Bride Elect (Evolution of a Bridezilla)
Chapter Forty-Seven—That Damn Writing Contest (what was I thinking?!)
This year, JuNoWriMo had more moments of burden than joy. I began to wonder which one of my crazy personalities ever thought this one up. What on Earth possessed me to believe that I could write a minimum of 1667 words per day (every day) for thirty days straight?
The weekend of Grad, (and my Stagette party) was the most challenging. In fact, most evenings during that weekend, I was typing and experiencing REM sleep at the same time. Now, it is true I was trying to meet my word quota while under the influence of alcohol—in one case tequila shots—but still, weren’t some of the greatest American writers alcoholics?
Clearly, alcoholism would not give me a creative edge in my pursuit of a writing career. I would have to suck it up, sober up, and redouble my efforts to get caught up on my word quota. This would not be easy. There was still so much to do, and much not getting done. My pile of laundry was nearly taller than I was, and I was really close to wearing my grad dress from grade nine to work. My mom was threatening to disinherit me because no child of hers would have such a reprehensibly weedy flower bed. My cat was walking on my kitchen floor and licking the crumbs off his paws. He thought he finally had a breakthrough in my training. He was pretty disappointed when I finally did get around to vacuuming.
I really didn’t think things through. I had envisioned handling all the demands of June, with the added extras of out-of-province wedding planning, book publishing, book writing, and new course planning as something totally manageable. For the first part of the month, things went very smoothly, and then the latter part of the month happened, and the whole “what was I thinking?!” rolled into town.
I suspect some friends felt very neglected. One friend in particular struck up a bit of a relationship with my answering machine. She’d phone once a week and have a really sweet and lengthy message with it. She’d admit to missing me, and she’d wish both Palucid and me all kinds of good wishes. She would always mention that she knew I was busy, but would really love it if I could just give her a quick, one hour call.
My answering machine may have been a really good listener, but he was complicit in a major guilt-trip. Seriously, how many busy people have an hour to sit on the phone? Each voicemail made me feel overwhelmed and a little frustrated. My ‘to do’ list was growing at exponential speeds, and our wedding day was fast approaching. If my friend had checked in with Facebook like she said she was, she would know I was a fiendishly busy bride-elect-cum-bridezilla-grad-crazed-teacher-aspiring author in the throes of a gruelling writing challenge.
Still, this was my friend, and visiting with her, if I could find the time, would be no huge hardship. The trouble was, even though she was hoping for my call, the window of time I had to call her was really restrictive. Often she would not want to talk on the phone in the evenings when her husband was home. Mornings weren’t always a go—especially considering I was still at work during the days. Given that I was at work during the days, the afternoons weren’t ideal either. I considered phoning her during the drive home from work. However, my drive to work was only fifteen minutes—three-quarters shy of an hour. I sent her a text promising to call her sometime around or before the July long weekend.