Awkward Writing Novels & Stories

PLEASE HELP PLEASE PLEASE I'VE BEEN STUCK HERE I CAN'T CALL THERE IS NO CONNECTION HE HAS MY WIFE MY KIDS, PLEASE HELP This is a completely fictional scenario and is written simply to give you a slight heart attack, if you are still reading this, this is actually a call out to the unfair conditions that writers face on these platforms, I can't disclose the agreement but it's rough, things are rough for authors on this platform on others and even the one's who self-publish so be sure to support other authors you see, anywhere you see them, it isn't easy to publish a book even if you think it is, as for this one I won't be able to complete it I've been diagnosed with.....blah.....blah ......bl

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?

I'll be posting prompts for story openings based on our ongoing contests, successful outlines and designs, and if you are up for it, take it and write it out~ Come back to me with your own story and I have contracts to offer~ (well, if you already have a senior editor with GN, go to them :P ------- I got married to a crippled man. On our wedding day, he stood up.

he flashes a comical glare towards Dakota, his behaviour friendly as if he were trying to appease any worries that I may have about them, “-how’re you feeling?” Opening the notepad, I reach the first clean page and click the lid of my pen. Clasping it shakily, I scribble away, trying to keep my writing readable as it appears to resemble that of a toddler’s compared to my own usual neat handwriting. Pressing down hard as if learning to write all over again, I restrain the urge of sticking my tongue out in concentration before thankfully penning the simple response of, “sore”. “I bet you do, little wolf,” he remarks agreeably.

Awkward! "It's alright" I repeated after clearing my throat , I hopped off from the slab, arranged my clothes and walked away. Gosh!.

Awkward! I have a habit of not saying anything when I run into people I know because of some uncomfortable experiences in my past. There have been a number of times when I’ve been out shopping and bumped into someone I went to school with. Five years of my life in the same classroom, maybe even sitting in adjacent desks, and when I say hello to them... nothing. They have no idea who I am. Big deal, right? I didn’t make a big impression on them, it’s not the end of the world. But it’s still embarrassing, so I tend to keep my mouth shut and let them speak first, if they want. They usually don’t.

No reason to panic. “So, um, this is awkward,” Avery mutters, wringing her hands together. I agree with her on that. This is an extremely awkward situation. Which is why she needs to leave right now, before it grows even more awkward. She. Doesn’t. Still. I’d have admired her courage if it weren’t pissing me off so much.

December of the twelfth year had a quality that Ernest tried to describe and found required the full journal entry rather than the accurate sentence. He had been trying to write an accurate sentence for twenty minutes. The sentence would not come. The sentence was too small, too contained, too neat for the thing he was trying to describe. The quality of December was not a quality that could be captured in a single sentence, no matter how accurate. The quality of December was the quality of the accumulated twelve, the quality of the ordinary days that had built something that could no longer be described as a collection of ordinary days but had become something else, something larger, somethi

We lay there and talked about where I moved from and talked about some of his childhood. Brooks asked me if I was ok with everything that happened the other night and I said I was but it was still a little awkward for me and he said, “What about it was awkward?" I said talking about what was going on with my body and I felt a little awkward when you grabbed my hand and put it on you. He said, "I'm sorry I didn't mean to make things awkward for you." I told him it was ok and that it was something I was going to have to get used to anyways. Brooks looked at me and said,