Character Driven Novel Novels & Stories

I cannot stop when my fingers have danced on the black keyboard on the bed. My second novel’s character is named Eros Darwin — as the main character who has multiple personalities. I purposely gave Eros Darwin a psychopathic character in this novel; at least, he still lives in a world of fiction. “Eros,” I whispered as my fingers typed Eros’s name into the paragraphs on the flat screen. “Why is it so cold?” I touched the back of my neck because I felt something cold passing there and then spontaneously turned my face to the open balcony.

For the first time, Cathedra had someone who didn't cringe every time she opened her mouth to speak. So this is what having a friend feels like, huh? Cathedra thought to herself. One lunch break, while waiting for Diane underneath the tree, Cathedra was scribbling a draft of her first novel in her notebook. The novel contained the scenes she saw in the storybook, back in her kindergarten days. Since that day at kindergarten, she didn't tell anyone what she saw in the storybooks anymore. The thought of seeing things that other people couldn't still terrified her but she tried hard not to think about it by avoiding any book she can see other than school books and textbooks.

"I should've asked Mom for his name. I should ask Timothy about him. Maybe he knows the guy." Why was this scenario so similar to a novel that Yara had read before? Calista distinctly remembered how excited her friend was about it. "Didn't you use to whine about how pitiful the male protagonist was when you were passionate about these cheating plotlines? You were saying how much you wanted to transmigrate into the books to save him and take revenge against his ex-girlfriend. You wanted to embark on a journey to the peak with him." "I'm into sweet romance novels now. The protagonist has to be innocent and free of sin. He can't have any ambiguous relationships with women. Even his pet dog has

The specific and particular history of people who had been present at large events and had not been the people the large events were usually said to be about. She read novels. The novels were harder to characterize. They were not genre novels and not literary novels in the specific and self-conscious way of novels that were aware of being literary. They were simply good novels, or what appeared, from the evidence of the way she held them, the specific and attentive quality of a woman who was genuinely inside a book rather than processing it, to be good novels. She had read one I recognized. She had read several I did not.

Continue from where the last chapter stopped. A lot of dialogue and less inner thought Make it look humanly written and very interesting Suspense filled with the emotions of the characters felt by readers First Person narrative

Chapters turned into a story. And before I could catch my breath, it was no longer a coping mechanism. It was a novel. In my story, the characters aren’t named Stacey and Noah, but anyone who truly looked could recognize us in the margins. The male lead is a basketball player with a fire in his eyes and the weight of his dreams pressing hard on his back. The female lead is older, cautious, guarding her heart like it’s glass but unable to resist the pull of something dangerous, something real.

His hair looked a little too unruly, like someone's fingers had been there. My stomach dropped as I dragged my gaze between him and... her. My insides twisted. She.. No. "A...li..cia?" I called, the words from my own mouth sounding wrong. Author's Note- Hi dear readers, I know you must have noticed update on this vol of the book has grown intensely slower than usual. I deeply apologize. I was preparing for a major exam—all done now though. Also, compared to every other books I've written. Draven(and his wolves) are the first matured characters I've ever written in a first pov(I mostly do young adults, and also write in third person pov.)

​I poured a glass of whiskey and stared at the framed copy of my debut novel sitting on the shelf. Cara Mia. ​Writing it had been my only lifeline during this hellish year. It was supposed to be a catharsis, a way to process the madness of being a mafia lord’s wife. Every page was stained with the truth of us. I wrote about the way he smelled of expensive tobacco and gunpowder, the way his Italian filtered through his lips like a prayer, and the way he looked at me as if I were the only thing in this world worth saving.

I instinctively hunched my shoulders. The faint, lingering ache in my belly stirred again, teased by the wind. "Alexander Knight..." I muttered his name, back teeth grinding slightly. That untouchable man. The more thorns you navigated, the more there were. And each one made my heart itch. That possessive kiss in the Hong Kong elevator. Him rolling up his sleeves to cook in Sir Arthur's little courtyard. That burning hand on my stomach on the plane. Scene after scene. Overwhelming. No wonder he was the male lead in this screwed-up book world. His game was on another level.

With a helper of spiritual deities and destiny, he again crossed my path, and everything led me to that moment. To have him as the ideal model for the male character in my book was the proof that I needed to know that he must be mine. Flynn Ashton cured a creative block of months, showing how real-life men can still be charming and fascinating like the characters in a book. He became my ideal character, and I wanted to be the girl in the erotic romance that everyone always wanted to be. In the book, I had made the protagonist have her redemption after the accidental chaos she had led to the good guy's life, although no one knew that I was seeking my own redemption through words.