Stage Three, The Dress (Part One)

I will admit that I harbored a secret fear that I might be the one girl in all the world who doesn't really look good in wedding gowns. I don't know why I thought this might be, but it probably had something to do with the fact that I am so pale I practically glow, and thus white is simply not my color. However, after having finished my third successful dress hunting expedition with April this weekend, it turns out that my problem is not going to be having to pick which dress offends me the least, but rather which dress I love most. Because right now I love three, and deeply like a fourth, and I still have two more outtings planned during which it is completely possible that I may fall in love yet again.

I've been told that I should picture myself on That Day and go with what dress I can best imagine myself in. All well and good, except I can picture them all, and each one, at the moment I'm thinking of it, seems like the perfect choice.

I feel heartbroken when I think about having to dump any of them. Last night I had a dream that I went to try on the front runner for a second time, and found that it was no longer a dress, but rather a shiny white pantsuit (think Celine Dion). Once I got over being mortified, I was deeply relieved to have a good excuse to cut one choice away.

Firsts and Lasts

Today is April's last day at the company she's been with since we moved to Los Angeles over five years ago. She's leaving so that she has more time to focus on Sweet Monday. I'm really excited about the strides we've both taken to make the dream of our business begin to come true.

(To the five of you who read this, I promise to write a real post soon. Head still in clouds.)

Comfort Food

Made cheesy vegetable soup for dinner last night, letting it simmer just long enough to make it thick and creamy. I wish I'd had some of mom's cornbread to go with it.

New

For anyone interested in pictures from our latest wedding, you may see them by clicking in the title of this post.

Stage Two, Where I try to do something besides think about the wedding

Sat down tonight to write for the first time in three weeks. I thought I'd follow behind my dad and aunt and post what I'm working on right now. A little rusty, but:

In the final days before her divorce, Moira spent most of her time watching her new television. It was the fanciest set offered, ordered from a Sears catalog, and delivered by a man to whom she lied and said that her husband was away on business. It was black and white, and later when she would think back on this time, it would seem that her whole life then had existed in the static of gray. She was depressed, although she hadn't really noticed.

The television, which she called the Tee Vee, pronouncing each syllable with such deliberate force that unbeknownst to her it sounded almost ridiculous, was just one symptom. She'd never watched it before, had never even had an interest, and suddenly her days revolved around Lucy and Gidget, women who would have dulled her under previous circumstances.

In the mornings she got up and put on a pair of denim slacks. She knew they were really only acceptable to wear if she planned to spend time in the garden, and so most days as she put them on, she thought to herself that she would do just that, but then never did. Instead, she made herself eggs, two, scrambled, which she bought from the market down the street that received them fresh every morning at 8:45. The eggs and a piece of toast, just black enough to fill the kitchen with the smell of something burning. She'd take the plate into the living room, and rest it carefully on her knees, eating as delicately as she could while taking in the first of her programs for the day. Sometimes the smell of the burnt toast would remain in the kitchen until the afternoon. It comforted her in some way, as if it made the house more full and lived in than her body alone could manage.

In the end it was Moira who had wanted the divorce. Luke, for all his many flaws, was a man of honor who had not wanted Moira to feel the shame divorced women were subjected to.
“We can go on like this,” he’d said.
But she’d heard something different, and so in return she’d said he was right. ”We can’t. We can’t do this anymore.”
It was months before he corrected her.

Stage One, In Which I Obsess Over A Barn and Someone To Take Pictures of Us in Fancy Clothes

With the exception of the first couple of blissful days, my eyelids have been doing that weird twitchy thing nearly nonstop for the two weeks I've been engaged. It appears even my eyelids are stressed out by Week One of wedding planning.

Every married friend or relative who has congratulated G. and I has dispensed the same piece of advice: Enjoy this time. On an emotional level, I am. I love the happiness I feel knowing I get to marry the guy who surprised me with breakfast at work this morning out of the blue (and with extra McDonald's monopoly pieces!). I don't love the feeling that if we don't act fast (like, five hours ago fast) we might lose our Perfect Location or our Perfect Photographer.

I will take everyone's advice. Yes, I will. I will enjoy this time. After those things have been done.

Good Things Come...

In the quiet corner of a restaurant, surrounded by memories sewn together long ago, before we knew the fabric they would create(though didn't we, always, in a way?).

In the nervous hush right before the first strums of a guitar, played while on one knee, with words full and pure.

In the weight and shine of a ring on a finger.

In new promises made and old promises kept.

I'm getting married.

The Novelist Thing

There have been many times during the writing of this book when I have thought that my worst fear about my writer self may turn out to be true. I may not be cracked up to be a novelist.

As I've mentioned before, my book has many short stories woven in with the primary story. Not just subplots (in fact, not subplots at all) but complete, chapter length stories. These stories are the only kind of fiction I'd ever written up until I started the book, and it was always been my deep dark worry that I couldn't write something longer than fifteen or twenty pages. As I've been trudging through the middle of this book, where each page has required grand effort, I've heard a little voice telling me that there's a reason why it's not coming easily. The voice speaks a little louder whenever it's time to start one of the new short stories within the story. The voice screams: "Look how happy you are to be starting this next little diversion! Look how fun this is!" And I have to admit that the voice is right. It DOES make me happy to write those little bits. It IS fun. And maybe that means I can't do the bigger story, and I'm not ever going to be a novel writer.

Or maybe it just means that writing a novel is harder for me than writing short stories, which I've been doing since I was seven. Imagine that.

A & I have another wedding tomorrow. Photos to come next week.

Autumn, here.

Autumn here is like spring.
Easter colored things grow.
Rainboots arrive on store shelves and are swiftly scooped up.
The air smells of warm earth, about to burst.
There's a chill, but it feels less like the end of something and more like the beginning.

This Day

Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

The man whose office is next to my cubicle often speaks a different language, but I don't know which one.

I wish that oranges were able to be eaten as delicately and easily as apples.

I've been alone a lot this week, and was supposed to accomplish many things, things like writing twenty pages and making something with the Gocco and picking out recipes for the next month from my sadly underused cookbooks.

Instead I accomplished very little. I'd like to say that I spent my (not accomplishing stuff) time frolicking joyfully and relaxing fully and giving myself pore cleansing facials so I would feel pretty and girly.

But no. I slept.

The Bright Forever

I'm reading a good book right now (similar in theme to THE LOVELY BONES, for those of you who have read it) which is reminding me of some clever ways to build tension in a story. This is going to be absolutely critical in my novel, and I'm still figuring out how best to do it. I love that feeling I get when I'm reading something and the pieces slowly start to come together and I find that I have goosebumps.

When I finally have someone read this draft or the next, probably a year from now, the first thing I'll be asking when they're finished is if there were any goosebump moments.

Beyond Quantity

In telling myself that in this first draft of the book, I need only get the story down, get the pages out, DO IT, I believe I've let myself slack a bit where quality of writing is concerned. The past few weeks in particular, I've noticed that as long as I write a page each day, I think I've done my job. Nevermind if it's not a page I'd be willing to let my six year old sister read, let alone the world at large.

Some small part of this is necessary. If I were to write the way I always have up until I began this novel, it would literally take me years and years to get it all down, and most likely it would simply never happen at all. I'm usually incredibly picky about every word I write, the result of equal parts perfectionism and the deeply rooted desire to not have to do a second draft. Ever. With this book, I knew from the get go that I would be writing a second draft, which was terrifying at first, then quite freeing, and now downright dangerous.

I had dreams this weekend, both while sleeping and while awake, of writing lovely, meaningful passages for this story. The goal this week is to focus on making that a reality again.

Smoke Meat

If you're not already, you should be reading the story my dad is writing online. There's a lot of catching up to do for new readers, but it's well worth it. The latest chapter puts me at a loss for words.

http://www.smokemeat.blogspot.com

In California, it's not really possible, except perhaps in December or January, to decide on a Monday that you'd like to go camping the following weekend and have anything successful result. The campgrounds (and there don't seem to be as many as one would think there'd be in a state with so much wilderness) fill up very quickly, months upon months in advance.

Today I'm aching for a far out of doors get away, for the calm that only that kind of thing can bring, and I wish I could make that happen this weekend. If only I had known in February that I'd be feeling blue this last week of August, maybe I could.

And Improved

A. and I have updated the photography site to include our latest wedding (you've seen a couple of the pictures in previous posts here). I'm really proud of how this one went, and excited to see what kind of response we get from potential clients who visit the site. Click on the title of this post if you'd like to take a look.

One thing that surprised me a little about the photographs from this wedding was realizing how much I still like film better than digital. My new digital camera, as dear as it is to me and as much as it has expanded my photographic horizons, still can't compare to the truly lovely quality that film produces.

Hooray!

Congratulations to my cousin J. on her new job.
She's going to be an amazing teacher.
Those are some lucky fifth graders.

Out Of Place

On Monday night as I parked my car on the street behind my building, I noticed a large but young looking bird land on top of another car. Though I haven't seen a hawk in several years, I used to see them all the time when I was in college in Kansas. I was pretty sure, getting out of my car and walking slowly toward the bird, that I was looking at a baby hawk. It had the hooked beak of a hawk, the yellow legs (feathery at the top) of a hawk, and the squared tail feathers of a hawk. Most key, it had the same distinguished, determined face of other hawks I've seen.

At first I wished I had my camera, as is my first instinct whenever I see something out of the ordinary that affects me. But sometimes its better to just take in the moment as it is, and rely on your own eyes and memory to do the job. I followed him around as he flew from car to car and finally into a tree. I was so in awe of him that I wanted to see where he would go next, but was careful to keep my distance in case he was scared. He seemed so out of place in my neighborhood, among the pigeons and crows who hover on the wires, and I wondered if he felt as lost as he looked.

I hope not. I hope he knew where he was going, and that he's there now.

The good life has sprinkles on top.

Happy birthday, handsome.

happy birthday
Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

Dashing

There's something so stirring about looking at old family photos. This one is of my grandpa and his cousin, probably from sometime in the 1940s. In it he looks so much like my cousin Bronson who died a few years ago. When I see this picture, it comforts me and makes me smile, and for a moment it allows me to imagine Bronson growing into a handsome old man just like my grandpa has.