The ink for the printer, the paper to print out the book, the time spent writing it, the time slaving over the computer, writing with the finger of one hand. It was my life. The book was my life. It still is. The passion could be heard in of. She had said these things many times before. She had spoken with deep emotion in her voice. She cared. She would always care, even after she was dead. The experience which led to the writing of my novel changed my life forever. I have written other things about subjects that were meaningful to me, but nothing is as important as telling the story of a young woman discovering herself on a desperate journey far away, to a country that she left long ago. She is a stranger in that country. She’s lived elsewhere, with different people, different habits. But in this other country, she feels again. She is alive as she has never been alive. She feels young. She stops dressing like an old lady. The young woman falls in love with someone she thinks she can’t have. The man in question is a priest. Priests can’t be lovers, boyfriends or husbands.