Eight years ago, I read a novel, a book by a little-known author then (because she had only one other published work prior). Although the publishers had hoped for it to be successful, the reach of that novel surpassed all their wildest dreams. Selling over a million copies, becoming an instant bestseller, and remaining on the New York Times bestseller list for over a year. I picked up that book because I felt it call to me. I remembered wandering in the bookstore, and my eyes settled on it. Not simply because of its title, (which, I have to admit, initially drew me over), but because, after reading the synopsis on the back cover, and skimming through the first few pages, my heart cried for a little while. And I knew that I had to get it.
It was, for me, one of the most magical books I had ever read. It emboldened the imagination, touched the core of poignancy. Every page I turned taught me something new. The central theme was murder. Love. Redemption. Acceptance. Not the kind of book that would evoke magic, the kind of magic I cried through it. Imagined what Heaven looked like. Ate humble pie.