Novel & Cerita January Writing Prompts 2024

Whatever he was planning, it promised to be something truly sinister. ___ Wishing all my readers a New Year filled with joy, inspiration, and endless adventures. May your days be as vibrant and captivating as the stories we create together! - Author Page Slayer

I don't know that either. Maybe divorce is kinder. Cleaner. Easier. Or maybe we try. Make long-distance work. See what happens. I don't know. And I have two months to figure it out. Two months until everything changes. Or ends. I closed the journal. Outside, fireworks. New Year celebrations. New year. New beginning. Or new ending. Time would tell.

“We did not.” We sit in the cold and the quiet and the new year settles around us like snow, without announcement, covering everything that was there before in something clean. January moves slowly. This is the quality of Ironveil in this season, a pace that belongs to the cold and the short days and the specific rhythm of a pack territory hunkered into itself before spring. I have always liked January for this reason, the way it forces everything to slow down to its actual speed rather than the speed everything pretends to move at in busier months.

Bathed in the moon's gentle glow, they shared dreams of their future, their voices intertwining like sweet melodies. As they continued their stroll, their words danced in the night air, carrying their hopes and aspirations. Lucas spoke of his desire to transition from a lawyer to a writer, fueled by the passion ignited by their love story. "Janet, my love, I can't help but imagine a future where I pour my heart and soul onto the pages, immortalizing our journey together. I want to capture every moment, every emotion, and share it with the world. Our love story deserves to be told."

Nothing I said mattered. "Dad, if you want to tell me I'm in the wrong, go right ahead. However, if you want me to write off this 400,000 dollars as a gift to Uncle Liam, you don't need to say another word. I made this money by standing in front of a crusher for two long years. "I watched my fingers blister, heal, and blister all over again. It didn't just fall from the sky." Having said my piece, I braced myself for the inevitable torrent of lecture to rain down on me.

January, the sixth arrives quickly, quietly. January, the sixth steals our time. I wake up not remembering what the day means, at first. It comes to me slowly. The night before we leave, the night before January the sixth, I learn two things: there are two kinds of hunger, and one can keep you up all night, staring at the ceiling and missing a place and people you are yet to leave.

Mia’s face turned bright red, all the way to her ears. And once again, they gave in to indulgence. * A few days passed as winter snow continued to blanket Jersey City. Before they knew it, it was already mid-January.

He looked at the new year's first minutes through the apartment window — the city returning to its daily frequency, the fireworks done, the celebrations folding in, the reliable January arriving to do what January did: strip away the decorative, show you what remained, get on with things. What remained was this. The apartment and the people in it and the work ahead and the practice continuing. What remained was considerable. He put down his glass. He picked up the library notes. He opened a new page. He wrote, at the top: January. Year Five. The library rises. He looked at the line. He looked at the apartment around him — the December warmth persisting into the January minutes, the chalk pla

CHAPTER 51 POV: Ryder January arrived like a decision. Not the tentative beginning of something uncertain, the deliberate start of something that had been prepared for. The specific quality of a month that knew it was the first one and intended to mean it. He woke on the second of January in the apartment that was theirs. She was still asleep. He lay in the specific quiet of a morning that hadn’t started yet and looked at the ceiling and thought about the year ahead. Candidate B starting at Meridian in two weeks.

"I came to your house on the third Wednesday and you made tea and talked about the river for forty minutes and somewhere in the middle of it I stopped pretending." "You did not say anything," I said. "No," he said. "But I stopped pretending." I looked at the garden. At the summer morning coming through the kitchen window. At the tomatoes that were producing now — actual tomatoes, red and real, the reward of the May planting. "What does twelve months look like?" I said. He was quiet for a moment. "January," he said. One word. The whole of it in one word. January. The east bedroom. The morning light. Everything we had been building toward.