Awkward Writing Novels & Stories

"Okay, I'm sorry." "Miss Vee's attitude again." Elena. "I think you're on your period now, you're ugly." He said laughing even though nothing was funny. "I just want to have fun here now and then it just happened like this. It suddenly became awkward." Wendy's language. "I don't feel awkward, I guess it's just you." Wendy turned her gaze at the same time. I'm not awkward with them, I just suddenly lost my mood because they kept asking me what the problem was.

"Gee! Sorry for being so awkward on the first day... Blame it on being born a writer." I gasp. "You're a writer?" He facepalms himself. "I've said too much about myself, don't you think?" I chuckle at how weird he is. "No. Just three things. You're Seven. Born on the seventh day of the seventh month. And that you're awkward coz you're a writer." "See... You know a million things about me when I know zero about you!" I giggle. "Well, coz I'm not as interesting as a man named after an actual number."

just a moment ago? The moment Naraja announced this word “Weird” in the air for some reason everybody started to feel different. He could sense it. Or more accurately to put it, It's like the atmosphere around Naraja and everybody else had gotten strainful and awkward for a quick moment. He could sense it, Naraja felt like he had said a godforsaken “Should Not Be Mentioned” kind of word...

“Comfortable. Happy. I don’t want you thinking I’d ever do something to make you feel small or… vulnerable in a bad way.” Clara swallows, her shoulders easing as if she’s been holding tension there all evening. “I know,” Clara said softly. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me.” I step a little closer, close enough that the space between us feels intentional rather than accidental. Close enough that she can see the earnestness in my eyes. “Then I need you to know that,” he adds. “Even when things get awkward. Even when we mess up.” My lips curve into a small, fragile smile. “It was awkward,” Clara admits, a hint of shy laughter in her voice.

The awkwardness hung in the air like a thick fog, making it difficult for anyone to navigate the conversation. Mr. and Mrs. Laurier, in an attempt to break the tension, started to cough, their actions clearly forced only to break the awkwardness. However, the two are seasoned veterans in the art of social navigation. They exchanged a quick glance, a silent communication that only years of marriage could foster. Mrs. Laurier, with a grace that defied the awkwardness, rose from her chair and moved towards the kitchen. The soft rustle of her dress seemed to fill the room, providing a much-needed distraction.

It feels like the longer that I try to focus, the more I am getting a headache. I am not smart enough for this. One factor could be because I just recently learned how to read and write. “Those words are already as simple as they get when it comes to formal reports.” Ajax eyes me with judging eyes, which I greatly take offense. The way he speaks and stands clearly tells me that he would rather be somewhere else than here helping me.

No claims. No calls to action. Just orientation. We include explicit disclaimers—not legal, but ethical. This is not a model. Not a solution. Not a prescription. It’s an invitation to notice patterns. To ask better questions. To practice restraint. The act of writing it is harder than expected. Every sentence feels like it could be over-read. Under-read. Misread. We resist the urge to clarify preemptively. Over-clarification is control wearing empathy’s clothes. When it’s released, the response is immediate.

Writing styles differs from people to people just as the fingerprint of one man is always different from the fingerprint of another man. Presently, my room is silent. Still, instead of it giving me the air of confidence I need to write my daily account, it stares right back at me with a shady unrealistic darkness. "So, have I told you about a boy that I like and he really really likes me too. The problem is that he lives far away," Katy said to me this morning. Normally, I have already accepted that all humans in this world are selfish. Each, carrying their own selfish desires in their mind and not wanting anything to come against it but I can't go on like this, not with this obese thunder-s

The first sentence took ten minutes. The second took twenty. By midnight, Jessica had written three paragraphs and crossed out half of them. She stared at the application form in frustration. Apparently writing about yourself was far more difficult than writing about anything else. The kitchen table had disappeared beneath scraps of paper, coffee cups, and crumpled notes. Jessica rubbed her eyes. Then read the sentence again. And hated it. Immediately. "Terrible." She crossed it out. Started again. Still terrible.

Why? I am awkward. I talk way too much, and those are both qualities that don’t make for good TV. I’d either spill something that I shouldn’t, literally or figuratively, because my glass of water is so dangerously close to my leg that I can’t keep still for the life of me. Or I’ll say something that I’m not supposed to say, spilling the tea, so to speak. Cas’ PR guy had coached us to avoid certain topics, and my mind is empty as to what those topics were.