Answers flew back without her even thinking, as if a helpful mentor or assistant had taken up residence inside her head. They seemed to have an answer for everything, their enthusiasm contagious. Was this the arrival of a muse?

It occurred to her that the other benefit would be an activity into which she could funnel her emotions. If she expressed herself through words and storytelling, she might gain another level of control over her feelings. This might be the key to controlling the luck thing, once and for all.

By the time she’d reached her door, the helpful voice in her head had generated the kernel of a story idea. She even had a wisp of an opening and closing chapter, phrases whirling in an eddy of crazy, incredible concepts that might just work. All she needed was to fill in everything between.

Easier said than done. But, hey, why not? The worst she could do was fail and nobody would know except her.

Nem happy-skipped into the apartment, her heart as light as her step. Emily had already arisen from her favorite sleeping spot on the couch to greet her sitting, waiting, a few feet from the door. She bent to pick up her furry friend, the psychic animal who had an uncanny knack of knowing exactly when she would arrive home.

“Hey there, can you extend your psychic skills to connecting me with your namesake? I’ll take any help you got.”

Emily’s only reply, a deep purr, as Nem carried her into her study. Study being an exaggeration. There wasn’t enough room to swing Emily, as per the cliché. She laughed at the evil, little thought, scratching the cat’s head and hugging her as she turned on the spot surveying the area.

“Don’t worry, I’d never do that to you. I wouldn’t swing any animal.”

She’d read enough author bios to know having a peaceful space in which to work was important. Writers always talked about their routines and places where they connected with their inner voice and imagination. This, many had commented, taught your mind it was time to write when you sat at your desk.

Yes, this might do as her own little creativity zone. Where her neatly stacked storage boxes stood she’d place a small desk. Move her coat wardrobe away from the window and perhaps add a bookshelf filled with her favorites. Then she would have ample light. It was a bit bare, she thought. What of inspiration?

A thought came back from the helpful muse-assistant. Hang a framed portrait of a quote like “Writing is the painting of the voice.” ― Voltaire

Hmm, perfect. Books, quotes, a desk and natural light. Yes, she saw herself sitting here. Creating. Making worlds. Conjuring a love story. She. Could. Do. This.

Who was there to tell her no? She had the advantage of being well-read and knowing exactly what did and didn’t work. This, thanks to her work and noting what sold. It might mean nothing, but she’d picked two mega best sellers from reading the early review copies. This, well before their releases to the public, and both by unknown authors who nobody expected would create hits.