Awkward Writing Novels & Stories

We had been working together long enough that we were starting to think about the same problems at the same time, which was either a sign of a good working partnership or a sign of something else, and I had stopped trying to decide which. "That sentence is still awkward," I said, pointing at the screen. "I know," he said. "I have rewritten it four times." "Try cutting the first clause entirely," I said. "Start from the second one." He tried it. He read it back. "Better," he said. "Much better," I said. He typed the change and saved it and leaned back in his chair. "The transition into the conclusion still feels abrupt to me," he said. "Like we are jumping from the analysis into the recommend

It was the silence of two people who no longer had to fill the pages with dialogue. ​"I keep waiting for the genre-shift," Julian admitted, staring out at the trees. "I keep waiting for the floor to turn into marble or for someone to tell me I have a secret twin." ​"That’s the 'Narrative Withdrawal'," Nora said, leaning her head on his shoulder. "We spent 300,000 words being extraordinary. Being 'Ordinary' is a skill we have to learn from scratch."

Which means One entire year. A full year of awkwardness. The thought makes my stomach twist. I’m not sure I can survive twelve months of weird tension with Cole. But still… my point stands. Eventually the awkwardness faded. It didn’t last forever. Awkwardness is survivable. Probably. All I have to do is make it through today. If I can survive today, I can handle tomorrow. If I manage that, I can push through the week. And maybe just maybe I’ll take Luca up on his offer to travel with him in August. A distraction. Something shiny and far away to focus on instead of Cole.

I can write them down. I held my pen over the paper, poised to write. It was four-fifteen, and I still hadn’t written a single word. When did I become such a coward? Or is the problem that I couldn’t narrow my list down to three? I giggled. Gee, Jake, I could picture myself saying, I hope you don’t mind that I gave you thirty-five different pieces of paper. I hope you have that many friends. Just write something, I said to myself. Anything. The first thing that comes to your mind.

The quiet returns, full of the hum of the fridge and the neighbor upstairs dragging a chair across the floor as if he’s trying to redraw his kitchen from scratch. Work. I need work. I open a fresh document and type a sentence I don’t hate: Some storms don’t pass; they just learn your name. I stare at it too long, then backspace it into nothing. Writing today feels like whistling into a stairwell—your breath comes back at you, altered, unhelpful. I stand instead. The chair legs scrape and my shoulders go up as if someone else made the noise behind me.

Amazing. I sighed and wrote: Against the law. Fiancee? Ladies and gentlemen, I already had a title. I rubbed my hands together and started writing. Like all the other times, the words practically flowed on their own. The spaces were being filled in and the adjectives appeared almost alone. I just put the fingers and inspiration was responsible for the rest. I wrote very fast because when G returned to the world of the awakened living I was finishing page 25. I am usually slower writing. I am a lot to erase, to think again ... But this was coming out of my soul.

Perfect diversity because you never know which side of her you’re getting for the day. “Oh, where are my manners? Please sit,” I fluffed one of the pillows close to me and motioned for him to sit. Damien nodded and sat. We were a bit close but there was an ample space between us. I smiled, and he smiled back. “This is awkward.” I had meant to say to myself but it came out loud and I wanted to bury myself. Just smooth Jade. Just smooth. The temptation to smack myself in the head with a hammer was getting too much to bear.

“It’s just a hobby.” “According to your wife and children, you’re pretty good. My brother writes short stories and plays. I can understand a writer’s modesty, but I would love to read one of your poems sometime, if that would be acceptable to you.” “They are biased in their opinion of my work.” “There’s no pressure. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.” She sat in her seat. Jake raised an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t know you wrote

Neither saying a word. Meanwhile, Akaisha had finished working on her article. It had taken her several hours to get it to where she portrayed the facts and didn’t come across as biased. She took it to Mitchum, who read over it. She had lifted the holodevice closer to her face to read the print. The only sounds that could be heard were the occasionally. “Mmm.” Akaisha stood there, nervously bouncing from one foot to the other. Her hands were behind her back.

I swipe it open and read the message. I’d be a real lifesaver? The girl who just complimented me bumps into my shoulder and mutters, “Sorry.” I stopped in the middle of the stairs. I have to keep going. Abruptly, goosebumps coat my skin. I’d be a real lifesaver. Just like I was for Dummy-nic. The sentence is awkward, stilted like he was trying to fit the idea in. It barely even makes sense with the rest of the message. Unless he saw me in there.