Waiting to be flattered is a subconscious game that's reasonably being practiced in my head. My shame is the umpire. Having the gall to get myself ready for a night of reading my material to Manhattan readers—who really do nothing but confirm my irrelevance, is nothing short of ensured for me. I don't believe I've ever hindered the possibility of backing out of a chance to be noticed, let alone recognized.

As I look at my pursed lips in the mirror, I make the final decision to leave without putting gloss on. I've already straightened my hair, making sure my fringe covered my eyebrows. I check my Treo for the time. Seven fifty-two PM, seeing that delivers a familiar pang to my heart. I grab my Treo, keys, throw on my satchel and mini-sprint out of my apartment, then down the stoop of the brownstone in which I scrape change to rent from.

I peer over the street-level sidewalk to hail a cab. A driver in a flannel shirt and slightly greasy hair pulls up to me. I climb into the cracked seat car and the scruffy man asks where I'm going.

"Eighty-second and Broadway." My voice tumultuous with the thought of a crowd larger than ten being at Borders.

Arriving at the bookstore, I check the time, and the meter. Eight-ten PM and $6.82. I give the driver his fare and slide myself out of the car. I watch him drive off, and dismiss the doze that I feel coming on. This makes me jolt around and walk into the double doors of the two-story Borders.

Amy, the event coordinator sees me.

"Hey, Erin! Ready?"

"Yes, yes. Sorry for keeping the crowd waiting." Saying this forces me to scrunch my eyebrows as I process the tone I just used, lidded with sarcasm.

"Well they seem to be a little restless, so shall we?" She quickly turns around and walks with me me towards the romance section of the first floor. What does she mean? They seem to be restless? Is that backhanded sarcasm?

Woah, okay. Amy walks up to a podium on a small stage in front of a romance bookcase that now has copies of my novella covering the other novels. There are about thirty people in white folding chairs, some holding my novella, not saying much. I'm glued to the stairs beside the stage. I don a teeth smile to the group of readers, so I can cut some of the overthought out of my self-deprecation. At that moment, Amy greets the intimate audience.

"Thank you to everyone here for coming to Borders tonight to appreciate the lovely debut novelist, Miss Erin Ryan!" She motions for me to take her place at the podium. I creep up and wave to everyone. They clap? They are clapping! I am in awe, at myself, at the applause, at this whole experience in which I feel embarrassed to be as excited as I am. I look over at Amy and she gives me a slight nod to the microphone. Oh. Right. Focusing in, I heave a final sigh before I start, turning my head to avoid feedback. I open my book to the page and paragraph I planned to read and locked my eyes onto the first word.

"Donna didn't know what it was she was feeling. She did know what she was supposed to feel. A father, a mother, a mentor, her own brother would tell her never to settle. However, Donna knew that every man she would make an attempt to impress, he would be enamored of a lovely woman with blonde hair and a nape carved in the shape of a heart.

Comparison is an evil figure to women, yet Donna didn't try to mask her process of furthering her insecurity by cherry-picking what parts of other women she wished she was born with. With every element of beauty she saw in others—the flat abdomen, the male-hand-filling breasts, or the eyes like sea glass—she would hope that by obtaining just one of those pearls of aesthetic, she could understand why it is that women like her are deemed "safety."

Then there he was, the same man she had painstakingly fawned over since that ever-long shift at Regina's five years ago. What the hell is he doing here? Donna darts around in her brain. He was not tall, he was nothing special vertically, but he made her feel higher than any strain of mid-grade indica she had snuck since high school. She knew he was there for her, but she only wondered why.

It wasn't until Donna took her own initiative and left her two seated table, now occupied by herself and a blueberry muffin, to graze the man on the shoulder.

'I know you don't live in this area.'

He turned around to greet her smirk. For a second, his expression was laden with shock, quickly shot down with melodramatic confidence.

'Mmm… well what else do you know, Miss Bradley?'

'That I've missed you, sir.'

With that label of regard she had placed upon him, he dismissed his own table to join Donna at hers. His eyes clocked the blueberry muffin, and without hesitation, he chuckled.

'You eat blueberries now?'

'No.'

Donna slid the saucer hosting the untouched muffin toward the scruffy, yet shapely kept man.

'I buy one for you every time I buy a mocha, one for each time you did the same for me.'

'God, I love you, Donna.' He exerted.

She looked down and seemed to fasten herself into her chair. She felt catatonic from his voice alone.

'Why are you here, James?' She built up the courage to say his name after almost a year of not hearing it in her own voice.

James, now obliged to answer, knew it was time. Time for them to be over, to try again, or exonerate themselves from anything between them. He loved her, and whatever proposition he was bound to say, he knew Donna was right there with him.

'I was going to bring you to dinner for the last time. I'll be leaving soon.'

Donna's heart was in syncope.

'You're really going this time?'

'Yes, my flight to Munich is in a week.'

'I'm sorry, James.'

They were both confused as to why Donna had apologized, but wanted to see what either one would say.

'You have nothing to be sorry for.' James asserted. 'This, I didn't plan, and I certainly didn't plan for Munich—but I'm here now, and I just want to have this moment for now, angel.'"

Wow. I got through that. I wonder if I could've gone through another round of revision. Oh shit. I'm still here. They're clapping! Amy is clapping. She looks proud of me. This feels amazing, I hope this crowd grows in time for my next installment of my series.

Amy stands beside me, placing her hand on my back and telling the people in the space that I'll be here to sign copies of my novella for thirty minutes. Right, I forgot about that. She then leads me off to the table behind the set of chairs, where a stack of copies are presented before me. I love gazing at the cover, and reading the serif font displaying my title and name, Riverwalking by Erin Ryan.

I'm signing for about twenty minutes, and a good amount of people showed up and purchased a copy! As, I have small talk with the last of the people in line, I notice a man who is so strangely similar to the man I modeled James after in my head. Then he walks up with a copy. No. Wait. Okay, just ask.

"Hi! Thank you for coming!" I seem to raise my voice a few more octaves than I normally do for special occasions.

"Certainly, I'm truly intrigued by your prose." He says in a difficult-to-geographically-place English accent.

Woah, okay. I think it's him. Chill.

"Thank you very much! What's your name?" I try to sound as nonchalant as possible while opening his copy to the first title page.

"Neil Gaiman."

Shit. Shit. Shit. This is not a bad thing, he says he likes your writing! I immediately stand up and reach out my hand to shakes his and lean over to give him an introductory side kiss on the cheek.

"Wow, thank you, so much, for coming here. Your writing means a lot to me. I am truly grateful you're here to support me."

Neil grins and embraces my attempt at masking my awkwardness.

"Of course! Listen, theres a couple of people from my team at HarperCollins having a toast upstairs for my book that's coming out soon. You should join us for a glass of 'secco."

"I'd love to, I'll be there after I'm done helping Amy clear up!"

"Alright, there's no urgency. Lovely meeting you, Miss Ryan!

"Thank you, you too Mr. Gaiman."

I place all displaced copies of Riverwalking back in their spots on the romance shelf, and say goodnight to Amy. To which she tells me how much she enjoyed tonight. I head upstairs, ignoring the giddiness building up in my feet.

Neil catches a glimpse of me and beckons me over to him and his partners. I join the cluster and he hand me a class of golden sparkly wine. It's sweet, and I wonder what will happen next.

After hearing many stories about his book, Coraline; which is supposed to come out on the 2nd of July, he invites me to the release party at the HarperCollins building. This is getting to be so much. I feel the weight beginning to disperse across my limbs.

I think this could me my break. I could be published with HarperCollins.