National Novel Writing Month: Excerpt
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)":
Sally Boudreaux held the funeral announcement in her hands and shook her head in disbelief. Boudreaux was possibly one of the most common names in New Orleans; hell, it might just be the most common name. Boudreauxs had been some of the first settlers of this god forsaken place, had probably worked some of the first ships to land at the port of New Orleans four hundred years ago, had most likely populated just about every square mile from the French Quarter to the Lake Pontchartrain. Boudreaux was a pretty damn popular name in New Orleans.
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.
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.
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