Last year I wrote close to one-thousand and two-hundred pieces. Or one-hundred pieces a month on the average. As the end of the year drew closer, I was almost sure that this was a record never to be broken. An all-time record, that is. The way I am going, though, this year I may even surpass it. As of today, I have already written more than seventy pieces since the beginning of the year. At three or four pieces on an average day, this month is likely to end up way ahead of last year’s record for the same period. I know that all this is absolutely inane, but I am still fascinated by my writing record. Annoyed by this fascination, I let it rip nonetheless. To my credit, I look forward to the day when the trend will turn downward, for it eventually must turn that way. I will relish my writing record once again, but only as the proof that quantity is not what I am about. What I am apparently about is the meticulous record itself.

Addendum (February 1, 2012)

Last January I came up with eighty-three pieces of writing. That was an all-time record, too. This January the number has jumped to one-hundred and nineteen, though. Perhaps the difference of thirty-six pieces is nothing to wonder about, let alone to brag about in writing, but it amazes me nonetheless. What is happening with me? Why am I writing so much? Is this a sign of a growing existential crisis? Or a new and glorious beginning that awaits me just around the corner? I have no idea, of course. None whatsoever. But I am writing and writing like there is no tomorrow.