got back to the hotel that night, we both thought we could smell a hint of violet in the elevator. We wondered aloud about it. But oh my god, when the elevator doors opened on our floor, the smell of violet hit us like a punch. Our room was at least ten doors away from the elevator, and the doors to the room were closed. We looked at each other. It couldn't possibly be from our soap.

But it was. The rest of the trip was marked by that trailing violet smell. It was on our clothes, in our suitcases, in our hair, in every room we slept in for the rest of the trip. I've never been able to find that particular scent since until recently I smelled a candle called, moronically, "Living Room." It's a lighter version of that smell, so I bought it.

I burned it this morning while I wrote. I usually burn a candle when I write in the morning before dark — something about the ritual of it draws me into the words or at least reminds me of my smoking days, which is a happy memory — but I haven't been able to burn that candle. Until today.

Because this morning I woke from a dream about my mother. I was at some kind of graduation, my own I think, although I couldn't tell what I was graduating from. Everyone was around me, all my loved ones. I thought, "Mom's not here." Then I felt, really felt, a tap on my shoulder from behind me. Mom's cute little voice said, "Mom made it." I turned, and she was there. I swear to god, she was really there. She looked strong and healthy, probably about sixty years old, so about the age she was when we went to Italy. I got to grin at her for long seconds, and she grinned back. I got to hug her in the dream, and it was so very, very real. I could feel her body in my arms.

Then I woke up. I stayed in one spot, memorizing every part of the dream. I struggled for so long after she died with dreams that were clinical and corporeal, dreams that had everything to do with disease and nothing with who my mother was. 

Then I got up and burned that violet candle.

And guess what? Today I'm accepting an offer from a German publisher (Goldmann) for my book. It will be translated into German, a language my mother spoke fluently (she taught English in Wurzburg for several years in her twenties). Coincidence? Sure, it's highly likely that's all it is.

But I like the shape of this coincidence.

Ways In Which I am Not Sure About This Work Week

My work week started out so strangely that I'm not quite sure what to think about it. Fortunately, it's one of my three-day work weeks, or I'd be really worried.

1. I woke up at 4am, on my Monday (which is your Sunday), bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, not only mostly over my cold, but also ready to dive back into edits. There was no reason for this, other than the fact that I spent a majority of my weekend resting in bed (hmmmm….. I suppose that might be considered a reason.)

2. Also related to bushy tails: I HIT A RACCOON on the way to work this morning. Oh, it was awful. I was going 65, and it was dark, and the raccoon streaked out of the darkness and under my tires. I had no time to brake, no time to swerve (both of those things were good for me, bad for the raccoon). I did, strangely, have enough to let loose a guttural, primal scream that scared me almost as badly as killing the poor thing. I killed him HARD. At least I can comfort myself with the fact that he died completely instantaneously, no doubt about it. My hands shook for a while after that and I slowed to 45mph (no traffic on a Sunday morning in the Bay Area that damn early) to make sure my transmission wasn't going to fall out and that a tire wasn't going to blow. I DARED any CHP officer to pull me over for driving too slowly — he would have had to hear all about it. Tires and car seem to be fine. Poor raccoon. I hope he has a really nice rebirth as a dog. Although preferably not reborn to my household. We have enough animals.

3. After that, coming down the grade into Pleasanton, I saw the biggest, brightest shooting star I've seen in ages. Maybe years. I thought it was a rocket at first, heading for the earth, but it blazed out. Some bit of space debris, I'm sure, but rather stunning. It cheered me up no end after the raccoon debacle.

4. My nose is about to fall off my face. The cold has abated, but it has left me with the reddest, most chapped nose and lips. People look at me and say, "Oh, poor thing," unprompted.

I remain cheerful. This will be a good week. I would like to finish more pages, generate less roadkill, see more falling space debris, and use more moisturizer (god bless lanolin).