With following paragraph, I just passed the hundred thousand word mark in my latest novel which I began two months ago:
Jumping between minds no longer seemed a suitable expression. If Peter were to enter the warrior priest’s mind, guarded as it was by an iron will, grim determination and years and years of gruelling practice in warding off mental attacks, he had to shrink mentally to minuscule proportions, denying his natural desire for space and influence. To gain access, he had to barely caress the person’s shielding skin, so that that which had been rigorously trained to bar entrance, relax its hold, unsuspecting as he ghosted passed, effortlessly skipping over the barrier, like the gentlest of breeze. The challenge of being so tiny was that the slightest puff of wind or even the most insignificant of vagrant thoughts might hurtle him off course. To resist such influences despite his size, his thoughts had to be as clear as the sky after heavy rain and his focus honed like the razor sharp edge of a deadly blade.