She cradled Annabelle’s novel, curbing her thoughts as she wrote the most precious of names inside the cover. These students would never know her girl, but their enthusiasm for story stoked an ember deep within her. She felt the warmth of its flame coursing through this austere room.
“When is your next book coming out?” Annabelle asked.
“It’s supposed to release in December.”
“Terrific!” Annabelle clapped. “What’s it about?”
Olivia forced a smile. “I’m still working out the details.”
“You’re going to write a novel in three months?”
“In six weeks, actually. It usually takes a year to edit and print, but my publisher is expediting the process to release the book before Christmas.”
“Hopefully it will sell another million.”
She hoped it would simply make it to the presses.
Olivia signed a whole round of books, and as she handed back the last one, the student thanked her. “I want to write novels after I graduate.”
“Do you have a story in mind?” Olivia asked, slipping the pen back into her purse.
“I do.”
“Then don’t wait,” she advised. “The moment you return to your dormitory, you should start writing.”
“But I don’t know where to begin.”
“It doesn’t really matter. Just turn on the faucet of your mind and let it flow. You can tidy up the words later.”
The student looked as if she’d unwrapped a long-awaited gift. Then she scurried off with her friends to grab hold of the tail of her story before it flew away.
Sometimes all a writer needed was someone to give them permission, a mandate even, to pour the words stirring inside onto paper. A friendly nudge to step into the creative realm.
Why was it so easy for her to encourage others and impossible to find her own words? As she watched the students leave, Olivia mulled over this question. She had plenty of people, her publisher in particular, telling her she needed to write. Her aunt had taken over the household chores so Olivia could work, and her devoted readers were certainly ready for a new story.
It almost felt like Graham had taken her gift of writing with him, something he never would have wanted to do. He had been her greatest support since they’d met, back when she was nineteen.Every word is like dropping a penny into the bank,he’d said. One word at a time until her bank was full.
Most of the auditorium had cleared by the time she collected her satchel from behind the stage curtain, the clock reading eight-fifteen. She needed to catch the nine o’clock train.
A man in a crisp suit climbed the short span of steps, joining her onstage. “You handled that remarkably well.”
“The signing?” she asked, scanning the room for Dr. Kinsley. Hopefully, he’d return soon to take her to the station.
“The inquisition disguised as a panel.”
“Ah.” She slung her purse over her shoulder. “I thought it felt rather hostile.”
“Dr. Kinsley didn’t seem too keen on your books, but the students clearly enjoyed them.”
She studied the man’s striped wool suit and clean-shaven face, his sandy brown hair neatly trimmed, and striking blue eyes both confident and curious. “You were the one who read that horrendous review about my heroes.”
“Indeed,” he replied. “And I was pleased to hear your response.”
“I believe I’ve been fed through a wringer tonight just to see how I’d fare.”
“Your strength is enviable, Mrs. Belle.”
“It’d be misleading for me to claim any strength.” She tucked the notepad into her purse. “Are you a professor?”
