Awkward Writing Novels & Stories

Emma sat in her Brooklyn apartment three days after the editorial massacre, staring at her laptop screen with the same intensity she might reserve for defusing a bomb. Jake's words echoed in her mind with every attempt to write: "emotionally vacant," "formulaic," "passion by numbers." Each phrase felt like a surgical incision into her professional confidence.

11) Sky dive/ snorkeling / BASE jumping (Any one) 12) Add some more to this. I stared at my anything but neat cursive writing again and again. There was no doubt that I was way too drunk when I wrote this. The sloppy and unsteady writing was enough proof of that. Also I didn't have the guts to even write half of the things with a straight mind, forget about doing them. "Complementing people and changing life is easy for you." Ace quipped.

And the other version that lives inside my laptop at three in the morning, writing men who would ruin that other version of me without blinking. Sue me! Judge me! But I think all writers have different personalities… I mean If I don’t possess an imaginative mind how would I have become the writer that I am? Fuck! That sounds like am convincing myself that my social awkwardness isn’t a problem… It’s honestly embarrassing when I think about it too hard. Which I try not to. But I overthink for sport, so… here we are. I stare at my screen, cursor blinking like it’s judging me. My coffee has gone cold again and I don’t even remember when I made it. That’s usually how my mornings go, or afternoons

Alfi asked friendly. Awan sees Alfi smiling at him so warmly. Awan feels reluctant to smile at him back that he can’t say a thing. "Hey, can you describe it more normally?" Alfi asked me. "Oh sorry, my bad, I felt kinda awkward to write it. My hand as if it can write on its own. I can write more than 3000 words while I”m dozing off." I answered. "Yeah, it’s as incredible as what you always do at night," Alfi said in sarcasm.

“The same man who sent twelve messages in one week is now a monk.” Freeda took the phone from her and scrolled through the article herself. The words were clever in the way cowardly writing always is. No lies clean enough to risk legal pushback, no facts strong enough to hold him accountable. Just tone, polished and protective, careful in its cowardice: a man heartbroken, misunderstood, stepping back because the woman he almost married had become “volatile under pressure.” There was even a line about him refusing to speak poorly of her because he still respected what they had almost had.

The silence felt like a heavy weight that needed to be lifted, and as I opened my mouth to say something else, he spoke, “I'm fine, pumpkin. I'll be working late tonight, I'm sorry I'm so busy.” I shrugged trying hard to act nonchalant, but that shit didn't suit me one bit, instead I countered him, “Or you're just avoiding me, it's better you put it that way than to lie about being busy!” It was his turn to shrug. Why do I feel awkward?

It feels too formal, too distant. “You really think that’ll win her back?” my wolf asks with a scoff. “Try again.” I press the backspace key until the screen is empty again. “Alright, let’s try something else. Abby, I please hear me out—” “Way too desperate,” my wolf interrupts again. “No woman wants a man who begs like that.” With a frustrated growl, I delete the sentence. My mind feels like a scrambled mess, thoughts and emotions colliding in a chaotic jumble. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I’ve fully exhausted all of my ideas and yet the page is still blank.

“Tight but not stupid. Hair up. Two minutes.” Awkward sat in the room with us, legs crossed, watching. He did not look at me; he looked at the lamp, the chart, anywhere else. His jaw still held that notch. His hands were very busy with nothing. “Turn the key after,” he added, too quickly. “And use the coat until the shirt’s dry.” I stood there with cloth in my hands and the sea on my face and could think of six ways to make a joke and not one I could live with. The room smelled of salt and ink and him. I managed, “Aye.”

He dropped a stack of journals onto the table and sighed dramatically. "If I read one more article about cognitive development, I might start forgetting my own name. " I laughed as I opened my notebook. "I thought you liked this topic." "I do. I just don't like researchers who take three pages to say one sentence." "That's called academic writing." "It's called showing off." I smiled and shook my head before pulling out the outline I'd spent most of the previous night organising. Aiden leant over to look at it. "You colour-coded everything." "It helps." "It also makes me feel like I've done absolutely nothing." "You've done plenty." "I highlighted two paragraphs." "You highlighted them in th

Ella's Pov I stared at the blinking cursor on my slightly cracked laptop screen. I've only being able to write the title- Personal Experiences with Arousal and nothing more. From what Professor Garrett said, he wanted the raw, unfiltered details. The issue with it was, how was I supposed to write that I want my sloppy cunt railed by his huge cock? How was I supposed to write this essay without sounding like a cheap slut? Every sentence I typed quickly turned into porno.