Sean Beaudoin

Enough excellent writing to fill a large tube sock

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Manuscript Complete

 

So, on Friday I turned in the very final draft of my story collection Title In Flux (not the title). It's ramping straight into production and will be out a year from now. Hitting the deadline required a level of madness unseen since that Robitussin-and-Coors summer I lived in a squat and roofed houses with an oven mitt and a borrowed hammer. Wait, did that actually happen? The last six months have been completely immersive and terrifying. Warranted doubt. Unwarranted doubt. The myopia of re-writing one sentence down to the participle for twelve straight hours. I'd come home every day disheveled and spent, and my wife would be like, "You know we're married, right?" and my first thought would be, "Can we just let it all fall apart with a tragic narrative arc that falls somewhere south of Ray Carver? Because, baby, I need the material." And then my daughter would jump on my lap and slap my face and be like, "You know I am your offspring and we share common DNA, so you should be evolutionarily invested in my well-being, right?" And I'd be like, "Can you rephrase that in a more incisive and nuanced fashion, deleting any adverbs and then perhaps working in a delicate analogy involving a cold hamburger and empty ketchup packets?" Yes, I have been a madman and a fool, but it is all done. For good or ill it will soon be on the shelf ready to be ignored, loved, crucified, dismissed, embraced, pulped, derided, savored, or remaindered. No shit, I should have gone to law school.

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"The propane was gone. The first-aid kits were gone. Even the at-screen TVs were gone. What were they going to plug them into, a Lurker’s ass?"

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