Guy Writing Novels & Stories

That and inspiration, of course. I squirmed on the bed. I closed the laptop. He missed calling Jay to read him what he had written. He was my male point of view. He would tell me if something was too cheesy or if something would be better written differently. He was my great support at the time of writing. Grazie l was thinking of hiring him as part of the publishing house to support the writers. Professional support. Jay had refused a couple of times. He was a lawyer and was doing very well. He said that the only writer in his life was me. Jay was that special.

#insert smiley face here# lOVE YOU GUYS! #GRACIAS# Please Follow my F* PAGE @ Rayden Writes p.s- I'm currently working on another story too. So you'll be seeing more of me. C.H.E.E.R.S

“Why would I do that? My loyalty lies with you, wifey.” My cheeks burn at his words, a mix of gratitude and relief washing over me. “I think rather than worrying about what people will say, you should focus on writing something more appealing for your readers,” he adds. “Your content is pretty boring, you know. No offense.” I shrug and turn my body fully toward him. As much as it hurts, I can’t deny the truth. “I know. But I just… I can’t give up,” I say, meeting his attentive gaze. “I really enjoy writing it.”

He finished the phone call and, for a few minutes, carried on writing. "I won't be a minute." He said as he carried on wielding his Mont Blanc fountain pen across the note pad. Kylie watched him writing. She'd never seen him write. All Kylie had from him were text messages. She liked the way his hand moved; his writing had loops and swoops, but it was solid, firm and elegant. He read through what he'd put and capped his pen. "What the hell did you think you were doing this morning?" Richie's voice was quiet and furious. He could see that Suki had nodded off in her buggy.

“Messing about?” “It means just wasting my time.” “Show me.” “No,” I screech, alarmed. His eyes narrow. “What are you hiding, little butterfly?” “I’m just writing a little story.” “A story?” “Like a book?” I try to explain. His whole face relaxes. “You’re writing a book?” “Well, not exactly a book. Okay, yeah. It’s a book. But I’m not very good and I’m not expecting to publish it, or anything. I’m just writing for fun. It’s just a meaningless jumble. Just random thoughts. I’m not thinking—”

Damien: “Still there?” He typed back: “Still writing.” Three dots. Then: “Good.” He turned the page and kept going.

The kind that waited. “So,” he said, “what do you do when you’re not at the café?” “I write,” I said. “Like journalism?” I smiled. “Books. Mostly.” His eyebrows lifted a little. “Published?” “Yeah,” I said. “Enough to pay the bills.” “That’s actually really impressive.” “It sounds fancier than it is,” I said. “I spend a lot of time alone with a laptop.” He laughed, real and unforced. He told me about his job next. Nothing dramatic. Something steady. The kind of work that made you tired without making you feel like your life was unraveling. He spoke the way people do when they are not trying to impress you, more honest than charming.

He thought about it carefully. "I've been writing again for eight months," he said. "I can hold a conversation without it going somewhere I can't follow. I went to a party last month and I felt my pull in the room and I managed it." He met my eyes. "I'm ready for the normal part. I've been ready for a few months. I've been—" He stopped. "Waiting. For it to feel allowed." I held his gaze. "It's allowed," I said. "It has always been allowed."

Cara spoke, shoving her phone in front of my face. Wow, that sounded weirdly professional. I kept swiping back and forth between the two guys. One of the guy looked tall, well built with dirty blonde hair and he was wearing a black leather jacket. He screamed hot and danger in all caps. The other guy had this regular boy next door vibe with brown hair and he was pretty good looking. He reminded me of Tyler for a second and my mind was already starting to compare them both. Fucking hell! When does he get out of my head?

I kind of do some writing for work, too. Rosie: No way! I write articles, what kind of stuff do you write about? Gabe: Wow that’s really cool. I’m not actually that much of a writer I guess. I just write code- ha. I own my own business. Yeah, writing code isn’t quite the same, buddy, I thought and chuckled to myself. Rosie replied with a joke about writing code that I figured had probably come from Thomas. He then jabbed back by asking whether I wrote articles for The Wall Street Journal or for Playboy Magazine. I laughed again. Not bad dude. But if only you knew, I thought. Luckily Rosie hadn’t disclosed any specifics about my blog.