Your time will come. Monday believed in the sentence. She made it her leitmotiv, and finally, her time was now.

The London book convention, a dream come true for Monday, or should we say author Daye Yeni. Her new adult romance, Love Me Without Buts, made it into not one or two but eight European countries' top ten sales. 

Yes, it took seven years, a timid debut, a flop, a two-year writers' block, depression, an addiction to nicotine, vanilla mocha, and an incalculable number of rewrites, two extremely cliché yet popular trailblazers to get there, but all was worth it.

Now Love Me Without Buts success crossed the English Channel. The woman was ecstatic, Monday had participated in book fairs before, but none were as heart throbbing as the London BookInc fair.

Every anybody who believed they were somebody in the literacy world would be there. The guest lineup had writers and experts from every field.

Amongst them, some were awaited, like the return of Harry Potter in Deathly Hallows.

In the past two years, mental health and well-being had become a worldwide preoccupation and gained space in the literacy microcosm. Thus, everyone who could do it jumped on the develop-yourself wagon just as fiction writers hopped on vampires, werewolves, CEO troops plots.

Non-fiction titles, whether how-to, advice, or motivational, were the trend. The fairs' organizers and sponsors honored the genre by dedicating almost thirty percent of its space to its authors.

Luckily Monday had her spot on the fiction side of the aisles.

She looked at the large POS of her book cover and the books still in their boxes, ready to be displayed. Finally, she had a hardback version. The woman took out her phone; the exploit merited a photo.

"Hey, what are you doing?" A security guard approached her position.

"I'm Daye Yeni, the author," Monday hurried to take out her pass and handed it to the man. He stared at the photo and focused on her face again.

"Eh, don't mind the dreadlocks. I had them in before," Monday said while fluttering her lashes.

The security guard stared at her up and down. His nostrils flared as he pressed on his talkie, "false alert, authorized access."

Monday heard a blurry sound before hearing, "Rodger."

The woman muffled a giggle. Responding that way on the radio was probably the excitement-filled part of the man's job.

"First time, huh?" The guard asked and placed his hands on the hem of his trousers like a sheriff.

Again Monday found herself tempted to laugh, but she toasted a warm smile instead, "is it that obvious?"

The hostile guard's face suddenly opened up as he prepared to deliver his science, "the fair opens its doors at 10 AM. It's 8:00 AM. There won't be anyone here for the next hour, "he paused to make sure Monday paid attention before pursuing.

"Guests like yourself usually arrive at 9:45 AM, see later. So yeah, it shows. Have a good day," the man walked away, leaving Monday by her emplacement.

Her publishing house scheduled two interns to prep her spot the day before, but Naim caught the stomach flu, and Anouska's passport had expired. Monday's spot became a last-minute gig that Ben planned to do when he arrived.

The enthusiasm was such for the writer that she began to set things up herself as arranged on the mockup they presented to her a week before.

Absorbed by the task, the woman didn't see the other exhibitors and guests around or the arrival of Ben and Tim. Before she knew it, the hall bustled with people.

"Monday, what are you doing here? You're not supposed to arrive before 11 AM." Ben said.

The woman smiled and put another stake of books on the display, "I couldn't help it."

Ben shook his head in disapproval.

Monday Layeni was that odd literacy phenomenon. The type whose manuscript collected dust under a pile until someone found it and screamed Eureka.

The woman didn't reinvent romance, but she created characters with that close-to-home relatable feel. Also, her protagonists were diverse, not just stand-ins to splash the chapters with crayon colors.

A few years back, the marketability of books with PoC leads remained in the field of speculation now; publishers sought to seduce broader audiences, even if it was a small niche. Whether it was the protagonist or the story itself that pleased, readers had a potent desire to discover authors like Monday.

Despite this, Ben didn't know what to think of Monday when he first met her. She had locks back then, and she wore the same sweater every time Ben saw her. Monday had more bags under her eyes than a toad. Her tobacco and coffee blend breath gave the man goosebumps. Ben already saw the writer's dead end with a burnout that would cripple her fingers and prevent Monday from drafting anything for the next decade.

Later, a publishing deal and three top sellers had Monday switch from laxity city chick to neat prepped for book signing author.

Monday opted for a big chop, not that she wished to change. It was a way of letting go of the past and accepting the brighter future. Less caffeine, more green tea, and a pencil to chew on to calm the nicotine craving, one could almost think her appearance and habits were a consequence of her writing failures and that success allowed things to fall back into place.

With a bit of coaching, she picked up all the hacks of the likable author. Her smile never withered, and her words were at the height of her fans' expectations.

Ben had to admit she was quite a catch once she left the dark realm of the neglected writer. She was the quirky black girl next door that one grew to appreciate.

"How do you feel?"

Monday tilted her head from side to side, "I'm a little nervous. I know I've done it loads of times, still I'mㅡ."

"You'll be fine, now smile," Ben said and grasped her hands.

Monday's lips stretched, and she displayed the white teeth Ben envied.

How could a former smoker have such teeth while an impeccable health freak like him found himself on the dentist's seat every trimester?

"Perfect, Tim and I will finish off things here. Go and look around. You've still got half an hour before the flood."

Monday did as asked and went to explore. All the big names were there, with exhibit stands three times bigger than her apartment. Hachette, HarperCollins, Penguin, Simon Schuster, and many more. Besides them, one could also find the less traditional but modern online publishers.

Monday smiled the orange logo of one of the big names brought back souvenirs of the first drafts she submitted on multiple sites, but it was that particular platform people discovered her writing. She made friends and got tons of advice. Though it took time, the website gave her a great push.

The woman couldn't let herself reminisce as the first wave of visitors began to flood the aisles.

No, it was a guest, preceded and followed by a procession of journalists who pushed Monday to the side for what seemed an eternity.

Monday hurried back to her spot.

"Where were you?" Ben asked.

"I thought you said I could look about."

"I didn't say you could leave the convention and get a latté across the street."

Ben the mother hen was back in business, though a writer himself, he quickly changed to be an editor and chaperone of new authors. Monday suspected him of secretly nourishing the idea of being published while suffering from the fear of rejection. He liked to say the world was not ready for his works.

Not everyone had the strength to overcome the letters and emails of refusal. Monday immediately put the emails in the junk basket at her depressions' height.

She did this with every mail. Used to being rejected, Monday even scrapped her publishers' invitation to discuss her first writing opportunity. If it weren't for the voicemail left on her phone, she would have missed the deal of her life.

"I got held up, some VIP whatever arrived. It's probably some deputy. I don't know. I didn't get to see."

"Oh, it's no deputy," Ben nodded in a direction across from their position, making Monday follow his gaze.

"It's Kenneth Mosely."

Monday knew the name listed in the top ten of every bestseller ranking one could think of in the advice, motivational&miscellaneous category. His name also featured in non-fiction and even popped up in fiction, sometimes just for fun.

The man was a writing monster who Monday neither read nor saw until then.

Well, she didn't exactly see him. What she scoped was the dark auburn strands on his head as she widened and squinted her eyes to catch the man's face. Monday couldn't help but think she wasn't famous yet when she saw the noise around the man.

"Don't try to look now. Kenneth will give a few conferences. You'll have the opportunity to see him then."

"Conferences?"

"Yes, he'll be doing them daily. Good thing you're across from him. He'll reel in the crowd."

Monday released a nervous giggle, "I doubt those who read his books open mine."

"Oh, don't underestimate readers and prospects, Monday."

Most bookshelves were full of stories of different genres, an eclectic mix that suited ones' current mood like a Spotify playlist. It was naive on Monday's behalf to believe a Kenneth Mosely could not sit beside a Daye Yeni on a shelf or across from her in real life.

"Who knows, perhaps Kenneth reads your stories," Ben said with a slight mocking grin.

"Hahaha, very funny," Monday replied as she took a seat and got ready to receive the first visitors.

It was the moment she dreaded the most. One never knew who would come, but above all, if anyone would deem to stop at her stand.

The tingling sensation of cold sweat breaking out at the back of her neck alerted Monday she had reached the peak of her stress point.

She opened her purse, grabbed a packet of Fisherman's Friend, and popped in three of the highly cooling tabs in her mouth. Monday closed her eyes, a gust of wind of freshness gushed into her nostrils while the minty taste exploded on her taste buds.

Monday's sprung open her eyes. She was ready, and so was the first person who came with her book for an autograph.