Words In A Novel Novels & Stories

He clicked on his most recent Word document, updated the day before, and scrolled to the top page before motioning for Emmie to come closer. She did, inching toward him and making sure the flowy summer dress she was wearing didn’t roll up too much. As her eyes focused on the screen, Ramsay carefully lay there, waiting for her reaction. They widened the moment she saw a catchy title with the words ‘a novel by R. Jones’. “No way,” Emmie exhaled, scrolling to the foreword and reading the few words that started it, already knowing this book was something most people would need a dictionary for (if their parents didn’t work as journalists). “You write!”

Richard’s writing. He must have been working on it last night and forgotten to put it away. I hesitated for a moment before picking it up. Richard rarely let anyone read his drafts, but I was curious. I flipped through the pages and started reading. ~ Richard’s Novel: A Calculated Romance ~ The ballroom shimmered under the glow of crystal chandeliers, a world of polished shoes and tailored suits, of whispered deals masked by laughter and champagne. But amidst the orchestrated elegance, she stood alone.

Her writing was simple, yet each sentence carried the weight of her hidden emotions. She wrote about the cool touch of the marble floor, the soft murmur of conversations in the office, and the fleeting smile that had lit up her heart when their eyes met. The journal became a private sanctuary for her thoughts. It held the secret language of her soul—a language of hope, longing, and quiet determination. Even though the words were simple, they were full of meaning and emotion.

“You’re also those things. But there’s more room.” He looked at his glass. “I write more carefully than I speak,” he said. “I’ve always written what I mean. Speaking, I sometimes mean things before I’ve found the words for them.” “That’s what the novel is about,” she said. He looked at her. “Yes,” he said. “The gap between the meaning and the expression of it,” she said. “Thomas and Mathilde stop being able to close the gap.” “Yes,” he said. “What closes it?” she said. “In the novel, nothing. But in theory.”

Blurting out my feelings into words. And those nights...amazingly what pain could do. .... how I was able to create a 200 thousand word count novel within a short span of weeks I took a deep breath before handing out the hardcopy of my novel to the organizer of the writing contest. She smiled at me and wished me goodluck before I left the venue. That novel's personal function was to release my stress, pains and all those negativities that the situation brought me. It was unexpected and everything seems to be chasing time.

I could not blame them though, I know I looked good in the orange trouser pants and black turtle necked long sleeve top I was wearing. ****** "When a writer focuses excessively on crafting beautiful prose, like using big grammars and Vocabularies, it will be difficult for the readers to get fully immersed in the story." I said loudly, focusing on every students in the class, to make sure they were all following my explanations and taking note of the tips of writing a novel. "Are you guys following me? Do you get what I am trying to say?" I asked, pausing a bit to detect their reactions and confirm if they were paying attention.

I read my book. The chapter resolved. Not the novel — the novel had further to go, the chapter was a chapter, the resolution of this particular architecture of tension that the author had been building. The characters did the thing. I had known it was coming, had been ahead of them for a hundred pages, and it arrived and it was — the word was right. It was the word. The thing that happened when a thing arrived that had been arriving for long enough that its arrival was both surprise and completion simultaneously.

"Reading novels seems better!" A profound silence reigned in the downstairs room where Miranda stayed, broken only by the rhythmic cadence of her breathing as she sat on the wide bed, propped up against soft pillows, a famous horror novel open in her hands. The words danced before her eyes under the warm glow of the golden bedside lamp, drawing her deeper and deeper into their dark worlds, until it seemed as if she were slipping into her haunted depths.

While moving along with the song, my fingers quickly tapped the keyboard, creating that familiar sound that the four corners of my room hear every day. My eyes were focused on the screen, possibly the only thing I've been looking at for the past year aside from television. As usual, I hardly noticed the time. Half an hour, an hour, until it reaches two hours. And the previously blank screen is now filled with three thousand words. "The end." I said fondly while pressing the letter' D,' a sign that I had finished another novel. "Finished." I smiled and lengthened the last word, raising my arms in triumph and letting out a big yawn before slumping back on my chair.

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.