I’m so in love with TPI, and so grateful that I’ve let it grow alongside me.

In this particular venture, my perfectionism – and all the obstacles it’s created for the past 10 years – has absolutely been used/transformed/reconstituted into a blessing. God has not let this story come easy to me because I wasn’t ready to tell it until now. I wasn’t capable of writing it at the level it deserves to be written.

I feel like everything I learn lately, all that I discover and encounter in my everyday life, is being poured into this single work. Isn’t that the way writing should feel? Not a vehicle to impress; a catalyst that transforms. It’s transforming me, at least. And hopefully (oh, how dearly I hope), someday, my readers.

All I want is to write something meaningful and transporting, something that moves others in the same way so many books have moved me over the years.

I want to give a gift: This pearl that years of reading has forged in me.

TPI has been dark and inscrutable for so long – its potential depths impossible to see.

Now parts of it, at least, are emerging with startling clarity.

I’m trusting it will be done when it’s ready to be done. I just need to show up every day and give it attention, like any good parent.

I can’t wait to see what it looks like in its final form, but in the meantime, I’m learning to love the messy, evolving beast it currently is.

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