I finished off the very, very rough first draft of "I don't know if I love you (but I might)" at 50,024 words. This is my third year doing this. I've completed each time. This was by far the most difficult year. I searched the manuscript for something that I could excerpt out here. But there was nothing I really liked. So here is the story pitch:
Friday, November 27, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
My buddy Johnny asked me to post an excerpt from my ongoing submission to National Novel Writing Month. I'm a little over 13,000 words into it. The working title is, "I don't know if I love you (but I might)":
And those dumb sons-of-a-bitches had misspelled Boudreaux on her husband’s funeral announcements. Boudreax.
What the hell was she going to do?
She’d have to deal with it. She’d have to deal with every damned thing. Larry and Michelle would mean well, but they had five kids to take care of—five! And her other son, Jay… well, Jay.
Sally put down the funeral announcement and looked down into her coffee cup. Jay.
She had finished the cup and stood to get a refill. It occurred to her that she could walk down to The Last Drop and have someone make breakfast for her. But Sally just was not ready for all of her neighbors who frequented The Last Drop to sympathize with her, to crowd around her to see if she was doing all right.
She was doing all right. Of course she was doing all right. Bubba Boudreaux—not Boudreax—had been a miserable son-of-a-bitch who had two-timed Sally miserably. He had been drunk and disorderly in just about every bar on Bourbon Street, had gotten his sorry ass thrown out of places it was damn near impossible to get thrown out of, and had gotten her woken up to bail him out of the parish drunk tank more times than she liked to imagine. Things had taken a turn for the better the day that Bubba Boudreaux—not Boudreax—had finally kicked the bucket with an esophageal hemorrhage. She hoped it hurt. She hoped it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.
Sally held the funeral announcement to her face and sobbed into it, the ink staining her cheeks.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
"Sitting in a circle" by Timothy Chen Allen
We are sitting in a circle
in a room above a store
and we're waiting for a sign that never comes
And we look into each others' eyes
and wonder if it's wrong
to be impatient with the process
brings us home
And I would not believe
that you would ever look away
I'd be a sorry friend to think of you that way
But I myself am falling asleep right now
I can't do much more than promise that I'll stay
But I myself am having trouble opening my eyes
I'd like to go to sleep right now if I may.