How To Show Thoughts In Writing Novels & Stories

My throat has dried and it seems the place is too little and airtight! Oh God! What is happening to me!? I licked wet my dry lips before shaking my head vigorously. "No! I... I am not! That's not me!" I denied it as hard as I could but somewhere in my heart I also know that it was not! As a writer when I write those scenes, some part of it is actually my desire that I want to happen someday. But that's only with the man I love, not this psycho of course! There is no need for him to know what is in my mind!

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.

Stephanie's POV: I absentmindedly circled my pen over the page of my notebook, the ink bleeding into the paper in uneven spirals. My head was eerily quiet, yet the silence wasn’t comforting. The only noise was the relentless stream of thoughts swirling in my mind. They weren’t chaotic, but they were persistent, like a low hum that refused to fade.

I loved to write so it was easy for me to just put down my thoughts. I shook my head again, trying to clear it as I grabbed my keys and headed out the door. The campus was quiet as everyone had settled in their morning classes. My mind kept drifting back to those stories I'd been writing. God, they were getting out of hand but they felt so real, like I could almost touch the heat of it all.

But I knew. The way you knew things that lived in the body before they reached the mind — in the specific quality of a man's silence, in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't watching, in the three days he had spent carrying something that had everything to do with you and hadn't yet found a way to say it. I picked up my pen. Put it down again. Looked at the two hundred words I had written in an hour and thought about my father at the head of his dining room table and thought about Silvano at the window this morning and thought about the specific impossible thing that lived in the space between those two images.

Straightened the pillows. Anything to drown out the echo of my own moans still clinging to the air. Eventually, I dropped into my desk chair, pulling my planner toward me. I needed something normal, something that didn’t feel like my entire world was now a spotlight shining on the inside of my head. Check on Mom and Dad this week. I wrote it slowly. But the minute I put my pen down, the image returned, my back against cold tile, my fingers moving in ways they’d never moved before, his voice in my mind telling me what to do.

And if I made one wrong move… Everything could fall apart. I drove on without really seeing the road ahead. The weight of the truth sat on my chest, making every breath feel heavier than the last. Just then, my phone buzzed again on the passenger seat. The vibration echoed through the quiet car. I knew it was a reply to the message I first sent. I didn't even look at it. My eyes stayed fixed on the road. My mind was trapped somewhere else. This version slows the pacing, adds body language and internal reactions, and lets readers experience Joan's fear and confusion instead of simply being told about it.

Somewhere in this school Zaren was in a room with that same sky through a window and his face giving nothing away to anyone and Sol thought about seven days and made no decisions and thought about it anyway. The pen moved. He wrote nothing. But the thought stayed. Locked in. Settled. At least have a taste of him. Before the door closes. Before everything changes and neither of you gets a vote. He turned the page. Started writing the lesson. But the thought didn't go anywhere. It just waited. Patient and certain, the way the most honest things always waited.

Or would you just give him the middle finger? All these things, these thoughts and feelings, take time to come across on a page. Haha. I wish it were so simple to just pluck the scenes out of my brain and cut out the middle man of taking up the time to write, but alas, I’m thwarted by my own typing speed.

Joel POV After a few hours of writing, scratching out what I had just written, and just simply planning how I would convey what Ineeded to convey in such a small provided space, I set the pen down and laid back. It was amazing how mentally exhausting that was. I would still wait for Shotgun to come back in and review what I had written before transferring it to the official form. In the meantime, thoughts of what he had written will swirl around in my head because I had a tendency to overthink shit.