I am 59 days away from getting married. And many of you know that getting married often involves writing things. Writing lots of lists, writing invitations, writing playlists or programs or prayers. Or vows.
This month I get to write vows. I am excited about this. Joey is more excited. So excited that he kept saying "I'll keep it under 600 words!" and... well you get the picture.
But I also have to write something else this month, which is intrinsically related to my wedding but not about my wedding.
I get to finish my novel. Many of you know that this novel is semi-autobiographical about the worst year of my life. It's about a few of the people I knew, or at least the people I talked to, and how they impacted me. How they impacted the rest of my life.
And I have to get it out all now before I commit myself to someone else because if all that crap is still holding me back as I'm walking down the aisle, I am not going to be a very good wife and I won't have a very good outlook on my husband. I deserve more than that, and so does Joey.
There is still sometimes a panic that rises in me when I encounter some of those people and find myself dropped into those memories. I fear they will come back and chase me down a dark alley and beat me to death. Or, I fear they will just torment me until completely lose my mind.
It's true that I have come a long way from that place, from that person that I have been. But there's a finality in writing the story of it all. There is a concrete permanence to it, a solidity. I am giving the story a space in which it can exist without growing, without hurting me, because I'm controlling it. I am locking it inside 50,000 words. And once I've put it there, it can't get out.
So if you like, you can travel with me on this journey. I don't know how many words I have left but it's a lot. If you have the time, push me, tell me I can do it. Remind me why I must.