It's been a hair trigger just above seventy five days, and my head is down against the concrete wall, pressed into the dirt, keeping the silhouette of myself out of the sights of that final, pressing deadline. I don't want it to see me coming. And if it sees me first, I don't think I want to see it coming, either.
In writing to @booksnips and @cgwarex on the power of 100, I confessed to almost deliberately neglecting to count forward and put the date on the calendar in a big red line double zero. As with most of life's best, more important things, with any luck that day will come on me unexpectedly.
And as those moments also do, I hope it will drag me into better things. Because that moment, that grand 100, doesn't seem like a destination but a pausing point. I am hooked, and though I might skip to some other genre, I'm not sure I can get the line out of my mouth now that the flesh has grown up around it. I'm always going to feel that pull, that gentle tug, that journey that ends only with me, gasping, pulled up on the beach, glassy-eyed and bloodshot.