Writers Notes Novels & Stories

On the third day after I reunite with my pack, my family corners me in the mansion's living room. My adopted sister, Mia Ashford, holds several notes in her hand while sobbing her eyes out. "Layla, I know you hate me, but you're driving me insane with your death threats!" Every single note is covered in curses written in red. "Go to hell, you thief! You stole Mom and Dad away from me." Noah Ashford leaps to his feet and hurls the notes at my face. "Apologize!" he roars. "You think you can bully Mia just because you're my sister?" Mom embraces Mia, trying to comfort her. Dad, as the Alpha of the pack, finally speaks. "If you don't write a 1,000-word apology letter to Mia today and

Ethan snores loud enough to wake the dead. Noah stopped reading. His heart skipped. “They’re talking about me.” Ava stepped beside him. “Whose handwriting is it?” “I don’t know.” He turned another page. Volkov pretends he doesn’t care, but he always checks that everyone gets back safely. Another page. He’ll make a good leader one day, even if he’s too stubborn to admit it. Noah slowly sat down. “These were written by someone who knew us.” Ava looked toward the photograph lying beside the notebook.

Théo spends three days writing the letter. Not because it is long. It is only four paragraphs, short enough to read in less than two minutes. That is intentional. The person it is written for has already read the standing invitation many times. They do not need more words. They need greater depth. On Tuesday morning he places the finished notebook before me at the communal table. His fountain pen rests beside it, capped. He has the quiet satisfaction of someone who knows a piece of work is complete and is ready to let it belong to the archive instead of only himself.

Who stayed in the work despite what the work sometimes cost them. We wrote the letters that night. All of us. Caelen drafting. Petra addressing. Donal checking each one against his internal map of who had handled the incoming correspondence. Seren present in the specific, sustaining way that made difficult things survivable. And Aldwyn, sitting at the end of the table, writing with the careful, deliberate hand of someone who understands that the words she puts on paper tonight may be the first honest warning some of those people have ever received from anyone. Outside, the winter held its cold and steady presence.

Adrian was at the other end of the dining table with his laptop and the particular focused stillness of a man who had decided the best thing he could do with his hands was keep them busy. We'd been working since this afternoon. The legal pad between us had four pages of notes in two different handwritings. His were precise, minimal, the kind of notes that assumed the writer would remember the context. Mine were the opposite — everything written out, nothing assumed, each connection mapped to the thing before it and the thing after because I'd learned a long time ago that the connections that seemed obvious at ten in the evening were the ones you couldn't reconstruct at three in the morning.

It all depends on one thing: whether you are willing to do the work. Tips Some links of the help you might need: GN Homepage GN F* page https://www.f******k.com/groups/goodnovelwriters And of course, my page on F*, it's a workshop for outlines, plots and all you can think of about writing~ https://www.f******k.com/InkerWoolf/ Q2 How do I get an exclusive contract on GN? Any tips? Any tricks? Any standards? Nope. ONLY good stories can get you exclusive contracts, nothing else.

Tsk. “Don't pay attention to that, I still have many pets. Sit down." He nodded but there is sudden regret in his face to visit me. “I am curious Mr. Owen, your wife, the chief editor concluded that I didn’t write the manuscript. Didn’t she?” I can notice his sudden uncomfortable gaze.

I leaned against the door slightly, elbow propped, head resting against my hand. No one had access to this car, except her. The note remained closed in my palm for a moment longer before I unfolded it. I stared at the messy handwriting. It was a list. Company names. Some I recognized, others were smaller firms, a few mid-tier advertising houses. Each name had been crossed out. Sometimes with one clean line. Sometimes scribbled out like the writer was irritated and dissatisfied. It was like watching someone chase a dream and kill it with every stroke of a pen.

About the Authors Mark Boutros: Mark Boutros is an International Emmy nominated screenwriter and fantasy author. He mostly likes sleeping and saying no to social gatherings. M.M. Ward: Mama Magie Ward- Farm mom and author who writes as part of my stroke recovery. My stories are a walk between shadow and light. I write stories about and for those who have been through much. There will be triggers for survivors, things I would wish on anyone, but sadly, these are the trials many face in today’s world. Some of will overcome, some will succumb, and I encourage all to seek help. Weep, cope, reach out. You are not alone. There is always the choice... Become Better, not bitter.

That and inspiration, of course. I squirmed on the bed. I closed the laptop. He missed calling Jay to read him what he had written. He was my male point of view. He would tell me if something was too cheesy or if something would be better written differently. He was my great support at the time of writing. Grazie l was thinking of hiring him as part of the publishing house to support the writers. Professional support. Jay had refused a couple of times. He was a lawyer and was doing very well. He said that the only writer in his life was me. Jay was that special.