Fascinated by the approaching three-million words in my magnum opus, I spend an increasing amount of time fooling around with my records. And I have plenty of statistics to entertain my curiosity. This morning it crossed my mind to compare the number of words written this year with those written in the first ten years. So far, I have written a bit less than two-hundred and sixty-thousand words this year. In the first ten years, from 1976 to 1985, I wrote a bit less than two-hundred and thirty-thousand words. By the end of this year, I will be some fifty-thousand words above that number. Similarly, I wrote a bit less than two-hundred and forty-thousand words in the next ten years, from 1986 to 1995. In short, this year has been amazing in terms of the number of words. And only a bit less than fifty-thousand words separates me from the coveted three-million. By the end of the year, there will be at most thirty-thousand words to go. That is, I will get there early next year, but no later than March. Following that, I will relax, or so I sincerely hope. Would that the next ten years were like the first ten or the next ten. Easy does it. And forget about my fucking records.

Addendum I (December 28, 2014)

Thirty-thousand words to go by the end of the year? Well, how about three-thousand? That is today’s count, but it will not change much by the end of the year. Which means that I will reach three-million words the first week of next year. It will be an enormous pleasure, no doubt, and that is why I have postponed it for the fortieth year into my writing project. Round numbers galore! Hooray!

Addendum II (January 7, 2015)

The first week of this year is now over, and I already have a couple of thousand words above the vaunted record. In spite of the clever postponement, though, the pleasure is sorely missing. I could not care less about three-million words. Actually, I feel no less than disgusted by this silly number. Or any other of its ilk, for that matter. Would I be any wiser if I had thirty-million words to my name? Or three-billion, for that matter? As far as my fucking records are concerned, I have had my fill of them. I cannot but hope that the yearning for round numbers is safely behind me by now. This time around, the hope is as fervent as it comes. Records are for the birds, anyhow.