Every article I write starts off as a party, a story flowing that I just can’t wait to put down on paper
Until I actually sit down to write. The thoughts that coursed so easily through my mind refuse to find their way out. This is hard work. The perfect words elude me and the structure of actually making my story come to life slams the joy out of writing it. I CAN NOT even look at this right now. In sheer frustration, I hit the button:
SAVE AS DRAFT
Inevitably, I come back.
And in the process of reading other work for inspiration and consulting the thesaurus and rewriting and restructuring each sentence are moments of sheer joy, accomplishment, pride and love for the story. Look what I created! Words for the next essay dance in my head, begging to be written. With confidence, I hit the button:
We celebrate ten years of marriage this week.
Our wedding was the party I had always wanted. Big, but not extravagant. A dress made for dancing and drinking and laughing and talking. A church service the only hint of formality, tempered by the kind humor and thick accent of Father Peter. An Irish wedding with a Vietnamese priest.
A crowded reception at the VFW. The handsome groom grinning next to me with a can of Budweiser in his hand. A bagpiper from our favorite band who we unabashedly tried to set up with the maid of honor. A groomsman who got arrested not once, but twice that night.
Laughter. So much laughter.
The party continued.
A one bedroom apartment in a sketchy part of the city, the start of a new career. Weekends spent celebrating the marriages of our friends. Exploring restaurants and bars and live music and professional sports.
Time. We had so much time.
The excitement of purchasing our first home, plunging every bit of time and money into making it our own. Refinishing hard wood floors and choosing the perfect paint colors. Hosting family and friends on the deck and late nights spent in the backyard around bonfires.
Then two pale blue lines, and a level of love and excitement that we never dreamed was possible.
Four years passed quickly.
A move, career changes, miscarriage, two more babies. Joy like we have never known. Cancer striking two women we love. Financial strain and sleepless nights and fear. This is hard work. Love, partnership, accomplishment. Depression. Strength, elation, survival. Co-existence. I CAN NOT even look at you right now. In sheer frustration I hit the button:
SAVE AS DRAFT
Marriage is not a personal essay but a novel, chapter following chapter.
Life evades the constructs of time, refuses to fit cleanly along the parameters of the last decade. Chapter one, with all of its firsts closed a few years ago. I look back with sheer joy, accomplishment, pride and love for our story. Look what we’ve created.
The party begins again. My handsome husband grinning next to me with a can of Budweiser in his hand. Time to indulge our passions, our family, each other. Ahead lies our children’s teenage years and aging parents and a slew of other conflicts we know nothing about. A level of love and excitement that we never dreamed was possible. With confidence, I hit the button:
As always, thanks for stopping by Beer and Junk!