I have written something that follows me through my days. A book that taps me gently on the shoulder and reminds me that it is still there. It feels to me the way love should feel. It feels like the love I live but have never known; that wonderful, impossible thing invested with all the joyful awe we so rarely experience.

That is The Spiritkeeper. My love letter to love.

It still takes my breath, It still makes me cry. And I am not just deluding myself or flattering the hopeful writer in me. I have been told that it is pastoral. That it lacks the sharper, harsher edges that fiction wants in order to be published these days.

But. But.

Sharper, harsher edges are not what love wants.

Love—and the love story that represents it—are a finding. A softness amidst the hardness. A breathless discovery in the flat, bright light of ordinary days. It is the thing that is found when no expectation of finding exists; the thing that is given from the most inspired part of our uninspired selves.

It is given without asking. Given without knowing whether it will ever be given back. The thing discovered between two adults who have ceased to live in hope. It surrenders and sacrifices. It saves lives. It saves souls.

Which is why I don’t think I can change it. Which is why I’ll publish it myself, if I must. And why I will write the sequel that will fill my days with warmth as gloriously as the original has.

The Spiritkeeper is who I am.

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