Flowing Writing Novels & Stories

Also, it is okay to go with the flow and do things at a slower pace so I can process what I’ve been through and what I’m still experiencing. When are you most creative? Why do you think that might be?...I think I’m most creative when I have been struck with inspiration from what’s around me. At that moment if I could find a quiet place and I had a pen and paper on my hands, I could weave stories inspired by the conversations, body language and facial expressions. I realized that writing is both an escape and a way for me to keep my focus on what’s most important.’

The gift of looking clearly and being willing to say what you saw. I had used it to find the truth about what happened to him. And then I had used it to write it down. I opened the laptop. Went back to the manuscript. Read the last paragraph I had written and then kept going the words arriving in the way they arrived on good writing days, not easily exactly but willingly, moving forward because the thing they were building was true and truth had its own momentum once you had cleared enough space for it to move.

It was a small, leather-bound journal, its pages blank and inviting, a canvas for her thoughts and emotions. She began with small, hesitant entries, scribbling down snippets of her day, observations about the people she encountered, the books she read, the quiet moments of contemplation in the library. But as she wrote, she felt a sense of liberation, a sense of release. The words flowed more easily, the sentences grew longer, the stories unfolded.

The next week was filled with work during the day and Mason at night. She was inspired by him to the point of madness, her fingers itching to write every day when she woke up in his arms. The words flowed from her like a fountain and she felt almost possessed, just the vessel for the story to have its tale told. The story felt alive, like a living, breathing entity that she had to feed constantly. Each morning she woke in Mason’s bed, they shared breakfast and then she came back to her apartment and sat down at her computer to write for eight hours straight, her fingers not always able to keep up with the muse.

Yielding to it would being so much peace, without having to continue this process. I continued writing the journey of this young soul and began to experiment with different types of ideas of how the life should be. I discovered that writing had a unique ability to tap into the emotions and energies of the universe. Lines of verse danced across the page, invoking the elements and stirring the depths of my soul. I made sure to enjoy it as I felt the familiarity of the old wrapping around my thoughts.

I write in the journal the morning after the flowers close. At the kitchen table. The coffee Rael made before he left for the threshold library, still warm on my side of the table. The river audible through the wall. The city in its morning register. I open to the current page. I write the weather. *Morning: clear. The specific clear that comes after something has been completed. The air that follows three days of sea-smell. Still. Attentive.* I write the city.

My cheeks flush as I watch him walk away. He is too damn sexy and sweet. Maybe having him around with help inspire me! I snap out of my thoughts, open my laptop and find the document I need, staring at the screen. I sigh, take a deep breath and try to snap into writer’s mode. I need something to do until I can move around, and hopefully, writing my next book will be the thing. *** “Oh wow, you seem to be on a roll,” Kyson’s voice makes me stop typing and look up. Has it been half an hour already? I had written over five hundred words. Once I started, everything seemed to fall into place.

Words spilled onto the screen, raw and unfiltered. At first, it was messy, a stream of consciousness that barely made sense. But then, like a dam breaking, the story began to take shape. Characters came to life, settings blossomed, dialogue flowed. I lost track of time, lost myself in the world I was creating. Hours passed before I finally leaned back, breathless and exhilarated. The fear that had gripped me earlier was gone, replaced by a deep, steady certainty. This was what I was meant to do. Writing wasn’t just a dream anymore—it was my future.

--- The Universe Writes Back On countless worlds, under countless skies, storytellers wake from dreams they don’t understand. They feel warmth in their hands, as if they’ve been holding something luminous. When they write, they don’t know where the words come from. When they sing, they can’t explain why the melody feels familiar. But the Flow knows. It moves through them, reminding creation that it is still alive. And each of those stories, each spark of imagination, adds another thread to the endless tapestry.

"Thanks." "You can have a seat," I gesture to the bed and she sits. Her eyes briefly move to my open laptop. "Writing?" "Mhhm." "How's it coming up? Are you having new ideas?" "I am." "Cool. I read a few blogs from writers claiming that sometimes, it seems like the screen goes blank and then when you think of giving up, the smallest thing will bring new big ideas, once you start typing, you can't seem to stop, words and new scenes keep flowing."