Chapter One

It wasn't that there weren't enough people who were willing to have their book published by the TARDIS publishing industry, it's just that John Smith was a rather fastidious publisher.

In other words, he was picky.

There were certain things that he did and did not like, in the most peculiar of circumstances. It was a rather difficult challenge to get published by one such as him, but everyone wanted to. He spent most of his time reading unsolicited submissions and mediocre manuscripts, to which he would usually deny any sort of publishing matter to. Saying no to many aspiring authors did cause him to have a sense of guilt trickling inside of his mind, but it still didn't have him change his mind into publishing any of their books.

He had few authors whose books he was happily obliged to publish, such as Summer Falls, the best-selling novel whose author was the well-known Scottish red-head Amelia Williams, who had become a close friend of John at the time. Then there was the lovely Rose Tyler with her heart-breaking romantic novel of Doomsday, to which many people requested a second book to, so that was her current project. Then there was John's somewhat only male author, Jack Harkness, whose stories straightforwardly centered action as its main charisma. Kate Stewart, author of murder mysteries and 1920's noir, and the newest edition to the little writing family, Jenny Flint, whose novels mainly focused on the humor and peculiarity of unexplained topics.

Though there were little authors that were published by the TARDIS publishing industry, it had become a very successful company. There were people all around the world that read their books, the novels claiming the title of a best-seller, printing in various languages so it could gain fame even more so. After all, John chose the most captivating books to be published. When people saw the little image of a deep blue police box on the spine of a novel, also known as TARDIS publisher's beloved logo, they knew that it would be a good read.

As John sat at his desk at a precise time of ten twenty-seven in the morning on a particular Thursday, the time of which he finished reading yet another manuscript from an unpublished author. It was seemingly another story that he'd have to decline to, according to the process.

But this time, it was different.

This story was different.

He had actually liked it.

Defiance, a title that stood its ground rather well. It's story focused on the agency of Star Ship Alaska, but even more so on a girl named Oswin. Sent into an asylum for technological research, captured by automaton adversaries, turned into one of them for her genius, meaning to think like them. Meeting a boy in which they intend to kill, but Oswin still finds the heart to save him, overcoming the the thoughts that she was made to think, killing herself in the process. Great novel, in all honesty.

John flipped to the author's cover letter, a page that included their name and contact information. He read her name in the fine print. Clara Oswald.

And for the first time in quite a while, John smiled, and nodded in approval.

Not bad, Clara Oswald.

She paced around in her room, playing with the silver ring around her middle finger, a ritual for her when she was feeling a bit apprehensive. Clara Oswald, age twenty-four, a girl who took a slight interest into writing, but never thought that she'd actually consider publishing something that rightfully belonged to her. Nina, otherwise known as her best friend since who-knows-when, made her do it.

And now look at her, a nervous wreck.

She had sent in the manuscript for her novel Defiance round about a month ago, along with the assurance of Nina that 'No one could deny a story like that.' So she made Nina pay for its printing, for it was a rather long book, as well as its first-class shipping to TARDIS publishers.

"TARDIS publishers?" Clara scoffed at her suggestion. "No way, they say it's too hard to get published from them."

"And you, Clara, have the potential!" Nina scoffed back, mocking her tone of voice.

After she had sent in her story, she got an email of confirmation about a week later from the industry that her novel had arrived there in one piece. It also included the statement that she'd be getting a call from the publisher in a month or so if her story was capable of being published or not, and if so, further information on meeting and such.

It had been a month already.

So for those few days in the transition of weeks to one whole month, Clara paced around the room of her flat, occasionally glancing down at her mobile phone in apprehension. In all honesty, she was terrified. They could say that they loved reading her book, or they could also say that it sucked. And though Clara was rather open to constructive criticism, simply stating that 'it sucked' was more of an insult, and besides, it was in no way professional.

Suddenly, the familiar tone of rings came from her mobile phone as it's screen lit up, the words TARDIS Publishers staring at her straight in the face. (Clara had saved their number to her contact list.) She almost jumped up out of her skin from surprise, just staring blankly as the mobile phone kept ringing. After three more repetitious rings, Clara then realized that she had to answer it, so with a slightly shaky and nervous hand, she grabbed it from her bedside table, and answered the call.

"Hello?" she spoke into the phone shyly.

"Ah, yes, hello!" a voice boomed from the other end, surprising Clara even more so. "Am I speaking to Miss Clara Oswald?" the man asked.

"...yes?" Clara finally found the voice to reply.

"Ah, okay, great!" he said brightly. "This is TARDIS publishers, and we just finished reading your book, must I have the right to say that it was fantastic."

"Really...?" Clara asked, because in all honesty, she was expecting the 'it sucked' kind of conversation.

"Yes, really!" he assured her. "We'd like to schedule a time in which we could meet with you in person, and judging by your cover letter..." he trailed off for a moment, the sound of papers rustling like stiff leaves in the distance. "...you live not too far away!" he stated. "And though I rather did enjoy your book, I'd like to discuss whether it has it's potential concerning publishing and such, so I'd like for you to come to our office on February fifth, one o'clock, if that date and time works well with your schedule, that is." he said in a professional tone of voice.

Clara knew that she had nothing to do, she never really did. "Um...yeah sure, February fifth, one o'clock..." she repeated for her own sake. "That's a Wednesday, correct?"

"Yes."

"...alright, yeah, I'll be there."

"Great!" he exclaimed, his voice rather enthusiastic and seemingly optimistic. "I'll see you then, have a good day miss." he started to hang up before Clara interrupted him.

"Wait, sorry." Clara said abruptly.

"Yes?" he asked in response.

"Who am I speaking to?"

"John. John Smith." he clarified.

"Oh, alright then, thanks." Clara nodded in approval, then realizing that thank you sounded more professional. She then found the mental vitality to hang up from the call, then defiantly throwing her phone down violently on her bed, almost as if she was scared of the thing. She just kept pointlessly staring out her window for a few unimportant minutes of her life, trying to take in the whole conversation. He liked it...he actually...liked it. She breathed in and out, for it was a rather difficult thing to believe in.

After that, you could say that she danced like an idiot in triumph.

Clara then grabbed a red marker from her desk, flipping the page of her calendar and circling February fifth. The ink rebelliously sank through the paper onto the month of March, not like Clara really cared anyway.

She practically fell atop of her bed after that in exhaustion and exhilaration, all of a sudden excited for February fifth.

Maybe she should have thanked Nina for her crazy ideas.