|Aren't we beautiful?|
Dear Human People:
We suppose you are what our Rachel refers to as "Bloggy Friends" when she's in a cosseting mood and "Writing Friends" when she's being practical. Whatever you call yourselves probably doesn't matter because we don't like you. (We are using the royal "we" because we are a Highness.) You take up Rachel's attention when quite obviously the matter at hand is us. We are only a little bit consoled because some of you are fond of this "Nickleby" in Fly Away Home. We don't like Fly Away Home; it takes our Rachel's attention too. Nickleby, however, is another matter. We like him mostly because he was based off of moi. Black cats are the best, we think, and that is all there is to the matter.
Human People and dogs are such terrible creatures. Right now the dog (it has a name but we don't say it) is whistling in his crate--we do say whistling because that is the proper term for that heinous noise--and it is making it dreadfully hard to hear things.
Our Rachel informed us today that she was sitting at a coffee-shop the other afternoon editing that wretched book of hers. We call it wretched but it really does look quite marvelous in person. We just don't tell her because it would swell her head. But to return to our story: she was sitting in the coffee-shop and another Human Person stood by watching her. It was not one of the Attractive Human Persons (like some he-person named Jack Hudson on the television) that makes our Rachel do that funny bouncing thing out of what we hate to notice is glee--it was a she-person. This she person decided to act like a cat and stick her nose into our Rachel's business.
"Sorry to be nosy," she said.
Our Rachel looked up.
"I had to see what you are reading. It looks like (insert some author we don't care about). What is it?"
Our Rachel blushed, she tells us, and said, "Actually I wrote it. It's the proof copy of my book I am independently publishing."
"What's it about?"
Here, our Rachel began to embarrass us by stumbling over her words and giving a perfectly idiotic description of her novel and thereby probably losing a customer. When she came home she was rather mortified. We tried to tell her to practice pitching her novel to customers but would she take our advice? HA.
"Aren't you excited? Is it your first?" the she-person said.
"It is and I am," our Rachel said, trying to scrape up a bit of dignity, as she afterward confided in us.
"Are you a local author?" the she-person said.
Rachel informs us that the lady grinned and tossed her head at an ancient couple to our Rachel's right. "Should we get her autograph now or wait a while?" she said to them, and all of them laughed.
Rachel seemed to think that this was a very clever thing the woman said--at least, she seemed rather gratified. Why, I can't tell. I can't think why anyone would want our Rachel's autograph. It seems like exactly the sort of idiotic thing that will be happening around here come the publication of that wretched novel.
What we think was the really notable part of our Rachel's hideously human afternoon was the dear prince among old men she met in a wretched place called Walmart. No, he wasn't handsome and no, Walmart is not a classy place to meet other Humans, but diamonds in the rough can glimmer just as bright. Our Rachel was in the cat aisle getting litter for our box. She buys one of the huge tubs that weigh a mine and was having difficulty getting it off the shelf, as two were jammed on top of one another. This old gentleman comes up and offers to get it for her and our Rachel lets him because she likes to think she is helping chivalry not die when she lets men lift things for her. We do our part by (occasionally) letting men lift us. But that is a tale for another time.
The old gentleman spent the better part of several minutes working the anvil-like tubs off the shelf and finally got one out. When he had got it in his hands, he walked it over to our Rachel's cart and put it in for her, wishing her a good day. If that isn't good breeding, we don't know what is. We are thankful to the anonymous stranger for having insured we got a fresh litter-box. Rachel is a dear but she can be a bit negligent in that area when a writing fit seizes her...if she'd only notice, the "presents" we leave her would cease.
Well. It is now getting dark--just the knife-edge of a January evening--and Rachel will be coming back to the computer after making Alfredo Sauce. (We like this) We don't want our Rachel to know we are posting for her. She will find out during her cover-reveal party when the last day is taken up already. What? We are being helpful for once and she can just deal with it.
We have now written ourselves into a fine mood. We would like to acknowledge that our Rachel's book is probably better than we like to tell her. We would like to tell you that on Valentine's Day (which is a day to cuddle, after all) we would recommend you buy a copy. Nickleby, our friend, will be worth it.
In the name of Our Own Royal Highness,