Rachael Herron

(R.H. Herron)

Rachael

Dear Digit,

When I take you to bed with me, I expect certain things. I expect that you will cuddle. If you use your claws and growl because you get confused, that is okay. I'm used to that about you. You will eventually calm down and settle in, and then we will be happy and warm.

If, on a morning that I have to get up at 4am, you decide to howl at 3:15, I will be annoyed. I will, of course, leap out of bed to hustle you out to the front porch where I plan to give you breakfast to shut you the hell up.

If, however, you get lost under the bed and continue howling, I will howl back. Lala won't like it, but she won't really wake up, either, so that part's all right. But when it takes ten minutes for you to come out from under the bed (so unlike you! You are nothing if not decisive!), I get really ticked. That is not okay, buddy. That's even worse than jumping on the domino game last night.

So I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, because of you. It's hours later (and several weird work deaths and calamities later), and I am firmly still on the wrong side of the bed. I would like to get back IN to said bed and stay there for a few hours and attempt entry into the world again.

I'm not even tired. I'm just firmly entrenched in The Grump. Grrrrr. I think I will wait until YOU are happily asleep and then howl at YOU. See how you like it, big boy.

But I will still give you kisses when I get home because you are still adorable. Nothing changes that.

yours in love and grumbling,
Rachael

Contract!

Know what I did last night? Before going out? I went over MY CONTRACT.

Contract

I was stupidly thrilled that it had come FedEx overnight delivery. That just smacks of Important, right?

I read every sentence, and flagged every question I had to go over with my agent Susanna, which I did this morning. Have I mentioned recently she's the best agent ever? No? She is.

It. Is. So Exciting.

Also, you have to buy it, okay? I'm freaked out that it won't earn out (earn the advance) and then they'll never want another book from me, and then I'll have to, oh, I don't know, get a job at the fire department or something. Ack!

You know what's soooo cool, though? Next year? When the book is out? I will "have" to go to all the knit-events to promote it. Oh, no! I have to go to Maryland! Oh, no! Rhinebeck! All the Stitches events! (And they're tax write-offs, too. Pinch me.)

Also in big news:

Lala knows how to hold Digit like a baby.

Held likeababy

Do you have any idea how INSANE that is? I rarely pick him up, and when I do, he squirms out of my arms. He always has. He'll get on me, and lie on me, and cuddle with me, but it has to be on his terms. He's never enjoyed being held.

But Lala believes in holding cats like babies WHICH IS WRONG. She maintains, however, that this is the correct method, so both the kittens like to be held on their backs, since it's been happening to them since they were young.

Last night, a few beers in, Lala tried it with Digit. I got out my cell phone so I could call the paramedics.

And he loved it. It was the weirdest thing I'd ever seen. He started purring instantly. HE DOES NOT PURR WHEN HELD. He tends to bite or scratch. No, he purred. He batted my hands playfully with the claws retracted, and then rubbed his head against me while she held him. Finally, after maybe five minutes, Lala put him down. I tried it, and he turned into a spitting, fighting machine, which is his normal M.O.

She is the cat whisperer.

Babycheeks

Really?

If you leave an anonymous comment that's snarky, I'll delete it (especially if it's spelled poorly — then I'll giggle a little while hitting delete). (Also, it's not really anonymous. There's no way you can stop Typepad from capturing your IP address. Then I find out who you are. Silly you.)

Seriously, why do people read the blogs of people they don't like? There are only two people (maybe three) that I don't like in all of blog-land, and I would never visit their sites. I wouldn't ever even give them a drive-by click — they don't deserve that hit. Not that any of us check our stats anymore – I haven't checked mine in years (maybe I should start? But I get more than a million hits a year. Don't really have the time, which is a good problem to have — I ain't complainin'). But if they DID check their stats, I wouldn't want them seeing that I had visited their site. A visit to a site is like a vote. The more the better, no matter why they're coming. I don't spend my clicks like that, you know?

But I can't figure out why people who don't like me would read my site…. Who has the TIME? Who is that bored with her life? Who wants to be upset like that? Am I really that fascinating? Is it the cute animal pictures? Do they have a major crush on Lala and they're jealous of me? Seriously. Must be that last one. Oh, yay, I've figured it out! (And yes, she's crush-worthy, isn't she?)

Now back to the really serious stuff in life — what to wear out to the City tonight. I'm thinking my new fascinator-hat, mmmm?

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.