The Book About My Idle Plot Novels & Stories

Hello 🤗 I'm truly sorry for the recent inconsistency. I've been experiencing significant creative burnout and fatigue lately, which has made it challenging to update. I'm working on getting my creative energy back, and I appreciate your patience. This book will be completed soon, so please know it won't be abandoned. Thank you for your understanding! ❤️❤️❤️❤️

“About that, how about you show me this novel that you have been talking about since earlier.” “Ah yes, it’ll be my honor to show it to you!” They went and see the novel and talked throughout the whole night, Bathala was impressed with his writing and had fun reading it. “This novel was written well, why haven’t you submitted it to a publisher yet?” “Ow, I don’t really know, I just think that it won’t be good enough for it to be made public and it’s just a hobby of mine I picked out when I was in high school.”

Kays laughs, and I settle comfortably against his chest and begin my story: “Evening fatigue settles on the shoulders like an unbearable weight. Gently swaying, and unpleasantly jolting over potholes, the passengers in the overcrowded minibus sat in gloomy silence, counting the stops until theirs…” _________ Thank you to everyone who read my book. I’m truly grateful to you all. If you enjoyed this story, please join me in reading the second book set in this world. It’s Fisa’s story and is titled When Fate Changes Plans.

She added, already setting the basket down on the table in front of the chair, pulling out books and setting them down in an organized heap. "Thank you, Adriana," I muttered and drew closer to her, smiling at her thoughtfulness. I was indeed already getting bored of sitting without doing anything. An idle hand, as they say, was the devil's workshop, and my mind could very well be the devil's abode because tell me why I was already having pessimistic thoughts.

A pity. “Are you even listening to me?” I lifted my eyes from the book in my hand. The Mark of Exile. It was the sequel to The Corpse in the Fog—a crime story about a man killing the lover of the woman he desperately wanted. You could say I was taking notes of very effective and interesting ways to kill Zesa’s lover. I’d had enough of him impeding my happiness.

The room was very still. “I started writing it the morning after my second wedding the one I chose rather than the one I was given. I was standing in a cottage in Hudson Valley with a notebook and I wrote three pages before Adrian woke up and I understood, somewhere in the middle of the third page, that this was going to be a book and not just a notebook.” I paused. “I want to tell you what kind of book it is. Not what the back cover says you’ve read that. What I think it actually is.”

“How?” He straightened and walked away from the bed, toward a small table by the wall. On it were books. Old books. Thick, with worn covers and faded pages. He picked one up. “Because I have been planning this for a very long time,” he said. “Long before you ever knew his name.” I stared at the book. “Planning what?” “You.” The word landed heavy in the room. Me. “I don’t believe you,” I said. “You’re insane.”

Maybe the only thing holding me back… was me. ****** The quiet of the apartment that evening was almost unsettling. I had packed up the children's book I was trying to read earlier, now I just lay on the couch in the living room, the soft hum of the city outside pressing against the windows. My lips moved silently over the shapes of the words I was trying to force into memory, but my mind wandered.

I wandered the aisles without a goal, pulling books out just to feel their weight. One caught my eye. Not new. Not flashy. A quiet title with worn edges. I bought it without overthinking. At home, I cooked dinner slowly, the book resting unopened on the table like it didn’t need immediate attention. I ate, cleaned up, and finally sat down on the couch, legs tucked under me, flipping to the first page. I didn’t read much. I kept thinking about the email. About how calm I felt sitting beside something that would have once demanded immediate action.

Then one afternoon, he broke the quiet. “Are you not curious to know what’s in the book?” he asked, his voice smooth. I didn’t even look at him. “It’s empty,” I muttered, reaching for the book anyway. I flipped it open and held it up for him to see. “See? Nothing.” His eyes glinted faintly. “Is it, though?” I frowned. Without thinking too much, I picked up the quill tucked into the book’s golden ring. It had no ink, but the strange pull of it made my fingers itch. Just to entertain the thought, I scribbled on the page: