Tales from our Wedding: The Running of the Spanx

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Elevator ride, post spanx. The lovely groomsman on the left was my helper. This is also one of my favorite photos from the wedding.

I hate spanx. I do. But apparently they’re great when you’re wearing a tight outfit. Or, in my case, a wedding dress. So I wore them while getting ready. I wore them to the ceremony. I wore them throughout the photos. And I wore them while in the dressing room with the bridal party, feasting on some of the cocktail hour foods.

They were uncomfortable for 99% of the time.

While walking to the main reception room for our entrance, I realized I had enough.

“I can’t wear them anymore. I want to eat. I want to breath.”

S offered to run them back, but there wasn’t enough time and I wanted him with me. So one groomsman, one brave, kind groomsman, piped up:

“I’ll run them back!”

I looked at S and nodded my head. I ran to the bathroom, which was nearby, stripped them off, and gave them to him. He ran – literally ran – back to the dressing room and made it to the reception hall in time for his entrance.

I’m sure when prepping for the wedding, he never thought he’d be running the bride’s under garments around the science center. I’m sure that was never part of his plan. Still, he’ll always be known as my spanx runner. And I’ll always be eternally grateful for that.

Three North

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A friend of mine from college recently finished his first manuscript. I’m really excited about this because, although I’ve met many amazing people online who are in the same stage as me, it’s nice having a real-life friend there. Plus, having known him for around 11 years, I’m extremely proud and excited for him. It’s much more personal.

So as I wait for his manuscript to arrive, I’ve decided to re-read The Perks of Being a Wallflower for the 8th (or so?) time.

I just finished part one, with Charlie meeting Patrick and Sam and instantly diving into this new world of music, and light, and infinities. And it reminds me very much of my first year of college.

I moved up to Tallahassee knowing a few other people on campus, including my roommate. We were in high school drama together, and managed to room together, too. But she had a boyfriend, and spent most of her time with him. And my other friend there had his girlfriend, and was spending most of his time with her. And I was happy for them, but I was still there, in my dorm, trying to figure things out on my own.

It was one of those dorms that was a block off campus and had two wings (the north and south side) and a cafeteria in the middle. I lived on the third floor of the south side. While getting lunch, I met a girl and we instantly bonded over being new and excited and wanting to do so much. So after a few lunches together, we went to a movie at our on-campus theatre, and then she introduced me to some of her friends, people from her floor and the floor below. They were a ragtag group of people so similar to me. They were filmmakers and writers and ninjas and dreamers. And when I sat with them at lunch or dinner, they didn’t ignore me, or question why I was there – they integrated me into the conversation as if I’d always been a part of their group. As if I lived on their floor, too.

On Halloween, they took me to a party, and they day after they took me out for my birthday. And after that, I never looked back. I practically lived on their floor (three north), oftentimes crashing on one of their floors just because we all didn’t want to part when night drew near. Even though I lived just on the other side of the building. We were in our own little world that felt safe and secure and completely belonging to us. We had jokes and games. We felt part of something when seeing one another on campus. We, yes, felt infinite.

So I know how Charlie feels once he’s integrated into Patrick and Sam’s group. I know because I’ve been there, too. And one of the guys I met in my group? He’s the one sending me the manuscript.

Tales from our wedding: The father/daughter dance of doom

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Father/Daughter Dance

Our one-year wedding anniversary is coming up in a month. Crazy how fast time goes by. To celebrate, I wanted to share some little-known stories from our wedding. Stories that most of the guests don’t even know. Stories that, to me, are just as memorable as the I dos.

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It’s not surprising to anyone that I was a huge reader growing up. My happy place was at the library. And while I was a regular, cheery, well-adjusted child, I loved sad books. Seriously. I remembering reading A Summer to Die in our kitchen, and silently crying through each page. I loved books that made me feel, even if that feeling was sorrow. 

Being Jewish, I obviously had to go through my Holocaust stage. I wanted to know more about my culture’s past, and see how much we suffered (as I was constantly reminded). Holocaust books were fascinating to me. Depressing, terrifying, I couldn’t believe they were true. So, of course, I had to share them with someone. 

Every time I read a new book, I’d tell my dad all about it. It became a game, really. I’d start talking, and he’d audibly sigh not because he hated hearing me share, but because he hated sad books. He hated being depressed. He hated when I told him if the girl/boy survived, and what became of their families. Unlike me, he didn’t want books that made him feel. He wanted books that were a distraction from everyday horrors, and I understood that, too.

The thing is, my dad is a very emotional man. You wouldn’t know that if you didn’t really know him. I mean, he’s very Italian, and born and raised in Brooklyn. He can fix a roof in an afternoon, and lift hundred-pound boxes up fights of stairs. He watches football and drinks beer, he golfs. But he was also the first to get teary eyed when I moved away to college. He was the first to sob when my mom was okay after her operation. Incidentally, he gets it from his dad.

As the Big Day drew nearer, we placed bets on how long it would be before he cried. While walking out? During the I dos? In all honesty, I don’t know if it happened during the ceremony. To this day he swears he didn’t cry, and I have no proof to justify otherwise.

But then the father/daughter dance came. And we all knew he’d lose it during that. All waited for it. He looked a little misty when we walked out, but as we turned, he murmured…

“Remember those books you used to read? About the girl who was running from the Nazis…”

To which I replied, “Dad. Are  you talking about the Holocaust at my wedding?”

And then we cracked up. Because of course he brought that up. He didn’t want to cry, so he brought up books I read. Depressing books, but still a distraction from the tears that might have come. He knew it would be funny. He knew I’d have a laugh.

And I did.

Some girls might have hated that their dad brought up such a horrible situation during such a memorable moment. But me? I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Last Lines

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A bit ago I discussed the pain of picking out a first line for a book. The first line is important, it reels the reader in. But you know what’s just as frightening to write? The last line. The last line is how the book will be remembered, it’s the last chance the author has to connect to the reader before the book is closed and the story completed. These moments before the end? It’s those that we live for.

For me, a last line can make or break a book. Sad isn’t it? I feel very strongly about last lines. I’ll adore a book, but if its last line is…meh…it loses some points. That’s not to say I’ve read a lot of books that have mediocre endings, I’m just, well, picky.

But it’s hard because we can’t all have “Isn’t it pretty to think so?” (The Sun Also Rises)

We can’t all have “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” (The Great Gastby)

(I won’t reveal other last lines as I don’t want to spoil books for you.)

So, there’s pressure. Lots of pressure to accurately sum up the book into one simple sentence.

The last line for TNWSY came to me in a migraine-induced haze. I don’t recommend this to anyone. I was lying on the couch with my eyes squeezed shut (lights hurt) and the last page, the last paragraph, the last sentence came to me. And I couldn’t not write it. So I let the light in, opened my laptop back up, and typed as fast as I could. And I was so happy with it. And even after edits and revisions, that one last line has never changed.

For TSWB, I hate my last line. Hate it. I’ve only done one round of revisions, so I can’t say much, but it just feels forced. I know something better will come eventually, but I felt the pressure to make it good. So I kept trying different things until I was moderately happy.

With Book 3, I just typed. I didn’t think about it, didn’t even know how the last page would end. I typed and poof it came to me. And it’s so incredibly cheesy, but I like it. I find it sweet and fun and sentimental and kind of like the book itself.

So in three attempts I haven’t found the best way to choose a last line. But i’m working towards it. Because if any of my books are ever published, I want that line to mean something. I don’t want readers to put down the book and go “meh,” I want them to high five it for its attempt at giving them the truths they were looking for.

How do you write your last line? Is it planned, or is it just improvised? What are some of your favorite last lines? 

Lessons

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I’ve learned quite a bit from each of the manuscripts I’ve written.

With TNWSY, I learned that I can do it. With drive and passion and faith I made it through to the end in less than a month. It was crazy and overwhelming, but it was possible.

With TSWB, otherwise known as Book 2, I learned that I can beat roadblocks and keep going. That I can trust myself to make it to the end. That negativity and doubts don’t really get me anywhere.

And now, with the yet untitled Book 3, I learned that the entire process can be ridiculously, unpredictably fun. That while it is a serious business, writing, it’s also unexpected at times.And, yes, while all of my other books were fun to write, sometimes you need to push away the stress of being good enough and just write what you want. Even if it isn’t good. Even if it isn’t much. Just get it out there because you want to, you need to.

That said, as I’m sure you’ve assumed, I’ve finished writing Book 3! It’s crazy to think a year ago I had just random snippets of books I so badly wanted to write. And now, almost a year later, I have three manuscripts. One is with an agent. The other two are sitting on my hard drive, slowly being edited. No, it’s not just a want, it’s a need that pushes me to keep going. Because I have to write. And I love it. 

SO! Book 3 is done. Is it good? Oh boy does it need work. It’s like a half-baked cake. It’s still soggy in the middle and may poison you from the raw eggs if you try it, but there’s a shape and there’s potential. And i’m so incredibly excited to put it back in the oven, frost it and show it off to my friends.

I’ve waxed on about this quite a bit, because I find it to be the best piece of writing advice I’ve ever read, but here goes once more – keep going. When in doubt, keep writing. You never know what you may be able to accomplish. And when you get there? When you type the last words on the page? The feeling is magical.