November Novel Writing Novels & Stories

Nina sat in the study typing away furiously on her laptop which was placed in the table, the words to her online novel in total concentration. Tap! Tap! Tap! Only the sound of her hands hitting the laptop's keys could be heard in the otherwise silent study. Following her retirement from the modelling industry, she had began writing online novels to the amazement of her family and friends who had originally thought she had been joking and now she could be considered quite famous in the circle.

That drove her to work harder until she could take care of herself. Going into the main world outside the four walls of the orphanage, she knew life was more than what she imagined. She wanted to express herself. She wanted to have her own fairytale that she always end up imagining when she is alone. She picked up her pen and wrote it all in a book. Her fairytale. The life she imagined and her stories got her into the top ten best writer, giving her quite a comfortable life. She got a boyfriend even though it wasn't like her fairytale romance, he was her first love. He gave her the shoulders she longed for.

If vampires can sparkle in twilight, I can decide the rules of my werewolves. If you are the grammar or spellcheck police, you're welcome to stay and point out any mistakes for me. I appreciate each and everyone of you taking the time to venture into my world, and I hope that you enjoy your time here. Updates will be posted every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday at midnight of whatever timezone Goodnovel's system is set too. I usually write while listening to music, sometimes one song on a loop for some scenes. If you're curious about what i was listening too while writing there is a list on Spotify, just search for the book title or GoldNPeachy and you'll find it.

The kind without urgency. She texts him. Night Eleven is my favorite so far. He texts back in three minutes. It took the longest to write. Why? Because I had to find the language for something that doesn't feel like anything dramatic. It just — is. Every morning. It's harder to write about things that are constant than things that change. She looks at the text. At the October morning through the kitchen window. That's why it's the best one, she texts back. Because you found the language for the thing that's hardest to say.

For the first time, Cathedra had someone who didn't cringe every time she opened her mouth to speak. So this is what having a friend feels like, huh? Cathedra thought to herself. One lunch break, while waiting for Diane underneath the tree, Cathedra was scribbling a draft of her first novel in her notebook. The novel contained the scenes she saw in the storybook, back in her kindergarten days. Since that day at kindergarten, she didn't tell anyone what she saw in the storybooks anymore. The thought of seeing things that other people couldn't still terrified her but she tried hard not to think about it by avoiding any book she can see other than school books and textbooks.

I said, with my voice booming around the walls of the classroom. "You are all to write a novel, the word count should not be less than thirty. Take note. You have a month and few days to finish it all up, no lazinees and no slacking. Just see it as another type of nanowrimo. So by next month ending, I would be expecting ebooks novels in PDF format, all of it should be sent to my email" I turned around swiftly, to scribble my email on the whiteboard. "I will be awarding the overall best of it all. Good day class." I said, dismissing them with a wave of my hand. They all moved out of the clsss with different expressions on their faces.

However, I saw something that made my heart skip a beat as I turned to head for the bed. There was a little piece of paper with a note written on it on my bedside table. Even though I did not recognize the handwriting, the message chilled me: "At midnight, meet me in the ancient oak forest. Come alone." I felt a surge of fear mixed with curiosity. What did they want from me, and who could have written this note? I was standing there pondering my options when I heard a slight scratching noise coming from the window. I turned to see a single word scrawled on a tiny piece of paper that was adhered to the glass:

She's such a kind and hardworking editor who always understands me. Throughout writing this novel, I learned a lot about writing techniques and honing my writing style. I've learnt to ask myself if this chapter is good or bad, or if this story provides different topics and knowledge to readers because I'm not just writing this for fun; rather, I want readers to feel the thrill and get knowledge from my novel at the same time. I even found myself not sticking to the outline I created for this book, which other writers I met told me that was completely normal.

Then I go to the desk and write it in the continuation record. October. First morning. The anniversary is four weeks away. I know what I want it to be. I want it to be the bench. Just us. Before the sun comes up. In the specific dark that belongs to the hour before the day has committed to itself. Lucian and me. The same mountains. Nothing else. I close the notebook. I will tell him tonight. October is different from September. September was the warm end of something. October in Ironveil is the beginning of the cold, the specific cold that starts in the mornings and retreats by noon but gets a little further each week, a little more present, a little less willing to retreat.

She looked at the notebook. At the one line. At everything it meant and everything that came after it and the kitchen around her and the man across from her and the bread in the oven and November. She picked up the pen. She wrote below the first line: Now we begin.