There was a secret meeting tonight, and I had to be there. I received the invitation the night before-a small calling card featuring a raven on one side and an address on the other. Inscribed on the bottom were tiny words: Arrive by 7 p.m., Chloe Pairtree.

I had secretly longed for the day I would become a member of the elite literary world. And it had finally arrived.

I wrote about other people’s lives primarily as a small-time author and blogger, examining their existences to justify my own. Even though I had a modest following of family and friends, I had never been invited to the Oprah Book Club or appeared on the Late-Night Show, but I always dreamed of making the New York Times Bestsellers list one day. A lofty ambition, but one that I have held on to since my early twenties.

I started writing as a young girl, but my love of books began earlier. My bookshelves were crammed with all the greats—Austen, Twain, Orwell, Dickens, and Hemingway. Most of them I had read, and others I had acquired because I thought they should be in my library. There were quite a few books I tried to understand but never mastered—like Shakespeare.

I devoured biographies written about people I found fascinating. I had even bought books out of loyalty, having read the first book and feeling obligated to complete the series. So, a constant stream of them appeared weekly, thanks to the Amazon driver, stacked against the wall, on the kitchen table, or neatly lined up on my desk. They were waiting for me to pick them up and open the cover, so they could begin telling their tales.

Then there was the handful I loved, like family. They sported worn covers and torn pages, coffee stains and midnight snack residue, which tracked my progress. They were my best friends and fiercest enemies, existing in my heart and home. These books inspired me to pick up a pen and write, witnessing my greatest triumphs and deepest disasters.

Glancing at the summons again, I gently set it back on the table and started to make a much-needed cup of coffee. Then, with my mug in hand, I headed into the living room, standing as I surveyed my haven. My furniture is mismatched and eccentric—much like myself. Some pieces were bought for comfort, and others to inspire the imagination.

Near a large window stood my corner desk, filled with Post-It notes of concepts and timelines, and half-filled notebooks peeking through the drawers. A calendar lay open, a gentle prompting of what I should be doing with my life—not necessarily what I wanted to do.

The wall-sized bookshelf had been neatly arranged with my distinguished achievements. However, it was not a reward for my success but a reminder of the work I still needed to do.

As I sat by my bay window overlooking the busy city street below, the rain began to patter gently on my window. At first, I had not put much stock in the idea of a secret society. Those are the ideas movies are made of, not reality. But now I was not so sure. Maybe there was something to them.

As I sipped my not-so-warm coffee, I glanced at the invitation, remembering how I learned about the Raven Society for the first time.

I ran across the Book Shop Book Club six months ago while looking for a new novel to read. The group leader was an older woman who was opinionated to the point of rudeness, yet beloved by all. But then again, I had never been welcomed into the center circle for long enough to understand the attraction. Therefore, it must be because the other ladies feared her.

It’s been a year since I met Aelle at the San Francisco Writer’s Conference. An entertaining weekend of learning about self-publishing, book promotions, social media, and building your author website.

That is where I learned that Aelle was working on a three-part series about Dutch trade lines, a highly researched volume but dull and uninspiring. The type of manual used in college courses as a reference, not a primary source of intellectual discussion.

“I heard from a reliable source that I will receive my invite any time now,” Aelle told her friends while they gathered around Barnes and Noble’s electric stone fireplace.

“We all knew it was going to be exceptional, Aelle,” one member said as she settled down to enjoy an eggnog latte and brownie. I had to smirk while standing in line to order. Was the book enjoyable? Was it a tale of time to be told? Something told me no, but who was I to judge?

My novels lay in the attic of my computer, only to be dusted off and worked on once in a blue moon. I was fully aware that I was an emotional novelist, jumping from book to book as my mood shifted. My one published work was a byproduct of three other books, pieced together like a rag quilt. Despite the book’s success with young adults, I struggled to create a sequel of the same quality.

“Yes, it is extraordinary,” Aelle replied with a sly smile. “A fascinating novel that unlocked the door to the Raven Society. They should consider themselves lucky to have someone like me. Too many writers today focus on make-believe and not on intellectual knowledge. I plan on bridging the gap and bringing the past to the present.”

My face reddened with this proclamation; my own book was filled with fantasy and magic. A world far from here and only accessible to those who earn it. Even though fantasy was impossible, I envisioned it as a story that would inspire imagination and dreaming. At least, I had hoped it would.

“What is the Raven Society??” A young woman asked, with the appearance of an exhausted mother of young children. Hearing her order of coffee with three extra shots, my heart went out to her; I realized she was forgoing a well-needed nap for adult interaction. Aelle laughed and regarded her as if she was educating a school-age child.

“My dear, the Raven Society is the elite literature group of the ages. Individual members have made a significant contribution to the writing world. A remarkable honor indeed! One of the most appealing features is that every new member assumes the role of one of their favorite literary personalities. That is the final test of being accepted. Pick poorly, and you will be asked to leave. On the other hand, choose correctly, and your career will soar to new heights. I have been narrowing my list for days now and have settled on three: Alice from Alice in Wonderland, Anne Shirley, or Elinor Dashwood.”

The ladies talked lively about the pros and cons of the famous characters Aelle had chosen. The possibilities all seemed excellent, but I would never put together such a list of choices for myself. While standing in line, I thought of the women in fiction whose words had influenced lives despite never existing.

My first thought was of Scarlet O’Hara. Who wouldn’t want to be dressed in a luxurious gown with men vying for your affection? It had been so long since I had had any attention from the opposite sex, I wasn’t sure what I would do.

The other two, though? Whom would they be? My smile spread as I paid for my drink, passed by the book club members, and walked to a separate table. I pulled out my notebook of ideas and started considering whom I would represent, as the ladies argued about Aelle’s decision.

If I was ever asked to join, that is.

The rainstorm grew outside as the day shifted to night as I fretted about the invitation. The storm was one of the fiercest I’d experienced in a while; it was as if Mother Nature was aware of my anxiety and decided to amplify it. The wind was intense; the trees bent sideways as if kneeling in prayer. The rain didn’t just hit the windows; it crashed into them. Lights flickered throughout the night sky as I witnessed the strength of nature’s emotions.

And then, complete blackness. With no power, the night took on a personality threatening the very boundaries of sanity. After searching for emergency candles, I settled comfortably on the couch with a throw my grandmother had made me when I first moved to the city. The colors were blues, greens, and grays…the shades of the sea where I had spent my summers, learning to love writing against the backdrop of the ocean.

Finding comfort in the ever-changing personality of the expanse, I would sit all day and watch the tides, in awe that I would never see the same ocean twice.

That is when I started writing, along the shores of the Pacific Ocean. In my imagination, I had created mythical underwater cities and gods that protected the unknown world from mortals. Battles between honorable knights and evil magicians. Beautiful princesses and fierce warriors protecting their city against overwhelming odds.

The stories contained the one thing I was desperate to find in this world-magic.

I intended to finish my book while waiting out the storm, but I found myself thinking about the Raven Society meeting. Just twenty-four hours to go. As I tinkered with my ever-growing list of favorite books and characters, I added more and more pros and cons to the list. The nature of each character reflected who I was or what I aspired to be. I did not wish to take on the identity of any existing literary figure or personality; instead, I wanted to enjoy the privilege of possibility.

A character who was a reader, writer, and dreamer. As the storm raged outside and my candle grew smaller, my list was finally down to the last three choices.

Scarlet O’Hara: a warrior. The dark-haired, green-eyed Georgia belle who defiantly fought for the right to want an outwardly impossible life. She was a woman who loved on her terms and was not afraid to say she wanted it all: money, power, popularity, and love. I figured that if you were about to become part of a secret society, you must be accompanied by someone with tremendous tenacity.

Francine Nolan: the reader. She was a bright and keenly observant girl who loved to read, not to escape the cruelty of living, but because reading defined her. She could no more separate her love for the written word from who she was any more than she could cut out her heart and still exist.

Hecate: goddess of boundaries, crossroads, witchcraft, and ghosts. The dreamer. She held the keys to unlock the gates between the realms of the living and the dead. Others sought her wisdom and judgment in dealing with death, healing, and resurrection because of her abilities.

As I drifted off to sleep against an autumnal downpour, wrapped in the comfort of my grandmother’s throw, I dreamed of crossing the threshold of reality to enter the realm of magic.

My alarm rang at 4:00 a.m. as it had for the last six years of my life. Work week, weekend, or holiday—it did not matter. I believe that that magical time between 4:00 and 6:30 a.m. belonged to me, to do whatever I wanted without judgment or interruption.

If I used the time to clean the apartment, I was free to plug in my music and dance away while sweeping and doing the dishes. If I chose to run on my squeaky, seven-year-old treadmill hidden in the back room, no one would ridicule my lack of singing ability.

If I applied that time to writing, those magical early morning inspirations would encourage me to create fantasy worlds that would only work for a short period of time before the pressures of adulthood kicked in.

However, today was different—I had somewhere to be, and the nagging feeling of needing to be ready was overwhelming. But I still had my schedule to maintain. So, to avoid angering the spirits, I set my morning routine the same way every day. There was comfort in knowing precisely what you would do every morning. I had once tried to compare it to a religious ceremony or Catholic mass to a group of friends, but they rebuffed me for my insensitivity to religions. But I knew repetitive movements could provide comfort!

At 4:30 p.m., I had given up the struggle to stick to my schedule and jumped into the shower to get ready. I had mentally chosen my outfit the night prior, settling on what I believed to be a fitting outfit for a newly published writer—a pair of denim jeans, a black T-shirt, a gray cardigan, and black low-heeled boots.

Curling my hair became a disaster due to worn and outdated electric plugs that couldn’t handle modern appliances. A fifteen-minute struggle ensued, with me losing the battle and possibly a small chunk of hair before I opted for my favorite pile of a messy bun. A thin, light layer of makeup because I was still unsure how to apply it, and I was ready.

By 5:45 p.m., I was anxiously patrolling my tiny, cluttered living room. Note cards of pros and cons lay on the television stand, placed in such a way that, with each of my rounds, I could peek and consider. I still hadn’t decided, but it didn’t matter until I got inside and faced the actual process of answering.

“Do you think they will be dressed in long black robes and Phantom of the Opera masks as we see on Netflix?” I asked my dog Beacon, a friendly twenty-pound Corgi that I had rescued from a shady pet store a couple of years ago.

“Or will there be a table of members watching my presence and taking notes?”

He glanced up from his early evening nap, eyeing me as I paced for the twentieth time around the couch. His only response was shifting his position and glaring before he closed his eyes again.

Ignoring his apparent lack of interest, I continued. “Maybe it will be a dark fortress, like Skull and Bones, or a magically protected castle like in Harry Potter. The candles floating along the ceiling will light up when I walk in, and a seven-course meal will be waiting for me. The sorting hat will decide for me, after which we will all eat and discuss our favorite books.”

Taking a deep sip of my coffee, I envisioned magic wands and huge meals lining long wooden tables with thirteen different types of coffee and desserts. In comfy oversized chairs, we sipped on lovely drinks and discussed old and upcoming novels while listening to the crackling fire in the library fireplace. I was diving deeper into the daydream of mythical creatures and magical universities; the clock flashed 6:20 p.m. before I knew it.

I would have to leave now if I planned to arrive on time. Pulling on my tweed jacket, grabbing my umbrella and purse, and heading for the door, I glanced back at Beacon.

“Wish me luck,” I announced as I walked out the door and onto my next great adventure.