On this morning of a job interview, in the midst of a strange sense of dislocation from waking in an unfamiliar bed, after a night of odd dreams about a flooded landscape crumbling away under me, this quick post.

The current book is far from finished. Distressingly far, it sometimes seems. And yet, I can’t keep myself from turning my brain toward the next one.

Starting a new book is like going on a date with a promising someone you barely know. The idea is timid. It doesn’t want to reveal too much about itself too early.

And you. Not sure you want to be hurt again. Not sure you want to give up the independence you’ve known. Not sure how much of a future is in it.

You’re not sure you like one another. Not yet. You’re not sure of the track record of fidelity that this new possibility brings to the new opportunity. And still, you’re tempted to rush headlong into your feelings about it, embracing the things about it that you’ve already learned to love. Which would mean death to any tomorrow the idea might have.

There is a distance in it that all good sense tells you to avoid and every instinct tells you to ignore. This could be the one that works out absolutely right. This is the chance to take every learning of your life and put it to use. This is your chance to be the best you’ve ever been.

This is an all-new chance to be disappointed in a whole new way.

A confusing time. But promising. Exciting.

Oh, what the hell. I say go for it.