My Current Book-in-Progress


Counting to 100

While being written as fiction, this book draws on my early life for its inspiration.

Below is the prologue of the working draft of the novel:

When she was four years old Kristin first felt the longing—the bittersweet pang of reaching for something she could not see but still craved to know. One night in the dusky evening the rusty swing set in her front yard groaned as she pushed her swing higher and higher. At first she took pleasure in counting her swings. She had just learned to count to one hundred and enjoyed being able to reach that high in her mind.

With each upward arc she felt as if she moved closer to some kind of joy that she didn’t understand but desperately wanted to experience. She forgot to count in her pursuit of this new thing. If she could just pump high enough, she would be able to meet it—to learn what it was. The clouds knew. The sky knew. She wanted to know.

But with each downward arc—each plunge that turned her stomach—she was confronted by disappointment. What did the mud puddle under the swing set know? What did the yard littered with weeds and trash blown in from the street  know? And so she swung. Up to hope and then down to earth—but always reaching, reaching beyond what she could not see.

Much later when velvet darkness had revealed stars and concealed ugliness, Kristin stopped swinging in surprise, wondering just how long she had been out there.

Time holds its breath for those who are poised between earth and eternity.


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