Body Language In Writing Novels & Stories

And I kept my tone neutral because I didn’t trust myself enough to give it any warmth. “You take the wall side,” I said. “I won’t touch you.” It was a promise I intended to keep but I could see it in her eyes that she didn’t believe me at first. I saw it in her eyes. Not because she thought I’d hurt her but because she wasn’t sure what she would do if I got close. She tried to hide that too but failed. I was good at accessing and reading situation and reading body language is something I best excel in… I shouldn’t have added the last part but I did anyway because I wanted to see her reaction…

No claims. No calls to action. Just orientation. We include explicit disclaimers—not legal, but ethical. This is not a model. Not a solution. Not a prescription. It’s an invitation to notice patterns. To ask better questions. To practice restraint. The act of writing it is harder than expected. Every sentence feels like it could be over-read. Under-read. Misread. We resist the urge to clarify preemptively. Over-clarification is control wearing empathy’s clothes. When it’s released, the response is immediate.

Outside the city was doing its late night quiet. “I want to make something,” Margot signed, turning to look at Finn. “About this. About visual communication and what it does. What tonight was.” “What will you call it?” Finn signed. She thought for a moment. “Something about the body of language,” she signed. “What it feels like. When the language is the body.” Finn looked at her. “That was my phrase,” they signed. “You gave it to me,” she signed. “On purpose.” Finn felt the truth of that. They had. In the coffee place, describing the east wall piece, they had given her language for something she’d been working toward. It felt right that she’d use it.

“But people usually give themselves away.” With that, I paused. I'm not going to say more than I have already said. That's usually how I operate; say a little and then allow whoever is at the other end to continue talking and giving themselves away but this man— Sherlock or whatever I saw on that website… he's kind of a push. “Can you tell me more?” he asked quickly. I sighed inwardly. “Tone,” I said sharply. “Timing. Eye movement. Words that don’t match their body language.”

I also wrote about Adrian and how calm and in control he had been when the world outside had scared me. The pen stopped for a moment. I didn't want to admit it, but my body remembered more than my mind did. I wrote down the little things first: The way my fingers curled and my hands clenched, the way my knees shook, and the sudden heat behind my eyes when I knew he was coming. I could see the patterns on the page clearly.

Then they fluttered again. I am looking at my own face right now. Writing this—if you can call it writing, me with no hands, no pencil, no paper. I'm thinking the words and hoping someone will find this story and understand. Because this morning, something changed. My body's right hand moved. Not the way a sleeping person moves—that limp, unconscious shifting. This was deliberate. The fingers curled, one by one, like someone trying out a new instrument. Then the hand lifted off the cushion and hovered in the air for three full seconds before dropping.

The translation of capacity into practice. It was harder than I expected and more immediately rewarding than anything I had done before. The difficulty was in the specificity. Directing warmth at my own body, which the blood knew intimately, was one thing. The body's own landscape was familiar terrain — I knew its frequencies, its signals, the vocabulary it used to communicate its states. Directing warmth at another person's body was a translation problem.

“Close your eyes. Feel my voice. Imagine my hands on your body while you write this scene.” His fingers trailed slowly down my arms, leaving goosebumps. I tried to continue reading, but my voice cracked when his hands slid under the hem of my shirt, palms gliding over my stomach and up to cup my breasts through my bra. He pinched my nipples gently at first, then harder, rolling them between his fingers until I moaned. “Good,” he murmured. “That sound. Use that in your writing. Let your readers hear her moan like that.”

So I am not going to let myself feel happy to his sweet words and gestures. Anyway I observe his hands and handwriting while he is writing. The way he holds his pen and all. It's just the normal way every other normal person holds their pen. And his handwriting is a rather speedy and illegible one with long tails for 'g' and 'y'. My handwriting is totally different. I always prefer to write every letter clearly. And I am left handed.

she said walking out the door with a frown. ~~~ September 18 I started my education in terminology yesterday. I have discovered they have their vocabulary. Not only do they talk with words but with gestures. I knew body language was important, but after watching Kasper and Quinn talk, I know body language is far more important than words to them. I have also learned how they refer to each other.