A Genius Writer's Random Workplace Novels & Stories

When I said chaos, I meant the differences, consequenses and reasons in every article a journalist can write about. Or for those creative writers out there who writes for creative reasons, who create chapters, short stories or poetries for life. They write in messy surroundings but that doesn't mean that they'll start writing in clean places. What I'm saying is, a writer is a messy individual while writing. I'm not saying that writers are filthy persons. They're actually several types of writers but the common denominator is they make their writing places convulated when they write.

On New Year’s Eve, Lilith Woods stole the office keys while I was meeting with a major client. She went live with a stream titled [Gen Z Takes Over the Workplace.] In front of a hundred viewers, she changed the team-building destination to Baline. “Hi girls, tomorrow I’ll show you what a luxury hotel is all about. “Let’s double the fun. I’ll get our elite boss drunk and savor every moment with him. “The thought of watching the high-and-mighty bow down is too irresistible. I’ll record the whole thing. Let’s see if he dares scold me afterward.”

Your ideas are always challenging~] [Diana: One million bonus for each completed design.] [Cenzo: Don’t worry, boss. We’ll get it done!] Frank chimed in. [Operations Manager: These are great ideas! Contrast creates surprise. How do you guys not get that as designers?] [Diana: Who is this operations manager? Wrong chat? Get out.] [Jenny: Big sis, that’s Frank’s work account.] [Diana: Frank? Acting all serious now?] [Cenzo: Manager, what’s your inspiration then?]

Instead, I entered a dimly lit cave with thick curtains covering most of the wall-size windows and an astronomical number of cable wires flooding the floor. "Watch your step," he warned, leading me to a sofa half-covered by cardboard boxes and something that probably used to be a coffee table but now resembled a stand for an unimaginable amount of paper. "Do you… live here?" I asked, having a hard time moving around in that mess. He smirked. "I work here and trust me when I say that my workplace is perfectly organized. Although it doesn't look that way." "I can imagine," I muttered, reminding myself that I also used to cover my room with all kinds of documents, creating my own special mess,

ELENA Work is supposed to save me. That’s the lie I tell myself as I sit behind my desk, spine straight, shoulders squared, eyes glued to spreadsheets that blur no matter how many times I scroll. Numbers are obedient. They don’t ask questions. They don’t suddenly inform you that your entire genetic history has been rewritten by one sentence at a dinner table.

I asked her. "I was just on my way to meet a very tough writer that works in the company. He stopped writing and said he wants to join the entertainment industry." Lauren explained. "Oh! You finally achieved your dreams of working in a w*****n company. Is it here in Paris?" I asked her. "No, not really. I work in Los Angeles but came down here for the writer who suddenly came down here for a vacation. He is the top selling writer in the company and we treat him very well.

That's why right now, I have reached twenty thousand words of my book in just four weeks. My hands are busy at the moment. With coffee by my side, and some jazz music I am more focused than ever. I don't always drink coffee while I write, it could be orange juice or a beer, and I don't always play Jazz music, in terms of getting inspiration I turn to Ed Sheeran or Taylor Swift, or Adele. They keep me focused. Rene knows best than to disturb me while I'm writing. She's not even here at the moment anyway, I don't know where she went. She's an adult she can do whatever she wants.

And the ceiling… It looked like a sky full of stars. “Can you even work properly with a view like this?” I asked, genuinely amazed. He nodded and pulled me toward the sofa. The space was huge. I could probably run around here and still not get caught. I almost laughed at the thought. “You look crazy smiling like that,” he said. “Nothing,” I replied. “So—how am I supposed to write?” “I have an extra laptop,” he said. “Do you use G****e Docs?”

We stayed silent until the elevator stopped on the tenth floor. “We are on Mrs. Lucerne’s floor.” She announced. We walked the well-lit hallways. We passed by what looked like a dining hall. I had mistaken it for the cafeteria, and my stomach grumbled again, but Jo shook her head. She opened the door and got inside. I followed her gingerly. “This is the employee’s lounge. Our writers stay here, especially those who love to smoke. There’s a separate room there where they can smoke to their hearts' content.” She told me and pointed to a secluded, walled, covered room.

“No, no, she seduced him in the cafeteria with her eyes and scared him off when she snapped.” “She’s crazy.” “She’s dangerous.” “She’s lucky.” The office was a furnace of whispers, fueled by jealousy and stupidity. Every time I turned a corner, someone turned away too late. Every time I touched my keyboard, someone across the room stopped typing just to watch. If I coughed too loud, they probably thought it was part of my seduction strategy. I tried to focus, I really did. But how do you work when your name’s a punchline? How do you breathe when every breath feels stolen?