Rachael

Or why, really, I love any e-book reader. This post isn't about why you should or shouldn't buy one reader over another. There are a million posts touting the various pros and cons of various readers over others. (I love the ease of the wireless of my Kindle, the e-ink, and the fact that I can download the book I want to read, from bed, after reading a free sample chapter.)

But what I didn't realize was how amazing it was going to be for the reading of manuscripts.

First: my own. I recently finished editor's revisions on Book Two. Instead of printing out 400 pages, I curled up in bed with my Kindle and read my book in the format I'm used to reading. Every time I found something that needed addressing, I either made myself a note on the Kindle using its little keyboard, or I reached over and pulled my laptop over (if I was feeling energetic) and made the change. This doesn't work, of course, for the editing of a first draft, when you need to mark up every single line, every word. But for this kind of work, it's perfect.

Second: others' manuscripts. I just finished reading a draft of my friend Cari's book. Okay. I've known her for probably seven or eight years, before she got her MFA, before she was a mother, before she moved from Brooklyn across country to the west coast. I knew she was a great writer — I'd seen some of her short work, and I'd read excerpts. I thought I knew her voice.

But people. I knew nothing.

The book hasn't sold quite yet, but it will. And you'll read it someday, and I will jump around and tell everyone, I told you so. Now, I write commercial fiction, but I know from great lit'ture. This will win the big awards. I've never read a book like this before in my life, and while I was huddled over my Kindle, heaving with sobs (and I don't do that while reading — I'm usually a pretty tough cookie, believe it or not), making the occasional note to pass on to her, I thought, "ISN'T THIS AMAZING? Technology has allowed me to receive this manuscript over email and convert it into a readable paperless form." And all this change has happened in the years since I've known Cari.

(Know what else? Cari can write circles around those high-falutin' literary folk who write Literary Stuff that left me cold after I got my MFA, and you know why? She has, along with the literary gorgeous prose, a plot that will blow your socks off. Stuff happens, and I swear I could hear foundations rocking under me as I clicked my little page-turner.)

I know it's awful. I know it's just a tease that you can't read it yet. But I love all this. It's like a miracle. A gol-danged bloody e-miracle. I'm blessed and lucky and if you're a writer, you should get an e-reader.

I want an iPad, too, someday. Ahem.

* Joy reminds me that you can download a PDF or .doc of a knitting pattern to the Kindle (or other devices) and have it right there. Nice.

** and yes, How to Knit a Love Song will be out on Kindle the day it releases, March 3rd. WOOT!

*** because I'm a dork, I'll totally buy it for my own Kindle. Heh.

When in doubt, be nice.

Isn't that all it comes down to? In just about everything? Just be nice. If someone asks you for help, and you can give it, give it. If you can't, you can't. But if you can, do. And ask for help yourself, when you need it (preferably before you really, really need it — I always forget that part and end up asking a little too late. Hysteria never helps).

A reader just asked if I had an extra ball of yarn from an old project and then was surprised when I said yes and that I would mail it off to her (that is, if it IS the right ball of yarn — the ball band is lost forever. Here's hoping). But why not? She can't possibly know the times that Ye Olde Blogge has come through for me and mine, in so many ways, in so many shapes, in so many forms. Just from people Being Nice.

Isn't it lovely?

Speaking of help received from people, the cat is still not trapped in Becca's trap, by the way. I think old damaged Julius Of The Block must have gone on to his next life. Wah. I hope it was quick. I pour some coffee out for the homey and give Willie a kiss. Digit sends a growl.

Today, I'm hoping it stays clear because I have a yen to get down the coast for some beach walking and some clam chowder. Yesterday, I had one of those fine, fine days where everything just worked. I got my taxes done (hooray! refund coming!), and then a surprise coffee with Pen Martha who gave me a writing idea like none before, then a working "nap" during which I figured out a trouble spot in Book Three (I don't like to take breaks between books — I get bored). Then we went to the City and Lala's band (For Fear the Hearts of Men are Failing) played on Pirate Cat Radio, which was great fun (they're playing at the Plough and Stars on Saturday night! You should go even though I won't be there!), and then we got burritos and went home and watched You've Got Mail, which Lala had never seen. 

Just a great, nice day. From start to finish, tip to tail.  

Yay. I plan on having another one of those today. Yep. You have one too, okay?

Right now, I am content.

Why can’t I rest in this feeling more? It could have a lot to do with the fact that I just ate a bunch of chocolate (Riesen caramels), but I don’t think so. It’s just so.

It might be true that sometimes I do too much. Too fast. I don’t relax well, if at all. I’m a bit of a whiner. And I know, theoretically, that I need to Be Here Now. But in practice, I’m a big Livin’-for-Tomorrow kinda gal.

Right now, I’m here. I love this feeling. It’s good.

Other feelings:

Oh, the knitting ennui! Bah. I just can’t ride the wave right now. How about you? I’m trying to finish up test-knitting a sweater for my book, so I can finish the pattern, so I can send it out to my test-knitter (hi, Kiyomi! Haven’t forgotten you!), and I’m not a fan of knitting things twice, I suppose, especially miles of stockinette. Muddling through. Soooo slowly.

Sleepiness. I’ve been sleeping GREAT. Hoo boy. I could sleep right now. But I won’t.

Reading. I’ve been reading constantly. One perk of being a (really-soon-to-be) Published Author and a member of RWA is that you get to judge the RITAs, which is biggest award in the romance industry. It’s the Oscar of romance, if you will. And they SEND YOU FREE BOOKS*. Lots of them! I got eight! Good ones! Ones that were actually on my list to buy and read! And I only have about five weeks to read them, so I’m reading like crazy. I’ve read three so far, and I’m on the fourth. Three are GREAT. One was okay. Not bad odds, huh?

*One of the funniest moments was when I opened my box of books, and the very first book to slide out was my friend. partner-in-crime, and fellow PensFatales Sophie Littlefield’s A Bad Day for Sorry. Out of 1200 books? I got hers? I returned it, because I’m honest, and I couldn’t judge it without a conflict of interest ALTHOUGH I WANTED TO and you should totally read it because it was one of my favorite books of 2009. It’s wonderful. It’s crime fiction about the owner of a sewing shop, and it kicks ass, just like Sophie does.  

A taste of Sophie’s book:

Whuppin’ ass wasn’t so hard, Stella Hardesty thought as she took aim with the little Raven .25 she took off a cheating son-of-a-bitch in Kansas City last month.

What was hard was making sure it stayed whupped.

Especially on a day when it hit a hundred degrees before noon. And you were having hot flashes. And today’s quote on your Calendar For Women Who Do Too Much read Find serenity in unexpected places.

“Fuck serenity,” Stella said. And she shot the trailer.

Guess what! I have something for you! In celebration of the fact that I made Book Two all nice and pretty, and finished my editor's revisions (o frabjous day!) and just sent them off this morning, I thought I'd give you a little sneak peek into Book One!

Here you go. Enjoy.

(PS – no sign of Mr. Julius cat yet. Still waiting….)

I'm at my desk, waiting for the humane trap outside to snap shut with a metallic clang. Hoping for it. Dreading it.

There's this big old tomcat in my neighborhood. He's a funny-looking guy, and he's been instrumental in the creation of many other funny-looking cats around here. He's battle-scarred and tough and walks by my office window in the mornings. I've always liked watching him go by — cocky and self-assured. You know that kind of cat. He's part of the scene that passes in front of me while I'm typing, a handsome part.

Yesterday, he dragged himself by. I rushed out, and he was moving slowly enough that he couldn't even get away from me. He let me touch his head without hissing, and he had one badly damaged eye, and what appeared to be two broken legs (one front, one back) and maybe a broken pelvis. He was in extreme pain. But he picked up the pace and I followed him, begging him to stop (because I'm an idiot) and he led me right to the hole under our house that I've been looking for: We've been hearing cat(s) under the house for about four or five days. We thought they'd gone under there to mate and scream and yell, and when the rain let up, we were going to figure out how to fix the hole and make sure cats didn't make a permanent home down there, on the warm furnace.

Turns out it was him. Probably yelling in pain for the past few days.

I went inside and got cat food, and then went under the house into the crawl space. He was already on the furnace and hungry enough to let me put it right next to him. I sat with him as he ate.

Then I went up, covered myself in a LOT of clothing in case he fought viciously, got a big towel and a cat carrier, and went back down again.

He won. At one point, the towel was over him, and he was running around underneath the house, unable to shake it off, so there was just a big red towel streaking through the dirt.

It probably hurt him more, damn it.

He got out from under the house, and I spent the rest of the day freaking out, unable to bear the thought of my neighborhood friend living in that much pain.

Now, I hella heart Oakland, you know that. I love this town. But animal control, not so much. They are spread way too thin, and they just don't come out for things like injured cats. (Well, you can leave them the message. I've done it before. And nothing happens.) So I went down there. Waited in line. Asked about humane traps. And I was referred to a company that I could pay to come out to rid my home of unwanted raccoons. That's all they could do. A couple more places wouldn't answer their phones, and a few rescue agencies stated flat out they didn't loan traps.

I tweeted, hopelessly frustrated. 

And while I was crying in my car, barely having sent the last tweet, my phone rang in my hand. Becca offered me the use of her humane trap.

Knitters. They are teh awesome. Always.

Last night I caught an orange tom who really liked tuna and really hated me before I had to put the trap away to go to bed. But it's out there again now. I don't know if old Julius (yes, I accidentally named him while driving around yesterday) will make it back to our yard. He certainly doesn't trust me anymore. But I put it right by the opening to the crawl space, and tuna smells good….

And then, if I catch him, I'll have to have him put down, as fast as possible. There's no saving this kitty, that's pretty clear.

He's just one of those things that, in my mind, makes me Bigger Than Sad. You know? Because if I feel like this about this poor old cat, what about all the other cats? And what about the dogs? And the kids? And the people starving? And Haiti? And cancer? And… and…

Sometimes, I think it's good to have compassion, a lot of it, for one thing at a time. To try to ease that pain, if that's all you can do. Right here, right now. (Shit! I keep hearing the trap snap, but when I check, nothing's happened. Phantom snapping.) 

And that's all I've got right now. Carry on. I'll keep you posted. Kiss your furry things, and your people, too, for that matter. xoxo

And no, you guessed right. I just can't hide it.

Romantic Times gave How to Knit a Love Song four stars, calling it "intricate and clever" with "down-home sense." (If only that were MY description. Wouldn't it be lovely to be described like that?)

Let me explain, my knittin' chickens. Reviews don't matter. That's what they say. And someday, I like to think they won't matter to me. People buy books because they're in the store, or because someone (a friend) tells them about them.

But I was worried about this review. This was the one I was waiting for. I feel like I can exhale now.

 

(At BART, in Beth's hat.)