Person Writing Novels & Stories

I met Black Crimson in person, and it changed my life. Article or no article, I had to tell this story. It was brewing and bubbling inside me, and as I kept typing, the words kept coming, and it felt really good. It didn’t matter that no one was ever going to read it. This was what I loved to do. And it felt as if I couldn’t move on to find another dream to pursue until I did it. So I continued. I was about halfway through the piece by the time I got off work, and I felt so good about what I’d written that I immediately texted Brick as I walked to my car.

From a young age, I have always dreamed of writing a book that people all over the world would want to read. I once heard someone say, "If you are a writer and people don’t read your books, then you have written a journal." This quote stuck with me and made me realize that the real goal of writing is to create something that others want to read and enjoy.

" He said unashamedly using my words back at me "Wow!!!!!! Just Wow.......... Using my words against me Fine but I can't exactly tell you what to write it has to be from you, your own words to her or doesn't qualify as a personal touch" I said explaining to him why it had to be from him "Okay, but you are still going to help and it is just a little hard right? How hard can it be? Less than 50............................." "Please tell me you have written a birthday note before?" I asked eyeing him suspiciously

After a moment she said “I am trying to write a letter to Vera Wren and I have started it four times.” “What is the problem?” I said. “Every version I write,” she said, “sounds like a Luna writing to a pack member. Official. Positioned. And that is not what this is.” I looked at her. “What is it?” I said. She put the pen down. “It is one person writing to another person who kept records for four years not knowing if they would ever matter,” she said. “That is what it is. And I want her to know that they mattered and that she is seen and I cannot find the version of that that does not sound like a formal acknowledgment.”

Abigail, the weaver of words, poured her heart and soul into a series of articles that would illuminate the virtual pages with the story of love, challenges, and resilience that defined their journey. With each keystroke, Abigail stitched together a narrative that went beyond mere words. Her writing was more than a recounting of events; it was a profound expression of the emotions, the struggles, and the triumphs that had shaped their lives. Every sentence resonated with the authenticity of their love and the hope that had been their guiding light.

That will do. I got out the house and booked an uber again. I never ran out of money because my parents have savings. And I also work as an editor in a publishing company. I edit the book that are to publish. I remove the errors, I correct the grammars and any other mistakes there. But it's just a sideline. What's important is I earn.

His remark made me blush in embarrassment. God! “And, to be very honest,” He cleared his throat, “My handwritten letters won’t ever be for a random person so rest assured.” He snickered, “None of those ‘cows’ around me have ever gotten one.” He laughed some more. His teasing made me more embarrassed but I decided I wanted to ask more, “Random person?” I glanced at him, “And who’s a random person?” He took a deep breath before answering as he looked at the ceiling, “I guess everyone who I haven’t known since I was a kid?”

Conrad barked in the yard, "Shirley, I think you've gone insane! I'm here trying to warn you—Horace is just a useless man! If you know what's good for you, you'd better find a way to break off the engagement. Otherwise, you'll regret it!" I couldn't be bothered to raise an eyebrow at him. I just slowly opened my WhatsApp. [When do we make the next move?] My current teammate was clearly more proactive than the one outside. I typed, [No rush. Let's watch the show unfold.]

Dear Readers, As I sit down to write these words, my heart is overflowing with gratitude. This book — my very first — is more than just a story. It is a piece of my soul, carved out over years of unexpected challenges, personal storms, and quiet triumphs. There were moments when life felt too heavy, when writing seemed impossible, and yet, somehow, I kept returning to these pages.

Ninety-nine point seven percent. Half-sibling. I look at the result for a long time. Then I open a new document and I begin typing, not for the piece, not for publication, just for myself, the way I have been writing since I was ten years old, using the act of putting words in order as a way of putting thoughts in order.