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Hey, y'all, if anyone missed it when it was offered for free from my publisher, my short story "Honeymooning" is available again. It's a Cypress Hollow tale, about Janet and Tom, and I can't actually give it away on Amazon (there are Self-Publishing Rules) so I priced it as cheaply as they let me go at $0.99. It's HERE for the Kindle and HERE for the Nook (and Kindle in UK HERE), and I'll let you  know when it's available on other platforms.

And errrybody, thanks for your comments yesterday. I really did spend most of the afternoon in bed, which was awesome. Then the sisters came over to eat Lala's fantastic chili (her first  cast iron Dutch oven experiment) and my rather good cornbread, and it was extremely nice. What you all said was amazing, and anyone thinking about grief in any form might wanna go have a peek at those comments. xooxox

I've given up on today. I had a meeting this morning, and then I wrote 2000 words, and I think that might be all I'm good for. I was, in fact, out driving with the intention of going to Santa Cruz for the day, but then I got a milkshake and sugared myself right out. I turned the car around and went home (via the cafe, where I MADE MYSELF work for a while, gritting my teeth the whole time).

It's the little mama's birthday today, and I'm thinking about grief and what I know about it.

What I know is this:

Not much.

The way I, Rachael Herron, grieve for my beloved little mom, is not the way I'll ever grieve for anyone else, and not the way you'll do it for anyone, either. This is my mileage. Make of it what you will. *

The first month is awful. Let's not even think about that month.

The first six months suck with a white-hot fiery agony. Much of the time breathing feels like a check-box you'd rather not check. There is joy, of course, daily, because joy happens even when you'd rather it not. But there are nights of howling black loneliness even when you're surrounded by your loved ones. Everything feels heavy, especially your feet and your eyes, and neither are worth lifting. Dreams are dark, corporeal, and devastating.

The second six months are pretty bad, but there will be a day here and there when you forget about your little mama until nightfall, and then it will all come back in a rush, and it will hurt, but more like being socked in the stomach, less like being stabbed in the heart. You'll have one good dream about her (the one where she comes up behind you and says in your ear, "I'm here", and you'll cherish it, hugging it tightly for weeks).

The year and a half mark was, for me, a turning point. That was the first time I could think of her without pain. I could remember funny things, and even more important, I could remember her faults again (not that there were many, mind you). I could remember how she bugged me every once in a while. I could almost hear that grumbling noise she made as she walked around the house, picking up, and I realized that I (and Digit) make the same noise. Those memories made her into a real person in my memory, whereas before that time she was so shiny and perfect I could barely see her in my memory for the bright glow of her halo.

Now, it's three years this week (can you believe that? I can't). I'm multi-published, something she didn't live to see. Dad's getting married to his girlfriend in October (I adore her, hi Lola!), and overall, the world has kept spinning pretty well, even if it wobbles sometimes.

But Mom is still around. I know this in my heart, and you know I'm not a woo-woo kind of person. But our loved ones ARE nearby, and I see Mom regularly in my dreams (and sometimes she's grumbly. I love that). I can say to a stranger when asked about my mother, "she died," without breaking into unexpected tears. I don't even feel like I'm pushing the tears back anymore. It's just a fact now.

Just like it's a fact today is her birthday. She would have been 71. And I knew it was coming, and I've been through a couple of them, and I thought I would be okay. Today I'm not okay, though.

I am, however, very good at self-care. I've tucked myself back in bed, and I don't plan on leaving it until evening at the earliest. I have my computer, my iPad, my phone, and three dogs. The cats will follow when they realize where I've gone. Lala is being very nice to me, because she's had Great Loss, too, and understands. If I need it, she will go get me ice cream.

I'm pulling the covers over my head, but I also wanted to say, I'll be okay. I know that. And there's great value in that.

In New Zealand at Hot Water Beach

*(I was emailing a friend about the death of parents, and this has been on my mind. Yes, it's supposed to happen before the death of the child. Therefore, most of us go through it. But there is NO reason to discount it because of this. In some ways, it's the deepest, most cutting loss we'll go through, and I hate when it's made less because it's "just" a parent. I have Strong Feelings about this.)

The winner of Sheepish has been chosen and has been notified by email! Thanks, all, for playing.

And now, while I'm already going on about books, I have to tell you about the one I'm reading right now (I'm so much better at doing this here on the blog, rather than on Goodreads or Amazon…).

I both love and hate reading books that make me second-guess myself as a writer. Oh, look! Here's what I love to read and write! Followed immediately by oh, shit. I'm SO not getting this right.

I normally don't blog about books I'm not finished reading, but I'm so confident in this one, I'm blogging now.

The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted, by Bridget Asher. It's lovely, pointed, and poignant, filled with specifics about love and grief presented gorgeously. I'm rooting for our heroine SO MUCH that I read all afternoon, and I'm going to bed early tonight to read a little more. (Not that this is uncommon–but this particular lust to get back to reading is one of my favorite things in life, and I love it when I find it.) It doesn't surprise me that the author is a poet, and what's gratifying is that all her quietly lovely moments aren't showy but simply presented.

Also, just a moment to mention Libba Bray's Beauty Queens. I was surprised by this one. A plane-load of beauty queens crash-land on an island–a cross between ANTM and Lost. I predicted it would be funny. It was. I thought it would be snarky. Check. And about four chapters in, I thought I'd seen all the jokes. I got it. I understood the schtick. I was going to stop reading. Any minute, I would be done. I never feel pressure to finish books I don't really want to… any minute…. And I keep turning pages. She kept surprising me. I finished it, and I was really glad I did. I loved the surprises, and even when they were on the obvious side of gotcha, they were RIGHT.

Two incredibly different books (three, counting Catherine's memoir first mentioned in this post). I love reading. Off to do more.

Ahhh. I've had five days off with one more to go, and while to some that means long hours of leisure and relaxation, right now to me that means writing as fast as I can. I've got this project stuck in my craw, and I can't let it go. I'm trying to ride it while I can (and, apparently, mix every metaphor available). This week has reminded me of a few things:

When writing 20 pages a day (5000 words-ish), by nightfall the English I don't speak it so good. It's as if I use up all my thoughtful words and I'm only left with Huh? and Wha? None in Chez Hehu stand in awe of my rapier wit and mastery of our mother tongue, that's all I'm saying.

When writing quickly, there are hundreds and hundreds of typewritten words scrolling across the screen in front of you that you KNOW will die by the fiery red-pen of death. They're awful words. Terrible. Possibly the worst words ever linked together on a page (I like to compete in all things, including mind-numbing prose. Mine is the most numbing!). So you get that terror that we all get (often), the fear that says YOU SUCK SO MUCH YOU SHOULD PROBABLY GET A DAY JOB. Wait, you have a day job. YOU SHOULD PROBABLY GET ANOTHER ONE, TO BOOT, AND QUIT THIS CRAP. You see one terrible idea after another splat on the page in front of you, and right when you're about to quit FOREVER, you realize that the thought that was so dreadful, isn't, really. It's kind of okay. Later, you figure out that part was pretty good, actually. It's a good thing you were writing quickly because it was only a fluke you typed it in the first place.

This leads me to the Most Difficult Thing About First Drafts: You never know which parts are good and which are terrible when you are writing them. Ever. You can't tell. There is no way to figure that out, so you just have to keep writing. The parts you thought were genius? They'll be precious and over-wrought. The parts you thought were flat and stupid? They'll end up containing the entire THEME of your novel. The parts that were meh? Some were, and some weren't.

You just gotta keep going. And the faster you go, it feels to me, the more exciting it is. It's kind of like driving. If you drive like you're racing (which I don't–I own a station wagon, but I think this is true), you have to hold on tight and be ready for anything. You might have to swerve, and fast. On the other hand, if you're going fifteen down a country road, you might have to dodge a bunny or two, but you can just keep one hand on the wheel.

I'm kind of liking this death-grip racing thing. It's working right now, anyway.

GIVEAWAY!

And hey, to celebrate books, I have one to give away–I already gave away my galley copy of Catherine Friend's Sheepish: Two Women, Fifty Sheep, and Enough Wool to Save the Planet, but her publisher has graciously agreed to send a copy of the real, finished book to one random commenter (I can't bear to give up my own copy: I am a BLURB on the back, along with Garrison Keillor and Novella Carpenter!). 

Leave a comment, enter to win! Easy-peasy. (I'll draw a winner on Sunday.)

And scrappy, ratty, skinny, grumpy ole Digit says hello. And now he will attack.

Really, I get WAY too excited about this. But it takes me soooo long to fill up a whole Moleskine that when I get to crack open the spine of a new one, it's like Christmas morning.

 
 

Then, of course, I'm too nervous to write anything on the first page, so I have to wait for a bit. And this last journal — you know what was on the first page? "I have finished a book." In September 2007, I finally finished my first novel, Love Spun (which turned into How to Knit a Love Song). I was so dang over the moon about it, and in the pages of the journal I spun a little dream about publishing something someday. I finally knew I *could* finish something.

I love that journal.

 

And hey, you know what has saved my bacon many times in various journals? I'm one of those people who writes ALL OVER the book. I keep my diary in the front, but that probably comprises the fewest pages. I write fiction, make knitting notes, jot ideas, makes lists, worry and plan and hope, and just WRITE in general. I never pay attention to where I am in the book — I just open to a blank page and go. Then, of course, I could never find what I was looking for until I did this simple trick:

I number the pages as soon as I get the journal. It's that easy. Then, when I write something that I think might be of use later, I jump to the very first page and add it to my Table of Contents. Yes, everything is out of order, and the numbers jump around (just like my brain!), but I can FIND things.

See?

 

And I use the heck out of tabs and post-its. Totally helpful.

Oh, what was that? You want the magic formula that I highlighted pink? It says, "He shines spotlight, it backfires." Wish I could remember what that meant, exactly. And why it was magic. Huh.

But under character motivations, I'll give you what I have because I use it a LOT. (I can't remember where I got it, so I can't attribute it, I'm sorry….)

Questions: What is your character's immediate problem? What CHOICE does she face? What terrible thing will happen because of that choice?

 
It's important to me to keep these questions in front of me all the time, because I tend to be too easy on my characters. I let them have too much chat time in first drafts. Must do bad things to them! Must be very mean!

Now, I'm off to write something….

Sent a-go-go from my Android.