Awkward Writing Novels & Stories

like mine? “What on earth? Why are we always in these awkward situations?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the faucet running. Tandre scratched his head sheepishly. “Then let’s switch positions,” he whispered back. Awkwardly, they maneuvered, switching places in the tight space. Now, Tandre leaned against the wall with Arwena pressed up against him. Instead of relief, Arwena felt her annoyance spike. She glared at him. “Are you making fun of me?” she asked in a sharp whisper.

But I couldn’t just sit there. So I wrote. Whatever sounded smart. Pretty. Fancy words. Words that filled space but meant nothing. Definitions I wasn’t sure were real. Theories that could’ve come from a Buzzfeed quiz. It was all smoke and mirrors. By the fourth question, my pen dragged like lead. My chest felt tight. Like I was breathing through gauze. I glanced at the clock. Thirty minutes in. And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pretend to care about silhouettes and trend forecasting when my name was already trending on group chats I’d never be invited to again.

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

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.

“Can we not make things awkward while we are here.” “Awkward?” he looks at me with an incredulous expression etched into his face. “You’re making things awkward between us, Miss. Not me, you.”

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.