How To Show Thoughts In Writing Novels & Stories

When I pick it up, a memory clicks loose, some random article I read while scrolling aimlessly one sleepless night: “If you want to get a thought out of your head, write it down.” It sounded silly then. But right now, anything that promises relief feels worth trying. I slide back into my chair. The leather sighs beneath me. A half-used notepad sits to the right of my keyboard, its corners curled, a coffee ring marking the top sheet. I pull it closer, uncap the pen, and stare at the blank page. For a moment nothing comes. My hand hovers, hesitant, as if the act of writing his name might summon him.

Cara was still deeply immersed in her thoughts as she sat at her desk, scribbling in her diary. Her pen glided across the pages with a sense of urgency, trying to record every detail of the dream that had been haunting her since her therapy session. Her therapist, Jean, had told her that documenting her dreams was crucial to unlocking their hidden meanings, pushing her to be as thorough as possible. It wasn’t just a casual assignment; it was part of her journey to better understand herself, to untangle the threads of her subconscious mind. The idea of writing fiction about her own life felt strange, almost surreal, but Jean had explained that it was a way to externalize her feelings and memo

Thought asks, realising the distance I’m putting between us, deciding to respect it rather than come any closer. How do I tell him? How can I tell him? “Can I tell you later? I’ve got a massive headache now and I’m feeling pretty weak. I think it might best for me to get an afternoon nap in,” I tell him, rubbing my head for emphasis. Thought’s mouth falls into a grim thin, but he nods. He’s skeptical about what I saw, I can see it in his eyes, but doesn’t bring it up again, instead offering for me to retire to my room.

- Chapter 24: No & Thoughts - Darius sat in his chair, still not knowing what to write; it was as if he had all the words but couldn’t put them into words. He had promised himself that today was the day he was gonna finally put his hands and mind to work and write something good that he could be proud of, even though it wouldn't be his best work, it would be something to remember. Closing his eyes thought of every possible line he could begin with, but they all just didn’t seem to be enough.

That was all it took. I opened my notebook. Ever since I'd read Evangeline's article that morning, the words had refused to come. Now they came easily. I wrote for a long time—not quotes, observations, or race notes. Just thoughts. None of them were meant for publication. When I finally stopped, I looked down at the page and realized I'd written exactly what I'd been trying so hard not to admit. Not to anyone else. Not even to myself.