A Storybook Wedding

Chapter 11 Cecily

The rest of the day is pretty much a carbon copy of the one before it. Seminars, dinner, student readings. Nate and I opt to attend the readings this time just to show our faces, and afterward, when we head up to our room, it is mutually understood that I will wear a bra to bed and he will wear more than just his underwear.

As the end of the year draws nearer, so does my impending query experiment, and I find that I am growing increasingly nervous about it. I haven’t discussed it publicly, but somehow, the next morning, in Alice Devereaux’s workshop, it slips out of me.

We’re reviewing my pages. I’m trying not to focus on the sweat pooling under my arms. I’ve got my notebook open to a clean page and my pen at the ready. There are three other students in this workshop besides me: Megan (a first semester student), Drew (a graduating student who only needs to be here as a final graduation requirement), and Harold, who was in my workshop last semester. Megan is about forty, and her workshop submission is a short story about a woman in love with two best friends. (Spoiler alert: she dies at the end, which seems both extreme and unnecessary since the depth of these relationships was somehow missed on the page. There’s also a wildly explicit sex scene taking up six of the eighteen pages, and it’s not doing the story any favors.) Drew submitted the first eighteen pages of his thesis for us to read: it’s a historical novella following a family through the early days of the Korean War. It’s fine—the writing is competent, and some lines are well put together, evoking a great deal of imagery, but the premise bores me, and I suffer through those eighteen pages in much the same way as I’m sure others in the group feel they’ve suffered through mine. Harry Potter, who is not donning a cloak this time but who has grown in an actual goatee to stroke, submits a speculative piece about a man in witness protection who becomes a dog walker in southern Idaho. I have no idea what the point of it is, but I write feedback with thoughtful questions in an attempt to be a good steward of other people’s art—in much the same way that I can only hope they will do with my work.

Pages 170 through 188 of my novel were the most gut-wrenching pages I’ve ever written. They were also the most cathartic. I’m pretty sure that when Bryce and Jamie started dating, innocuous as it may have seemed, there was always a piece of me that wondered if they had eyes for each other back when he was with me. I wanted to ask her if he was as selfish (or maybe just ignorant) in bed with her as he was with me or if he ever talked about me when they were dating—I mean, I was his ex, and who else do you talk about when you’re dating someone new besides the someones of your past?

Never mind the fact that despite myself, I missed him back then. When he left for Vancouver, a tiny piece of me might have broken apart just a little bit. My rational brain understood that he was bound to leave. He was a great ballplayer, and he was going to get drafted. But it definitely stung a little that he disappeared into thin air, literally overnight, without even offering to try to do the long-distance thing, as if all those years together meant nothing. I wasn’t even important enough to keep on standby. Even his let’s be friends suggestion was a thinly veiled attempt at a consolation prize, and then just a few years later, the stars align for him and my sister?

The eighteen pages are not a rant though. Nobody likes a rant. These pages depict the moment my main character, Natalie, receives a phone call from her sister telling her that the thing she’s doing with the MC’s ex-boyfriend is a whole lot more than casual. Natalie hears this information, holds it together during the conversation, and then unfolds into a flashback of the best day she ever had with him when they were together, which happened to be an outdoor concert they went to at the beach, followed by a make-out session in the sand and a long walk where they discussed their hopes and dreams for the future. It was agonizing to relive that flashback, as it was the only part of the story that wasn’t sprinkled with fiction dust. Natalie’s optimism is so blissful, and when held in contrast to the news of him seriously pursuing her sister, it evokes the same emotions that one might experience if they watched a kitten get run over by a train.

At least that’s what Nate told me.

So when seated in this workshop, I’m reminded that Nate thought these were good pages and that his opinion matters more to me than anyone else’s here, so I don’t need to worry about the feedback I receive. I brace myself, and Alice Devereaux asks me to read the first page of the piece aloud, so I do.

The phone rings, and Natalie notices that the number on the screen, coupled with her sister’s photo, immediately turns her stomach now. They usually text one another. There’s no reason to be calling, unless…well, unless it’s something important.

Natalie knows it’s going to be bad from the moment she answers the call. Gina waits too long to respond. Only a beat, but Natalie knows her sister. This is the girl who, at eight years old, thought she was dying when the doctor told her that her swollen nipples were actually breast buds. The very same girlwho begged Natalie to come with her to the bathroom the first time she had her period in school. This girl—Natalie’s baby sister—shared a bed with her every Christmas Eve until she was twenty-three years old and moved into her own place.

No, Gina would never pause before greeting Natalie unless what she was about to say was going to destroy her.

And then it does.

The words come slow, as if Gina can’t even spare Natalie the compassion of ripping the Band-Aid off quickly. “There’s, um, something I need to tell you,” she begins. Natalie can feel the nervous pops of gas exploding in her belly, filling her with the bloat of a dead fish. “It’s just… Ryan and I…well, you know how we’ve been sort of seeing each other?” she continues.

Natalie swallows suddenly, noticing that her throat is a desert, devoid not only of moisture but also of words. She lets out a guttural sound, which serves to let her sister know that she is still alive, if barely.

“Thank you, Cecily,” Alice Devereaux says. “Now who would like to begin?”

Harold raises a hand. “Having read some of Cecily’s work before, I have to say, I found this piece to be really well executed. The unfolding of this scene reads very universally. The emotions transcend age. I enjoyed it a lot.”

Well, hot damn,I think. That was such high praise that I suddenly don’t even notice the resemblance between Harold and Daniel Radcliffe.

“I agree,” says Megan. “I felt like this sequence was very clean—there’s a great balance between the character’s inner life and her outer reaction to this news. It’s impressive that it’s written in third person, but just based on the physical descriptors of how the news hits her, the reader feels the same inner devastation that you might experience if it was written in first person.”

This is an interesting note, especially since Dillon Norway and I decided that the entire piece was more effective in first person—a decision we made after I submitted this piece several weeks ago.

“Yes.” Drew nods. “Even though I’ve only been given this selection, I already feel for the character. Some of the lines are so vivid. Like this one, on page one hundred seventy-six: Natalie’s chest becomes paralyzed, her lungs threatening a walkout like the one the seniors conducted over gun control last year. Her brain shuts down, and the part of her body responsible for empathy dissolves into a void of empty space, a holding cell for memories and the all-encompassing life force of future possibilities. It’s beautiful writing. You can immediately identify with what the character is going through.”

“In the next part, she’s thinking to herself, Sometimes I miss you so much it’s hard to remember anything else. It’s so heartbreaking, especially when you realize she’s saying that about her sister,” Megan adds. “The loss for Natalie is worse than it would be if it were just that they had been killed in a freak accident. Here are these two people who she loves or has loved, who have been two of the most important people in her life, and they’re both making a conscious decision to hurt her. It’s awful in its relatability.”

I scribble down some of the commentary, awash with surprise that these comments are, so far, all positive.

This continues for about ten minutes as they move through the piece. I can’t figure out what it is—Is this only happening because of my association with Nate? I wonder. Last time I was in this position, I was torn to shreds, but this time, it’s like I’m a completely different author. There’s no way I got good in such a short period of time.

Finally, it’s Alice Devereaux’s turn to speak. “I’ll start by saying that I agree with much of what’s been expressed here. I think this is polished prose, and the reader doesn’t need to have been on the journey with this character through the first one hundred and seventy pages of the story in order to feel the heartbreak she’s enduring. The theme of loss is evident from the first sentence. The use of flashback is powerful, and it moves the story forward, which is exactly what we want to see in flashback placement,” she says, referencing her workshop from the previous day. “It’s fine work. Really first-rate.”

There’s no animosity in her tone, no sarcasm in her commentary. I’m shocked. Considering how nasty she’s been to Nate, I assumed that she would antagonize me as well, especially since she’s in a position of power in the workshop setting.

But I was wrong. She’s nothing but kind and supportive.

And this unexpected turn of events feeds my fragile ego in a way I never dreamed possible.

I start to gush, telling my colleagues and Professor Devereaux that I’m done with this manuscript and that I’m planning to start querying it in a few days. I tell them about my research, the work I’ve put in on my query letters. They nod, smile, and wish me luck as if they really mean it.

They submit their feedback letters to me, and I place them in the Responses folder in the back of my binder. I can’t wait to go back and tell Nate how completely different it all went this time around. But first, we have a five-minute break, and then Professor Devereaux is conducting a presentation about social media.

I consider a cup of coffee, but my blood is already racing through my veins. Instead, I text Nate. Workshop went great! Can’t wait to tell you all about it!

Attagirl,he replies. So glad to hear but not surprised.

There’s not much time to revel, and when the group reconvenes, Alice Devereaux launches into a slideshow about the importance of social media in a publishing career, sharing metrics about case studies of extremely successful commercial authors. She explains how social media has evolved to be a place for book lovers, starting with the launch of Amazon as an online bookseller and moving through platforms such as Instagram and TikTok. She discusses how the influencer culture of these platforms has created the opportunity for new work to go viral. She dissects the genres most affected by these platforms, and then she says—while looking directly at me—that many commercial genres are almost wholly dependent on these types of platforms for the discovery of new talent.

I’m not a social media person. Never have been. I don’t even have an old, expired Facebook account or anything close. I could barely handle online dating. The last thing I want to ever have to do is put more of my personal information out there on the internet.

I say as much after raising my hand, and Professor Devereaux explains that social media is an unfortunate reality that can potentially mark the difference between being a hobbyist writer versus a professional author. This is a part of the business side of things that many authors don’t want to see or perhaps have never been properly prepared for, which is exactly why she’s doing this presentation right now.

It’s incredible how easily I can be swayed.

For the last eighteen years of my life, since getting my first phone at the age of twelve, I have avoided joining social media platforms. Yet here I am, just days away from turning thirty, being told by a woman who’s probably more than twice my age that not having social media could render me DOA when my query letter lands in an agent’s mailbox, because they’ll look me up online and find me exactly nowhere. Suddenly, I’m downward spiraling into a frantic Google search for “the best social media platforms for authors.” Professor Devereaux suggests Instagram for me, and since I am uncomfortable with posting lots of visuals, she recommends that I learn how to use Canva, which will enable me to create imagery without having to actually be in the pictures myself. While it’s an evolving situation, Bookstagram, she says, “is one of several platforms where the writers are expected and encouraged to interact with their readers.” But she also suggests TikTok and even YouTube. She tells me that she’s responsible for all of the social media accounts for the Matthias University MFA program, and they’re extremely useful for sharing news, video reels, events, grants, and such. So by the time I see Nate at lunch, I tell him I need him to take a profile picture of me for Instagram, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Since when do you care about social media?”

“Since Alice Devereaux told me that if I’m not online, no one will ever want to publish my work.”

“Okay, CJ. Hear me out. That’s a load of bullshit.”

“She had statistics, Nate.”

“So what? I didn’t have any social media when I got signed.”

“But you do now, so obviously you believe in it.”

“My publicist believes in it. I’m just saying you don’t need to shift your focus to something that’s so obviously not who you are. Agents will come for you based on your book, not based on your presence online,” he insists. “Trust me. If you were writing nonfiction, it would be another story. You’d need a platform, without a doubt. But for fiction? I could not disagree more.”

I sigh. “She had statistics,” I say weakly.

He laughs. “I’m sure she did. I’m just looking out for you though. I know how much you hate being online. Having social media is so much more than just putting up a profile. That’s what a website is for. With social, you need to engage with people. That’s a job in and of itself. You need to be active. It’s almost worse if you have a social media presence but it’s stagnant. I’m telling you—people are paid lots of money to manage social media for celebrities because it’s an encumbrance.”

“So you think I should wait.”

“Sure. I don’t see there being any kind of rush. Honestly. Query your manuscript. See how that goes. Then we’ll take it one step at a time.”

My nerves flutter at hearing him say that we’ll take it one step at a time. I like that we’re a we, even if we’re only faking it.

Unfortunately, Alice Devereaux has planted a seed in my overly fertile gray matter, and it’s already taken root.

The next day, I’m excited to be back in her workshop. I feel a little like a traitor; she clearly dislikes my husband, but she also respects me and my work, and I’m so shaken by this development that I’m chasing the high of it. We workshop Megan’s piece, and Devereaux rips it to shreds, which makes me feel even more like a big shot, since she was so complimentary of mine by comparison. I feel bad for Megan and look for the redemptive elements of her writing so she doesn’t only take away negativity from this moment, especially since she’s a new student, and I don’t want to see her turn into a pile of mush like I did in my first workshop last semester. But I am bold; I offer up a craft book that helped me refine my dialogue, I mention a great thesaurus I use online, and I suggest a romance author whose work I’ve enjoyed where the door to the sex scenes is always all the way open.

After the critique portion of the workshop followed by a short break, Professor Devereaux begins a presentation on grants, contests, and prizes. Again, armed with a slideshow, she shares a plethora of intel about different ways to get our work out there, starting from the macro level and working her way down to the micro. She teaches us about a platform called Submittable, which is often used by lit mags for contest entries, and explains how to research different magazines and publications and the importance of building up a publishing résumé so that we have proof positive that we are professional writers whose stuff people think is worthy of reading.

I don’t have time to begin writing short pieces for literary magazines (or any kind of magazine or journal) before I begin the querying process for agents though, so I take lots of notes but file them away in my binder under Next Steps after Querying, because yes, I have a section for that. I ask if my debut publication in Seventeen magazine all those years ago would be good to put on a résumé, and Professor Devereaux smiles politely while shaking her head no. “If you want to be viewed as a professional, don’t introduce yourself to the world with your childhood amateur-hour trophies.”

Oof,I think. Noted.

Professor Devereaux continues her lecture by whittling down all the way to what she calls “hyperlocal” accolades, the most interesting of which is coming up on January 3—the Matthias University MFA Rising Star Program. I read about it in one of my shiny brochures last semester but felt like I was a long way off from applying for it at that time. The application deadline is December 31 (which happens to be tomorrow), and there are prizes for fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry. The application is available to anyone who is a current or former student at MUMFA, and although the prize money is negligible ($100), it also includes a reading at graduation on the night of the third and publication of the reading selection in Matthias’s literary journal, The Isle.

If I win it, I could have an accolade to put on my résumé by next week, a speed that is unheard of in the writing community.

I hate to admit it, but Alice Devereaux is becoming a really helpful resource.

I’m eager to discuss the Rising Star Program with Nate, but this afternoon, we have mentor interviews, and since he and I are basically not even allowed to be in the same room during that particular exercise, I figure I’ll just have to wait until tonight to talk to him about it.

Nate skips lunch but texts me to let me know so that I won’t worry. Got a sick idea for a plot twist in my MS, he writes. Gonna stay in my workshop room to play with it a little bit. Please eat without me, and don’t worry—I’ll fend for myself for lunch, wifey. He adds a smiley face emoji, and I respond with a red heart and a Got it, sounds good text. I take the opportunity to sit with Dillon Norway, since I am hoping to keep him as my mentor for the coming semester.

It’s as I’m talking to him about his thoughts on social media that Alice Devereaux joins our table.

Small talk ensues, about the weather (a big winter storm is in the forecast) and about the soup choice for this afternoon (tomato basil, which has a little kick to it thanks to the fresh ground pepper on top but is quite good). Then Professor Devereaux asks Dillon Norway if he happened to read the selection I submitted for workshop.

“I did,” he says. “Cecily here is quite talented.”

“Thanks to your tutelage,” I say, smiling.

“Indeed, she is. I was thinking that perhaps she’d consider applying for the Rising Star Program,” Professor Devereaux says.

Dillon Norway chews his grilled cheese sandwich thoughtfully, nodding. “You should do it,” he says to me.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “It sounds great, but the deadline is tomorrow at midnight. That’s not a lot of time.”

“The application’s not bad. And you’ve got the work ethic of a machine. I have no doubt you can complete it without even so much as partially disrupting your New Year’s Eve plans.”

I grin. “I appreciate your vote of confidence.”

“Will you be joining us for the New Year’s Eve soiree, Cecily?” Professor Devereaux asks.

“I’m not sure. Maybe?” I respond. “I have to check with Nate. We haven’t discussed it yet.”

“Not much else to do here on the island,” Devereaux says. “I’ve been on the planning committee for the New Year’s Eve festivities since I started here. Gosh, Dillon, can you believe it’s been ten years already?”

“Goes by in a flash,” he agrees.

“What are the festivities anyway?” I wonder.

“We have the party on the first floor of the main house,” she explains. “It opens up quite far in the back, with adjacent meeting rooms and such. There are board games and card games, along with snacks and drinks. Wine and beer. No hard alcohol. It’s a fun way to enjoy some camaraderie during the holiday, especially when we don’t have our family members to spend it with.”

I offer a small smile, unsure of how to reply.

“Although, you do, since your husband is here with you, of course,” she continues. “And what, may I ask, did the newlyweds do for Christmas?”

I gulp, although I doubt anyone notices. “You know. Normal boring family stuff. How about you?”

“My sister and brother-in-law have been hosting Christmas for years. So I go there. I’ve got three nephews who are all grown, and they come, along with their girlfriends. Of course, the oldest is engaged now, so it felt like all we spoke about was wedding planning. My sister is very excited.”

I nod, saying nothing.

“I don’t expect this girl to become a bridezilla or anything, but I think she’s already clashing over ideas my sister has.”

“That must be challenging,” I say. Dillon Norway is of no help to me here. He simply continues to enjoy his sandwich and his soup, occasionally letting out a microscopic moan of appreciation for the way the comfort food lights up his taste buds.

Men.

“It is. I never married, but I know she’s really going through it. How about you?” she asks. “Was your mother very involved in your wedding?”

Such a specific question.“Nope. Not really. Our wedding was pretty low-key. I have three sisters, and their weddings were all major productions. I just didn’t want that for my own, so Nate and I got married at the courthouse and called it a day.”

Devereaux raises an eyebrow. “That sounds…convenient.”

I don’t love the undertone, but I try to convince myself I’m just nervous because I’m not a good liar. “It was—both from a financial standpoint as well as an emotional one. I didn’t want to have to worry about juggling everyone’s opinions over dress colors and cake options and all that stuff. Also, who wants to spend that kind of money?”

“I’m quite certain your husband could afford you whatever sort of wedding you wanted,” she says.

The comment sounds a little judgmental, but I let it slide, seeing as how she’s been so supportive of my work so far this residency. “That’s true. I just didn’t want anything big.”

“Mm. I see,” she says. “Well, to each his own. I suppose, based on your workshop sample, that there may have been some unresolved wounds between you and your sister.”

Record scratch.I feel my nerve endings stand up on edge. I do not like this, they scream. “Oh,” I laugh, perhaps too loud. “That’s just a story.”

Dillon Norway, who knows better from having journeyed with me through the creation of the manuscript, looks up and gives me an eyeful but remains silent. We exchange a glance, my eyes pleading with his not to share what he knows about my writing and his expression silently agreeing to remain mute on the matter.

Meanwhile, Alice Devereaux chews on a bite of salad, studying me with a curious expression. I find myself wishing that Nate were here, because if he was, she likely would never have sat down with us for this meal, seeing as how she hates him.

“Well, nonetheless. I do hope that you and Nate will make an appearance at the party.”

“We probably will. It sounds like fun. I love board games,” I lie. Haven’t played a board game in years, unless you count Candy Land or Chutes and Ladders with my nieces.

I successfully manage to change the subject from families, holidays, weddings, and any other thing that she could ask me about that doesn’t pertain specifically to writing or reading, ideally, other people’s work. In the spirit of games, I bring up the hot new word puzzle game that’s been all the rage online lately (Bossword, a crossword-type game where the clues all relate to a specific celebrity), and then we reminisce over Wordle and Words with Friends and pontificate on the future of word games for a moment before another student sits down and begins talking to Alice Devereaux about room assignments for mentor interviews.

At which point I shove the rest of my grilled cheese down my throat, ask Dillon Norway if I need to officially interview him if I just want him to remain as my mentor (he says no), and hightail it out of there before I get caught with Devereaux or anyone else who cares about the details of my marriage and family life.

Later that afternoon, after poor Nate has suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous interviewing, he’s lying in bed resting—eyes open—while I’m reading over the online application for the MUMFA Rising Star Program.

“So it says here that really all you need is the sample you would want to read, a bio, and a personal statement. They’ll pull up your grade report from however many semesters you’ve been attending, but it doesn’t even seem to count for much, according to the rubric.”

“Do they care if you’ve got prior publishing history?” he asks.

“I don’t think so,” I reply. “It doesn’t say.”

“Then you should be all set. I’m surprised that you want to read at graduation though, to be honest. I thought you said you were afraid of reading—and that was just for an open mic. This is for a real-deal event, with the whole school plus relatives in attendance.”

“Well, I don’t want to read, but I would love to have an accolade to put on my writing résumé. Alice Devereaux says awards and prizes and things like that are important. I know you don’t agree with her about social media, but do you think she’s wrong about this too?”

“No. She’s right.”

“So I’d suck it up as far as my stage fright is concerned.”

“I see.” He smirks. “That’s very convenient.”

The word choice reminds me of my discomfort at lunch. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“What are we thinking for New Year’s Eve tomorrow night?”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Well, apparently there’s a thing—some party downstairs.”

“Then I suppose we’ll go to that, unless you have other ideas. Also, I read online that it’s supposed to snow. That mid-Atlantic storm is headed this way. So at least whatever they’re doing here doesn’t require us to travel.”

“True.”

“You don’t sound thrilled.”

“Well, a sort of weird thing happened today.”

“What?” He sits up a little taller in the bed, then shifts his legs crisscross applesauce, pulling them toward him by the ankles.

“At lunch. Alice Devereaux sat with Dillon Norway and me, and she started asking me all these questions about us. Like what did we do for the holidays and how was our wedding. Stuff like that.”

“Sounds like small talk to me. Did you get a different vibe?”

I shrug. “I guess not. It just made me uncomfortable.”

“That’s because we’re over here pulling off the ruse of the century. We’ve got everyone believing our convoluted love story. It’s not surprising to me that you would at some point start to feel guilty about it.”

“Guilty? Why?”

“Well, because you’re lying. And you’re not a liar. At least I don’t think you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“So it makes sense. But try not to beat yourself up about it. It’s for a good cause.”

“I’d say so. I mean, if it hadn’t been for this turn of events, I’d still be living in squalor with Gurt and you’d be…well, you’d be fired.”

“Accurate.”

“I would miss you if you weren’t here.”

His mouth turns up at the corners. “Is that so?”

“Shut up, Pen. Don’t be all weird. You know I would.”

Nate goes still for a moment. “I have a confession,” he says, and my stomach stirs. I try not to stare too hard.

“Well, out with it. Wait. You’re not, like, married to someone else too, are you?”

He smiles. “No. Nothing like that.”

“Okay, then go ahead.”

“It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“Please. It’s us. This is your fake wife you’re talking to, not some real wife who nags you all the time. What is it?”

“Today I realized that I think the manuscript I’m working on is loosely based on you.”

My heart stops; I’m sure of it. This is the first stage of a cardiac arrest episode that will define all moments that follow. Only, wait. No. I’m okay. I can still breathe. Barely. “Um. I’m not sure how to respond to that,” I say, one hundred percent blushing.

“Well, I just thought you should know since I think I’m going to read from it tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow night, I’m the faculty reader. And then we can go to your New Year’s Eve party.”

“Okay, so hold on. Back up. What exactly is this new book about?” I ask. Then I laugh to myself. “It’s not porn, is it?”

Nate’s face becomes animated. “You’d like that, would you? I believe the genre you’re referring to is called erotica, thank you very much. And no, all of the lurid thoughts I have I’m gentlemanly enough to keep locked up in my brain.”

“Wow. I think the lady doth protest too much,” I giggle. “Now I’m sure it’s porn.”

“Wrong you are. And now, because you’re out here questioning my character, I will not tell you about the story. You’ll just have to hear it for yourself and be surprised like the rest of the student body.”

“I’m your muse,” I joke.

“You’re a pain in my ass is what you are.”

It takes all the strength I have not to throw myself on top of him and pin him to the bed.

Not that I want to, of course. I mean, we’re just friends.

Right?