“Come in.”

“Professor Reardon?” Maya poked her head into his office. He was sitting at his desk, his chair turned away from her so he could look out his office window. He had a view of the duck pond, she saw, from the opposite side of campus from her dorm.

“Hello, Maya.” His voice was warm and he turned and indicated that she should sit. She did, perching on the edge of one of the chairs on the other side of his desk. “Thanks for coming.”

“I'm sorry I'm late.” She hadn't been late, of course. Not really.

“That's ok. I got… sidetracked.” His eyes fell to his desk. “So, do you know why I asked you here?”

Maya shook her head. “I have no idea.”

“Have you ever thought about writing a novel?” he asked her. She stared at him. “The William Faulkner writing competition is coming up. They take entries for anything, of course, from poetry to novels. They pay $8000 for the winning novel, and $2000 for the winning short story.”

Maya's eyes widened. “They do?”

“However…” He raised an eyebrow at her. “They don't accept romance as a general rule.” Leaning back in his chair, he looked across his desk at her. “I thought it would be a good opportunity for you. Both financially, and to expand your horizons a bit.”

She nodded, still not able to find the words. She couldn't imagine what she might do with that much money at one time.

Professor Reardon opened his desk drawer and pulled out a slip of paper. “These are the submission guidelines.” He slid them across his desk toward her. “Think you might be interested?”

“I don't…” She looked at the paper but didn't reach for it. “I've never written anything else. I mean, romance is what I read… it's what I write.”