Flowing Writing Novels & Stories

Not with his mind spinning like it was. “There’s nothing very merry ‘bout going round and round.” He chuckled dryly to himself as he sang the song lyric. Going into his office with a fresh dram, minus the coffee, closed the door and sat in front of his computer. He drank from his glass long and slow, and tried to allow the whiskey to calm his mind. When he began to write the words flowing forth from his fingertips, he had no concept of what he was writing. Free writing. An exercise he’d slipped out of the habit of practice.

Seeing how proud and tall he held himself also made me feel more at ease and protected enough to relax and enjoy my morning bath. I reveled in my time in the water so much that I decided to hang out for as long as my body would allow. I’d been experiencing writer’s block for some time, so I used the tranquility of floating aimlessly as a means to relax my mind enough to allow me to think on my story and possibly come up with the next writing installment.

But constant movement can be escape. Here there was nowhere to go quickly. No slope to climb. No unstable ground to navigate. Only reflection. She opened her journal. The page felt heavier than usual. She hesitated before writing. Then she wrote a single sentence. Stillness reveals what motion conceals. She stopped there. Closed it. No need to elaborate. The sentence would expand itself over time. By midday the sun hung high and bright. Heat built slowly. Yet the lake did not ripple. No wind came.

Opened a blank document. *Dear Robert,* And began to write everything I'd never been able to say. All the anger. All the pain. All the loss. All the grief. It poured out. Words flooding the screen. Tears streaming down my face. Hours of writing. My back aching. My daughter kicking. But I kept going. This was healing. Messy. Painful. Necessary. Marcus brought me tea. Kissed my head. Let me work. By midnight, I had ten pages. Single-spaced. Raw. Honest. Brutal.

somehow. I miss those days when my art of writing flowed like an incessant stream of water. Back then in junior secondary, I wrote stuffs a lot; poems, articles and what have you. It helped me a lot though, I "wrote" my way out of trouble. Well, I'll spare you the details of my days of mischief (ermm....mostly because I've forgotten them). Moving on, two days to departure, I was done with most of the preparation and everything, probably because I got excited about the trip after spending a boring week at home.

Abigail, the weaver of words, poured her heart and soul into a series of articles that would illuminate the virtual pages with the story of love, challenges, and resilience that defined their journey. With each keystroke, Abigail stitched together a narrative that went beyond mere words. Her writing was more than a recounting of events; it was a profound expression of the emotions, the struggles, and the triumphs that had shaped their lives. Every sentence resonated with the authenticity of their love and the hope that had been their guiding light.

I opened my journal. Then I closed it again. For the first time in a long while... I didn't know where to begin. How do you write about the beginning... when you're standing inside it? The flame burned steadily upon the ancient pedestal. Around us, the valley was no longer silent. Not because voices filled it. Because life had returned. Birds circled overhead. A gentle stream, hidden until now, began flowing through the silver grass. Wildflowers opened beneath the warm morning light.

Her writing was simple, yet each sentence carried the weight of her hidden emotions. She wrote about the cool touch of the marble floor, the soft murmur of conversations in the office, and the fleeting smile that had lit up her heart when their eyes met. The journal became a private sanctuary for her thoughts. It held the secret language of her soul—a language of hope, longing, and quiet determination. Even though the words were simple, they were full of meaning and emotion.

I couldn’t. Instead, I sat down at my desk and stared at the stack of papers before me. Letters I hadn’t sent, drafts of thoughts I hadn’t voiced. I pulled out a pen and began again, letting the words pour out like water from a faucet I hadn’t touched in days. I wrote about longing, about frustration, about the strange combination of anger and desire that burned inside me. Each sentence was a release, each paragraph a small exorcism of the turmoil that refused to leave.

Nikolai to his workspace and the book he was in the middle of. Anya went to her workspace and opened the second book. She wrote for two hours. The writing had the quality it had when it was going well — the quality of thought arriving in language rather than thought being translated into language. The direct connection. The sentence that was already the right sentence before she’d decided what she was going to say.