So she knew something of the mysterious and random formula for publishing success. Besides, writers who visited the store to promote their books seemed ordinary, at best. A few didn’t even seem that, and they left her wondering how they conjured such magical worlds.

But, come on Nem, she told herself as she dropped Emily to the floor and pulled at the boxes against the wall, you are flying too close to the sun. Already, here she was, calculating the possibility of success and she hadn’t even written a word.

She calmed herself, deciding the only thing upon which she could and should focus was to start the process. To write, perchance to dream with a smidgeon of hope. Build her courage too, which after everything in her life, she possessed in barrels, cartons and baskets full.

Should she manage to complete a whole novel, she might use the luck. The diary didn’t have the power to help her create a masterpiece, but it might aid finding an agent or with selling the finished product to a publishing house. That’s if she decided to use its power. She kept coming back to the desire to discover if she had what it took to succeed on her own. No magical energy, just her.

Her hands trembled as she covered her mouth in surprise at her final decision. She was really going to do this. In that moment, everything seemed colored with a lens of hope and excitement. Who knew? If she was lucky she might write something special that the world would love.

And with little expectation, she began.

50

Morris had said, “I don’t see what you see.”

This was after his first read through of Orelia’s manuscript. After the work he’d done with her though, he let Morris give his opinion, but William wasn’t taking no for an answer.

“We are both busy. Not much spare time to nurture another author.” Morris continued. “I can barely keep up with the opportunities flooding in on your books. With the second releasing soon, we’ve got a tour in place to promote the hell out of you.”

Three years later and William still remembered the thrill of the attention afforded by the success of his first book. The giddy sensation of walking on air, feeling he’d made it and this would be his life forever.

“How am I meant to finish my third manuscript and meet my deadline when I’m never home?” he had said to Morris, his face serious, affected modesty in place.

“You’re the one who wanted a bestseller. That genie is not fitting back in the bottle. No complaining or you’ll anger the Best Seller gods.”

How true that had been, although he hadn’t thought it had anything to do with gods or heavenly entities.

He gave his agent a frustrated look and mouthed “Please.” He recalled a desperation to be right about her, to show Morris he understood the publishing industry as well as anyone, that he could back a winner.