My brother receives Entertainment Weekly and I read it when he's finished, usually after he's flipped through and looked at the movie reviews. There was a review of Cormac McCarthy's new book, The Road which I promptly looked up on Amazon.com. Then I sought more information on the author (whom my former college roommate said was a great author) on Wikipedia. From there I found this list, of TIME Magazine's Top 100 Novels since the magazine's 1923 inception.

This morning I grabbed from my bookcase the only graphic novel on the list, Alan Moore and Dave Gibbon's Watchmen. Picked it up and started reading it after I awoke, after I used then flushed the toilet, after I washed my hands, dried them, then washed them again. I'm about 45% through. I've finally found some subtle hints that Moore put in the first couple chapters. I couldn't help myself, leaning backwards as my head roared and shook side-to-side, why did I not see these delicious tidbits before? I've had a taste and want to have my fill. My brother is fixing up his room. His TV is big and front heavy so it's way too hard to move in relation to its weight. Nearly dropped it, my fault, my sweaty palms that took so long to not get used to but accept. I sat on my bed upstairs, waiting for my brother to call me back into his room for some more heavy lifting. I picked up Midnight's Children and began to read. Now I'm back on the first floor of the house, typing this. 100 books. 365 days. It's a great challenge. I may not be traversing the world via land, air or sea, but I am visiting and inhabiting a thousand and one fantastic places, where reality holds no sway, where I can meet and love and hate whomever I should encounter. Words are not only words. Words create.

Who's with me?