Awkward Writing Novels & Stories

Chapter 6.1 Spell awkward. U.S The atmosphere is really awkward. After our scene in the parking lot I didn't say a word or even look at him. If he hadn't been mad to say that in front of Nathan earlier. It's really embarrassing. Let’s just say Nathan doesn’t really know Wyatt’s last name, it was still embarrassing! And to think that he's Wyatt Wolfenstein! No one doesn't know him, well except for me. Ah whatever! He's annoying! What did he think of me? It's not even my last name but that's what he said earlier. Really crazy!

Mу awkward ѕіdе аlwауѕ managed tо make аn unwеlсоmеd арреаrаnсе. The lесturе began аnd judging bу the аmоunt of hаndоutѕ wе’d been given, іt wаѕ going tо bе a lоng аnd tеdіоuѕ morning. Luсkіlу fоr mе I’d рlаnnеd аhеаd. I lіkеd tо be рrераrеd fоr thеѕе іnеvіtаblе ѕіtuаtіоnѕ.

And he has been crushing on me for almost a decade… Super fan-freaking-tastic! It’s not weird at all! This is completely and utterly normal. After all, normal is relative, right? Gah! Who the hell am I even trying to fool?! This is super, to the power of a million, weird! It’s like broccoli in jelly bean flavour… That’s… I really am weird… “This is… awkward.” I thought out loud. Damn! I really am an awkwardness magnet! Out of all the talents that I could have had, why do I have that particular one?!

I stomp my feet and look at him for a few minutes. "Why?" I ask him calmly as I smile. But deep inside, I'm going to kill him for telling me that my story is trash! "Too much, passive voice, comma splice, informality, and the use of punctuation is wrong. Oops, I didn't mean that your story is bad, but your writing style is." He teasingly says that he is getting even on me after what I did to him. My chest is getting heavy as I look at him. "I'm sorry, I didn't have time to edit because it's only an impromptu writing," I calmly explain while smiling at him, but deep inside. He is already being tortured in my head.

He shut it down and placed it on my study table. What was his problem? "Prof said it should be handwritten" I nagged and opposed. I hate writing things down using my hands, for one main reason. I have really bad penmanship. One time, I joined a feature writing competition. I was so confident because the topic was so easy and fun. I was the first one to finish writing and on the day of the winner announcement, I was not called. Meaning I lost. I asked one of the judges why I did not win, all he said was 'You have bad penmanship' and that was the start of my traumatic writing experience.

The rest of the days that followed were… awkward. There’s really no better word for it. Awkward in that heavy, uncomfortable way where silence says more than words, and every glance feels like a reminder of the thing we’re all too scared to name. I spent most of my time in my room, tucked away behind closed doors, pretending the walls were some kind of shield. They weren’t, of course—the mansion was too big, too alive with the echoes of voices and footsteps for me to block everything out—but I clung to the illusion anyway.

Aiden’s Pov I sat at the small wooden desk in my room. My hand was shaking so hard the pen kept skipping across the paper. I had already crumpled up five pages and thrown them at the wall. How do you write to someone who won’t even look at you? How do you say sorry for a whole year of pretending they were trash? “Elara,” I whispered.

The blog post takes me forty minutes to write, which is the first sign that something is wrong because the filthiest posts I've written took much less. All the posts poured out of me at 2 AM like the words had been sitting in my chest with their bags packed, just waiting for my fingers to open the door, and I’ve never in my life spent forty minutes arranging sentences into a shape that says nothing while appearing to say everything. I read it back and the words on the screen sound like a press release dressed in a sundress.

I felt a little shaky in my hand as I put the pen tip on the page. I took my time writing the first sentence. I'm scared. It's easy. Bare. Weak. The letters curved under my hand, not straight, but real. I stopped and listened to my own breathing and the quiet rhythm of the house, which had its own secrets. Every word felt like a step toward understanding, like a light shining into a dark corner I had been avoiding for a long time.

I was at the apartment desk with my journal open and the pen moving in the unhurried way it moved when I was writing to understand something rather than to record it. I had been sitting with the question of what the past months had produced and I was trying to find language for it that was accurate and not convenient, because the convenient version was available and simpler and missed the essential thing, which was that what had changed was not the absence of difficulty but the relationship between the difficulty and the people carrying it.