How To Show Thoughts In Writing Novels & Stories

he murmurs, his eyes lingering on me before he steps away. I turn my focus back to the screen, feeling the weight of the story pressing against my fingertips, and dive into the chapters from his point of view. Each line becomes an exercise in truth, revealing bits of him that even I hadn’t fully realized before. I let myself go deeper, daring to write with honesty, capturing the tension and rawness of his thoughts, feeling his intensity seep into every sentence.

"Well... yeah, kind of. I think maybe the two of you need a way to connect where less feelings are involved. Writing down your thoughts is one way to do that. It's actually a thing my therapist has me do with Emily sometimes. Because when you write something down, you can reread it, and revise it, and make it say exactly what you want to say. And you can give it a day, and read it over again with a cooler head. Face to face, you're forced to say what you think right in that moment, even if you're not thinking straight at all. If you write it down, you've got a better chance of actually being understood." The whole idea sounded a little ridiculous to me, but I nodded and agreed. Past experien

’ ‘This is such a bad idea, will it let her see my thoughts, will she know if I picture her naked, fuck, now I’m thinking about her naked, can they shut it off or is it all the time…’ I blushed as the onslaught of her thoughts hit me. ‘Sophia!’ Dmitri’s voice flooded the connection I’d opened to her, ‘Please do not broadcast that you picture my mate naked.’ She looked mortified. ‘Selene, get a handle on her, NOW!’ I let the pulse of sway he’d added roll off me. “Sophie, relax, you don’t let all your thoughts tumble out your mouth. Only project what you want to say, to who you want to know it.” She looked like she was about to cry. “No one can read your thoughts, just what you project.”

Sophia's eyes were fixed on the screen, her mind weaving words and sentences like an intricate tapestry. "Why does it have to be this way?" she mumbled to herself, her words punctuated by the soft typing. The cursor on the screen blinked as if waiting for her emotions to unfold in the digital realm.

The person I have always wanted and… I will not jump into conclusions seeing as I hardly know him but it is something I am feeling and I guess I am telling you dumb book about it because I cannot talk to anyone else. My pen stopped moving as the emotions drained out of me. There was nothing to talk about again and I realized my thoughts were much calmer than they had been before I began writing into the book. Maybe the dumb therapist was right and this was a means to my recovery. I closed the book and put it underneath my pillow before closing my eyes and falling into some dream.

The forbidden Am I moving too fast? Not just with my words, but with everything—my feelings, my thoughts… even myself. That’s how it feels. Like I’m rushing through life but still not getting anywhere. I’m losing pieces of myself along the way. My mind feels like it’s slipping, and it’s hard to explain out loud. So instead, I write. I write it all down on pieces of paper that don’t interrupt me, don’t judge me, and don’t talk back.

Or if she had already lost everything tonight. As she sat there, lost in thought, she grew unusually still. For a moment, everything around her faded—the room, the silence, even the faint echo of what had just happened. It was as though time itself had slowed, waiting for her to decide what came next. Her fingers rested lightly on her lap, unmoving. Then a thought slipped in. Why don’t I just write to him? It came quietly at first… almost harmless. Yes… write to him. Explain everything. Let him know it was a mistake… a misunderstanding… nothing personal…

I tried to find places to hide. I thought it would block out the voices a little, so I often went to the library and the theatre. I would sit at the back of the theatre and watch the drama class sometimes and it was a good discraction at first. Until that one drama student's voice crept into my head and made me go a little crazier. I saw him in the first row of the theatre, looking up at the class acting out some scene. I couldn't see his expression very well so that's when I let his thoughts enter my head. He was a deep thinker and journal writer, so his thoughts seemed to be endless. It started with:

It was a record, a plan, a way to keep my thoughts straight before I faced Daniel. I paused after a few lines, tapping my pen against the page. I could feel my pulse in my neck, in my temples. I had to slow it down. I couldn’t let my anger dictate my words. I had to be precise. I had to be careful. One wrong word, one slip, and Daniel might not believe me at all.

"What do we say we know about each other? That a stranger wouldn't know." She looked at her list. She'd written six items and had stopped herself before the list got longer than was comfortable. "You hold a pen differently when you're thinking versus when you're writing something you've already decided," she said. "You make your own tea rather than asking anyone. You stood at the window in your grandfather's house and that's where you do your best thinking." He looked at her. "I told you that?" "The week after we moved in. You said your grandfather used to stand at the same window." She kept her eyes on the notebook. "It's the kind of detail that reads as real because it is real."