She had decided to continue working at Bountiful Books because now she had a perfect excuse to not take up Diane on her offers to come out and light up the evening.

Her boss remained as friendly and kind as always, but once Nem explained her determination to write her novel, she immediately offered her understanding and support.

Nem’s life became a rhythm of living, working and writing and that gave her a sense of contentment. Every lunch break, she headed straight to a nearby café. In using pencil and paper, writing anywhere, anytime proved easy and uncomplicated.

It crossed her mind occasionally that the diary offered her the opportunity to win enough money to leave her job and write full time. Every time she began to lean that way, her concern that her personal luck might be limited prevented her from trying. She worried too, that granting herself a wish so large, might she be unable to stop? Then there was the desire to experience the satisfaction which would only come from achieving through her own endeavors.

While commuting in the evening, she spent the journey plotting and anticipating the joy of returning to her fantasy world. Her nightly routine was a quick meal before heading to the nook, where she’d write until her hand ached. Within a week though, her muscles grew accustomed to the workout, and the sessions lasted longer.

She’d take a break then and watch a little TV and be back at her desk until midnight when, with eyes gritty and sore, she’d collapse into bed. Quite often she wouldn’t sleep because her mind still zigged and zagged with ideas. When sleep claimed her, many nights she would still dream of her characters. She saw herself talking to them as if they were alive and breathing. Sometimes to her they seemed even more real than the people she met in the store.

This is so easy, she told herself, as the days turned into weeks and the paper stack of pages grew taller. She rarely threw anything away because the characters whispered to her and she trusted they wouldn’t lead her astray.

How many times had representatives from big publishing houses, Harper Collins, Random House and all the others, visited the store to sell books which supposedly took years to complete. That amused her. Maybe she was more of a writer than their authors. Regardless of whether her manuscript became a masterpiece or trash, Nem was comfortable in this world at last.

Nem stared at the page in speechless shock. She couldn’t even open her mouth to whisper to Emily, who’d been her steadfast companion through the whole thing. Her lungs strained for air and she could barely move. A tear traveled down her cheek and tickled her face.

There it was, the impossible two words she could never have imagined only two months ago. She ran her fingers over them expecting to feel an energy travel from the page to her body. All she felt was a deep sense of satisfaction and joy. There it was—