I happened to find an article on about how the book that Clara was holding in The Bells of Saint-John is actually going to be made a book. This was a bit of an impulse write, but you've got to do what you've got to do when head cannons strike.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters shown below or anything in the Who universe.
Nom de Plume
Rory leaned against the lounge's door frame and had to call out her name several times before his wife looked up from her typewriter. She was writing a draft article for a magazine that dealt with the occult, looking through notes taken by her hand as well as by that of her co-worker -a certain Mr Watchcombe- as she worked.
The sleeves of the white button-down shirt that the hospital 'dared to call' a uniform (according to a nurse still too used to the twenty-first century's standards)were rolled up to the elbows, and he'd popped a few buttons when he'd walked in.
"You're not going to stay up too late, are you?" Rory asked.
"I don't know, maybe. Ask me when it's late." Amy said.
"The typewriter makes a racket," Rory pointed out.
"That's why you don't sleep in the living room," she said simply.
"The walls are made of paper," Rory complained. He was exhausted- he'd been working shift after shift at the hospital. They seemed to think that he'd gotten some kind of specialised education because he was English- Americans; very typical of them. "It'll be even worse off when winter comes- we'll freeze to death and stay up all night listening to the idiots next door sneezing."
"See, this is what I'm saying. We should move." Amy said. "Move to a flat that doesn't have paper-thin walls or horrible neighbours. And I want something with a garden."
"There are no gardens in New York City," Rory said sounding exasperated. He probably was, and rightfully so. They'd had this conversation many times.
"There are small gardens," Amy pointed out.
"If you have a house," he replied.
"Let's get a house then! There we go, problem solved."
"Because we are so rich enough for a house," Rory said.
"We'll get there," Amy said. "I'm getting bigger articles written, and you've been working enough late shifts for us to buy the city if they paid you for the overtime."
"I still think that with our luck, we'll end up in a house inhabited by vampires, or above a creepy old charity shop that supplies to Centaurons or something in the likes." Rory said.
"Where's your sense of adventure?" Amy teased him.
"Wherever it is, it's not big enough for the real estate market." Rory said. He moved across the room and kissed her on top of the head.
"Good night."
"Sleep tight," she replied giving the hand on her shoulder a squeeze.
"Try to get some sleep tonight," Rory said.
Amy nodded but too many things had just been circling around her mind at the moment. Charity shop… Centauron… They were mixing with the article she'd previously been focusing on- occult, Watchcombe, puzzles in Greco-Roman mythology, winter coming and the walls being too thin… puzzles. Winter. Watchcombe.
Amy grabbed the typewriter and brought it closer. It was as if someone had rolled several dices and gotten identical numbers. She understood and saw sense in everything- it all matched to her and added up to one big plot.
It turned out that she didn't go to bed until very, very, very late.
In her speed to get all the details out of her system, Amy's novel had been finished in two weeks' time. It was a short children's story, but she was quite proud of it and very excited that it existed. It took a lot of looking and a lot of slapping snotty men on the cheeks and waking them up to the world, but she finally found an editor that was as excited about the story as she was.
"We enjoy the writing you do in the paper Mrs." The editor in question, a certain Anthony McCrae, said. "I can't see how this book wouldn't be a success. Send us over a full manuscript and we'll look it over, just the same."
And so thrilled out of her mind, husband just as happy, Amy had. It weighed in at 175 pages, each page dotted with dialogue and mystery and cleverly placed hints. She'd never felt this excited about any of her work! As she put it all together and prepared it for posting, she saw that the title page was missing. She ran back to the typewriter, had an existential crisis about the name of her novel (which ended up with the working title 'Summer Falls'), and then typed 'Amelia' and trailed off.
Her fingers had been hovering right above the 'P' key, and they hovered for a few instants more.
Amelia Pond. She was just about to write down 'Amelia Pond'. She remembered several times when she'd been called Amelia Pond, and ever since she'd been married that person had always been the Doctor.
She was going to write a book. A real book with a spine and a cover, a real book that would end up on shelves and in libraries and in book shops. Copies of books, even non-successful boring books, lasted a while and stuck around one way or another. And guess who saw everything in the world that was around or there to last? And he even saw the tiny things that nobody else bothered to visit.
She swallowed. She'd seen his face when she'd left him to go with Rory. She'd seen his face when she'd jumped over the side of the building, her hands winded in Rory's jacket. She'd seen his face when she'd scraped her knee for God's sake! The Doctor couldn't handle her being hurt, and Raggedy Man couldn't handle her being gone at a place where he didn't know if she was hurt or not. Did she want to send a message out that she was still in the world just at a place where he'd never reach her?
She didn't want to even think about his face if he'd one day happen to stumble across a copy of the book and recognise her name in tiny print, under the title.
Summer Falls
By Amelia Williams