It was at just that point that Jo woke, drenched in sweat, in the early-morning light of her bedroom, instantly delighted it had been just a dream. Yes, of course, she’d love to have the book she had been slaving over for the last three years published, but the thought of the public side of things – launches and interviews, and photo shoots, book signings and possible Peppa Pig endorsements – made her feel sick to the pit of her stomach.

She looked at the stack of notebooks on her dresser – each one filled with ideas and short passages of text. Her battered laptop, most certainly on its last legs, sat beside them. The master copy of her novel saved to it. One day, maybe, she’d find the courage to be brave enough and send her words into the world, but today was not that day.

1

Always Be My Maybe

Thursdays were bookshop days, and, as such, they were one of Jo’s favourite days of the week. As much as she loved working in The Ivy Inn, and loved the people she worked with, Thursdays were different. She carved those days out for herself and made sure she was always at her desk writing before ten.

When Libby had decided to have dedicated writer spaces in Once Upon A Book, Jo had made a long-neglected promise to herself that she would start approaching her writing seriously. She’d been the first person to reserve one of the desks, and within a fortnight of the shop opening, she had made a block booking that meant the ‘Heaney desk’ would be hers every Thursday. She’d tried some of the other desks of course, like a modern-day Goldilocks. The Plath desk had felt too sombre, the Joyce desk too ambitious, but the Heaney desk? That felt just right – solid, and brave and trusting.

She was happy to dig with her squat pen there and lose herself in her words. It helped that she had freshly ground coffee on tap and the smell of freshly printed books filling her nostrils. Even on the days when the words didn’t come so easily, she could quite happily just spend the day people-watching from her nook, with occasional breaks to chat with Libby over a tray bake or muffin, or to pore over the books on the pre-loved shelves finding bargains to add to her collection.

This Thursday was no exception, even though her dream of an uncomfortable public launch had nagged at her all day. Jo read over the opening chapters of her book again. She still cringed a little when she thought of it as ‘a book’ as opposed to just something she’d written. The fear was real that people would think she had notions above her station by declaring herself a writer and talking about her book. It seemed like such a far-fetched dream.