Flowing Writing Novels & Stories

Ava’s POV By the time the clock on my laptop hit 2:13 a.m., I was still writing. Not revising. Not editing. Just writing. The words poured out like they’d been waiting — pressed under my ribs for too long, finally clawing their way free. Every click of the keys felt like tearing something open, but I couldn’t stop. Not yet. > They call me reckless. Maybe I am. But there’s a difference between breaking rules and breaking yourself to fit them.

To those who are looking for guides on how to write an outline~ An outline is the bone of your story that supports your content and keeps it in shape. It can help you check whether your emotion flow is in place. ----- 1 Theme (in one sentence) This is ONE sentence describing NOT what happened in the story or in the beginning of the story, but to explain: what is the emotional experience you are offering your readers with this story. Eg: Only after their divorce, did he realize how much she did for him and how much she was worth and meant to him, but when he went chasing her, he was left with just regret and pain because she was no longer his.

patience. Within every minute passing, the water level rised upper and upper, covering the last wooden box into it. "Oh dear!" trembled the little girl getting petrified, "If I move the box will fell. I must sit......I must sit stilll.....It must fall.....it should fall or else......I will....mmmm" her lips shivered as she couldn't go on. The water filled till the girl, absorbing Loathefiya in. It reached her legs, waists, forearm till her shoulders, shutting her eyes tight the girl felt her horrors of death was almost on it's way.

Only spit remained, dribbling down the side of the basin. Her throat burned and her eyes swam with involuntary tears. She gazed at the basin, watching the glittering specks of rock reflect the small light from across the room until her stomach stopped arguing with itself. The waterfall trickled with a soothing gurgle, trying desperately to show her stomach what it should do.

Amazing. I sighed and wrote: Against the law. Fiancee? Ladies and gentlemen, I already had a title. I rubbed my hands together and started writing. Like all the other times, the words practically flowed on their own. The spaces were being filled in and the adjectives appeared almost alone. I just put the fingers and inspiration was responsible for the rest. I wrote very fast because when G returned to the world of the awakened living I was finishing page 25. I am usually slower writing. I am a lot to erase, to think again ... But this was coming out of my soul.

And for once, I felt like I really meant it. I opened my draft back up, just letting my fingers hover over the keys for a second. I really wanted to keep this momentum going, I needed to prove that I could do this on my own, without them having to hold my hand. So, I started typing. It was slow going at first, like trying to walk through waist-deep water. But then it got smoother. It felt easier, like I was finally catching my breath after being underwater for way too long.

I felt like I was making a difference, like I was helping others to see that they were not alone. As the hours passed, I typed away, the words flowing out of me like a river. I wrote about my healing journey, about the struggles and the triumphs, about the darkness and the light. And as I wrote, I felt a sense of joy and fulfillment that I had never felt before.

And it flowed. In the hush. In the fleeting. In the boundless. Always. The manor breathed love. The garden breathed love. The light breathed love. The love was the movement. And it flowed. For the fleeting. For the boundless. For the interval. The story was not spoken. It breathed. Every day. In every rise. In every presence. The cursed wolf breathed love. The light breathed love. Love was the flow. And it moved. In the hush.

I mostly meant it. Over the next three months, I wrote. Every morning, after the kids left for school, I would settle into my office with coffee going cold beside me and document my own story. Some days the words came freely, thousands of them, memories surfacing with a clarity that surprised me, like water finding its own level. Other days I managed a single paragraph before I had to stop, crying too hard to see the screen, sitting in the quiet of my office until I could breathe steadily again, then deciding whether to continue or simply close the laptop and go outside.

A white rose lay on the floor dripping with blood. A small, shiny blade lay beside it. A beautiful object in such a terrible and painful condition. The blood stain on it did not hide it's immaculate and beautiful nature. She puffed smoke in the air and took a sip of the liquor beside her, as she glared at the bleeding rose with sad and anguish filled eyes, it told a lot about her and her agony. She was as beautiful as the rose in front of her.