Novel Writer Mga Nobela at Kwento

It’s too early also, the guards won’t probably let me leave during class hour, so I stayed here. My eyes automatically shut when I felt the wind hugging my body. I heard my phone rings, I smiled when I saw that a lot of my readers have read the recent poem I just published earlier. I’m a writer, I write poems and novels ever since I found out that my passion is writing. I won’t deny the fact that a lot of people are reading my pieces on the platform where I’m writing, but they don’t know that I’m the writer behind those pieces. In a simple meaning, they just know my penname but they don’t know that I’m the one who’s writing behind my penname. It’s my choice though, I chose to be a ghost wri

I said after logging in to a user account for the application. "What?" He asked, perplexed. "I'm a writer. Under the pen name Wallflower, I create fantastical romance stories. I don't have many followers, but I prefer to write for my personal interest," I said, opening my author centre. "I've now completed four novels. I'm also currently working on 'The Monster and the Flower.' I need to finish this novel by the end of the month, but I don't think I can right now. I was about to put it on hiatus until you offered to help."

I smiled while looking at the screen. It was my hobby to write stories. Some could be short or long. Then it was the first time that I attempted to write a novel. Somehow it was healing and the dream of me wanting to be a writer one day became clear. Aside from the dream of pursuing the course that I wanted, that career was precious to me as well.

Dear all I'm Inker, an editor with GoodNovel. It's a pleasure to meet you here, and I'm sure you are reading this because you want to be a good writer. Maybe you want to make money over words, maybe you just have a great idea for a story that you want to share. No matter what brings you here, we offer you the same destination: Making your own name as a writer, and making good money~

Olivia sat at her desk with the lamp glowing dim and the night pressing at the windows like a heavy curtain. Her fingers trembled over the keyboard. The cursor blinked at her, waiting. She had been writing for hours, maybe days, it all blurred. Words poured out of her like blood from an open wound. Her novel.