Night before last, the next book started speaking to me in earnest. I am far—very far—from setting down the first word, but the tape recorder has spent its first full night in my hand, waiting patiently for the thoughts that were more than willing to meet it halfway.

And a strange thing is happening.

The next book is inviting me to write in a different color and shape than anything I’ve done before now.

Perhaps that is a no-brainer-revelation. Of course each book will be different from the one before. The Spiritkeeper was a voice wrapped in exquisite cloudsilk and gossamer mist; a warm breath on the skin. It wove a spell around itself, evoked a feeling that I can summon at will, even now. It is a love story. It feels like one.

Everything has a spiky sensuality about it. It reaches into the cosmic; it sparkles there.

And this new one? Too early to tell, for sure…but it feels like the color of the sodium arc lamps that tint NYC nights. It is the hinky dark of urban empty spaces. The un-innocent green of Central Park at night.

Spiritkeeper was a book of inner skies. Everything is a book of energies. This one…not sure yet, but it feels like blank brick walls and gritty pavement.

We are the repository and stewards and executors of our own styles. But individual books will ask what they will; they will want what they want, they will demand it. Some stories reveal themselves to in a shape different than we’re accustomed to—or even comfortable with. They will ask us to paint in a color we have never set to canvas.

And, if we’re smart, we’ll listen.

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