Well, I have finally begun chapter 3 of Rabbit Rue, which I’m beginning to suspect, is coming along much better than I had anticipated. Would you believe I had a dream about this whole thing, or at least a tiny fraction of how it all would end, roughly four years ago? Admittedly I started a book I’ve dubbed The Phase way back in 1999 for a girl I met on the internet, and that got all the way to 50 pages before we broke the whole thing off, since she lived in Alpha, a harrowing 90-mile drive from my residence near Cedar Rapids at the time. This wasn’t intentional, but I’ve re-jiggered the story so it fits the overall mythos of other dreams I’ve had. So you see, Rabbit Rue is only the beginning. I have at least four books, entire books consisting of several hundred pages lined up already, though I only have a vague concept of a conclusion for each. Stephen King admitted he writes this way, so I’m not exactly breaking new ground.

Get an idea, figure out how it ends, and just write until the details fall into place. So far, I’m doing well, with eight chapters outlined and more on the way. The plot already seemed solid before I began, but as I write and scribble ideas for upcoming events, I’ve found yet more details to interweave through the book, and indeed the entire series. It’s odd feeling this free, just writing dialog and situations as my mind dictates, spilling fluently from my admittedly warped imagination. I almost feel like expressing yawning indifference to amassing a frothing audience, because I’m actually enjoying the process. Previously I mentioned finally feeling ready to undertake this rather daunting project, but until book two, few will have divined exactly why. There is an undercurrent of philosophy I wish to illustrate, one that will hopefully live on long after I’m worm-food. I don’t mean to tease, but Book 1 merely builds a foundation upon which some weighty considerations will hopefully reach beyond rudimentary speculative fiction.

I’ve gone about my life all wrong in many respects, with apologies to my friends from Foss, brothers and sisters I gained at Cornell, who hopefully will someday understand the veracity of that statement. There are those who, for unfathomable reasons, look up to me like some kind of twisted role-model. My previous life of idle perturbation is hitherto declared concluded, a misguided yet necessary stage to fulfill some master plan I’ve yet to comprehend. For those who had faith in my potential, I aim to finally live up to those mighty expectations; I’ve little choice but to embrace that which drives me.

Until Tomorrow

Lofty Goals in Philosophical Holes