I don’t know you, but if you read The Longblood, you’ll know something about me.
Maybe after, you’ll say you loved it and can’t wait for the sequel. Maybe you’ll say it wasn’t your slice of cake.
Either way, I’m grateful because the cooperation between readers and writers is sacred. And though your reaction to my work is not mine to hold, I delight in it. For no matter the verdict, it is evidence of our co-creation. Our good faith.
I may have toiled in countless coffee shops to create the book in your hands, but you have given me something more valuable than work.
People often say time is our most precious commodity, but time passes as it will, sometimes in a rush so chaotic that not one solid memory of a day remains. But focus, whether it’s seeing your loved ones so clearly you light up when they walk into a room or wholeheartedly listening to a friend’s secret, is the greatest gift.
The greatest gift to ourselves, to the ones we love. To all those who cross our paths.
For when we focus, the fullness of who we are shows up and plays with the world. It’s beautiful and too often fleeting. It’s what we do when we fall in love, or lock into a movie, or slip into a book, or hear Adam Levine sing about the pouring rain (okay—so, maybe that’s just me). It’s how we reach that precious state of awe, that state of utter being-ness that’s unattainable when our attentions are divided.
Maybe soon, you’ll nestle into a warm corner and crack open a book. Maybe the story will take you on a wondrous journey. Maybe it won’t.
Either way, in good faith, you’ll have offered it the gift of your focus.
And for that, you are forever golden.
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