I've some gifts that make me happy and a few that make me sad

So the first part of today was terrible. I made my way back to Somerville and collapsed with my cats. Autolycus burrowed under the quilt with me and curled against my chest, washing my face with his delicate rough tongue, making my ribs vibrate with his earthshaking purr. Not once did he bite my wrist, though he would make little remonstrating mrrp!s when I sleepily slowed my petting of his soft, soft fur. Eventually he fell asleep under my arm and I fell asleep, too. I woke when Hestia, discovering her brother not immediately apparent to the eye, correctly diagnosed his presence under the quilt and pounced, whereupon Autolycus shot out from under the quilt like a grapefruit seed and Hestia settled contentedly into the vacant patch for just long enough to prove that she could take it or leave it. Her winter coat has grown in much thicker and coarser than her summer fur. She looks like she's put a fur coat on; all of a sudden she enters a room with swagger. derspatchel has started calling her "little black bear," sometimes in Russian. Autolycus is just even silkier than usual.

I just got an e-mail from my editor at Aqueduct Press: Rich Horton reviewed Ghost Signs in the January 2016 issue of Locus.

It took me even longer to get around to Sonya Taaffe's collection Ghost Signs, but it's not to be missed. Taaffe is probably my favorite poet in the genre, and the book collects a great many of her recent poems, but also includes one wonderful long story, "The Boatman's Cure". The prose is particularly wonderful—full of striking meta­phor, with a driving, nearly desperate rhythm, and the story is original and powerful, about a woman who can see and perhaps free ghosts. She seeks out an apparently quite ancient ghost, for obscure reasons that are slowly revealed to lie in her difficult past, especially her relationship with her dead sister—and of course her sister's ghost.

That really makes me happy.