Shut Up And Write Novels & Stories

Please know that your encouragement motivates me to strive for excellence in my writing. Warmest regards, [18th Studios.]

I’m gonna tip right over…} Ker-plunk. 0% Whirr. | SHUTTING DOWN

Unsure of where to start, her fingers paused over the keyboard; suddenly, plain and straightforward, the words arrived. Stop running. No more quiet. Time to push back.

One message. Shit.

The one I wrote with my own fucking hands. I hold it high, for all of them to see—then tear it apart, slowly, piece by piece, letting the shreds fall to the ground like snow. “All laws that favour men over women are hereby abolished. As of this moment, males and females are equals. That is the new law. Women will no longer submit to men simply because they’re men. To the women who have carried this pain alone... who have endured heartbreak, abuse, and silence while being told to be ‘strong’—I am sorry. I am sorry it’s taken me this long to open my eyes.”

A blank page titled “Untitled Essay.” “Maybe,” I said. “Write it.” I blinked. “What?” “Write whatever you want to say. The messy version. The angry version. The soft version. Whatever comes out. Don’t post it. Just… get it out of your head.” I pressed my lips together. Felt my throat tighten. “You always know what I need before I do,” I said quietly. “Nah.” His voice dropped even lower. “I just pay attention.” I closed my eyes for a second.

The second day had begun without her permission. She decided to write a list. Lists were orders disguised as thoughts. She found a pen in the nightstand drawer and a small notebook the housekeeper had tucked there and wrote: Don’t meet him. Don’t call him. Don’t let him call you. Tell him at the bookstore. Make it final. Walk away. She looked at the bullet points. They looked like instructions someone else would follow perfectly. She turned the page and drew a line down the middle and labeled the left See him and the right Don’t. Under See him she wrote:

he agreed. He reached into his jacket and pulled out nothing dramatic—no ring, no grand gesture. Just a folded paper. “I wrote something,” he said, and his voice held a trace of embarrassment. “It’s not legal. It’s not corporate. It’s… for us.” He slid it across the table. At the top, in his handwriting: Doors I Can Open. Below it, three short lines. I will not use power to make you stay. I will not use silence to make you guess.

I needed to find a way to say the things that needed saying that didn't involve strategies or appearances or performance. Because every time I performed, it fell apart. Dana Reeves had dismantled me in four minutes on live television. The building's security had removed me from the narrative even more efficiently. There was only one thing left I hadn't tried. The truth. Written down. No audience. No camera. No practiced expression. Just words on paper. I drove back to the apartment and sat at the kitchen table and opened my phone to the notes app where I had typed three words three days ago and then left them sitting there because what came after them was too hard.

“So I write without him.” Scott’s gaze sharpened. “Exactly.” She typed a sentence. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too. Winnie leaned over her shoulder, reading without touching. “That’s too soft.” Freeda’s jaw tightened. “I’m not writing for comfort.” “I know,” Winnie said. “Write like you’re closing a door.” Kris added, “And don’t explain. Explanations are where people start asking you to prove you’re sane.” Freeda’s mouth tipped slightly. Not a smile. More like recognition. “They love asking women to prove that.”