Minutes passed with the priest considering Lucian’s sincerity as if it was a jewel to be bartered. Not since he had lived at the Citadel had he watched someone so thoroughly study his words for their truth.
The priest asked, “What if this selfish, wicked man, who is now sorry, was presented with an opportunity to amend his grievous act? Would this man take such an opportunity?”
“Please don’t mock me.”
“I’m not mocking you, son. I’m asking you a question. Would you take the opportunity?”
Lucian searched the old man’s face and found only kindness. He had not been the recipient of benevolence in so long he wasn’t sure how to respond. “An opportunity?”
“Nothing more. Nothing more can be promised, just the chance to see if she’ll forgive you. Would you take that opportunity?”
He didn’t hesitate. “With both hands.”
Miserere: An Autumn Tale
Now my opportunity is before me and there is a ton of work ahead. My job is to make it look easy so others will have stars in their eyes, because they too want to be an author. I was like that once, but there is much, much more to being published nowadays than just writing books. While it's not easy, it is worthwhile so long as you come into the business with your eyes wide open.
Currently, I'm creating lists for my agent; stalking book reviewers; setting up discussion groups; meeting with independent bookstore owners who might be willing to carry my novel; and in case you're a member, I've added Miserere to Goodreads.
Real life peeps in to steal my time, and time . . . time . . . time is not on my side. Oh, and somewhere in all this, I need to be working on my next novel. Uh-huh. I'll be riding the Red Bull for the next few months.
It would be easy to allow myself to be sucked under by the stress, but every time I start to feel the burn, I remember a story my first husband told me. He was in the Navy and he had deployed to Scotland for a short time. On the bus ride to the naval base, the driver had to descend a hill into rush-hour traffic. The bus driver wasn't the least intimated by the maelstrom of vehicles. As he flew past a sign that warned him to Give Way, he shouted to his passengers what I can only assume is an ancient Scottish battle-cry: "Balls to the wall, boys! Only the good die young!"
In a maelstrom of novels Miserere must find a way to stand out, and for that, I need your help. No author exists in a vacuum, churning out books without people to read them. So hop on board my midnight bus, and I'll take you into Woerld, but hold on tight. It's going to be a hell of a ride . . .