Writing A Teenage Novel Novels & Stories

Easy. I smiled as the answer immediately surfaced in my mind. The tension I felt slowly disappeared. “Well, ever since I was little, I already discovered my love for writing. The thing that influenced me the most was my diary that I hid under my bed. I would write things that happened to me all throughout the day and make a story out of it in my mind. My imagination during my teenage years was remarkable so most of the things I write today was a part of my teenage creativities or ideas.”

Glen asked, cooing. "The publishing company want me to write a new novel. I mean, that's fine with me since there are a lot of plots in my mind waiting to be written but they want me to write a tragedy. A freaking tragedy!" He yelled the last words with exasperation, groaning loudly. Tragedy has never been his forte. He wants his novels to always have happy endings.

Back to when I was just Aria, daughter of Robert, student with dreams. "Fantasy," I say slowly. "Magic. Worlds that don't exist. Escape." "Then write that. Create a world where bonds are celebrated. Where love is simple. Where people don't have to fight to exist." "You think I can?" "I think you survived Adrian Hayes. Writing a book should be easy in comparison." It's not easy. But over the next hour, I manage three paragraphs. Three paragraphs about a girl who discovers magic and a boy who teaches her to use it. Nothing profound. Nothing publishable. But words on a page that aren't about trauma.

"I took up writing in high school. Something to do when things were quiet." "So, always?" "For me, yeah. I thought of it as something he couldn't take away from me." I sighed, suddenly hit with a wave of bone-deep weariness. "I spent a lot of time on that book. It was my first attempt at a novel, I had it printed out under my bed somewhere." Her eyebrows were furrowed. "Umm. That's really fucked up. I don't really wanna believe you."

Bryce, I know you’re probably wondering where I went… Writing. Slowly at first, then faster. I crumpled one page. Then another. Finally, I settled into a version that felt right—naive enough, soft enough. A lie, but mixed with enough truth to make it believable. Levi convinced me to go back to school. Crescent Valley University… I kept writing. Adding simple details. Mentioning classes I wasn’t taking. Professors I’d never met. A life I’d never live. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.

Mom and Dad often wondered that if that incident hadn’t occurred when I was ten, my personality might have remained as lively and cheerful as it had been in childhood. But there are no ifs. After turning ten, I grew noticeably quieter. Outwardly, little changed, but my once vibrant spirit for exploration and challenge faded. The skills I had learned were set aside and never touched again. This state persisted until I was thirteen, when I happened to watch a sci-fi film. Inspired, I conceived the idea of writing. Perhaps writing was the talent I was born with. At just thirteen, I picked up my pen and never stopped—completing a multimillion-word online sci-fi novel in one go. Remarkably, the n

It was a creative writing class and over the years many of the short stories that I made in this class turned into full-blown novels. The only ones who know about those novels are Nathan and Lucas because quite a few of them are my more mature books. Lucas is my best friend so it is quite easy to tell him my different stories. It took a lot more time to be able to tell Nathan about them though. I guess I should be afraid that he would tell the whole school. For some reason, though I can't bring myself to be afraid. I guess I just can't see Nathan ever doing that to me.

Intrigued, I flip ahead several pages, seeing references to Henry’s Drive-In, The Skylark Diner, Yellow Cab, Paddy’s Place, The Commons Trailer Park on Bassler Road . I close the journal and again examine its plain, black leather-bound cover. Stories about Clifton Heights? Real stories? Or someone trying their hand at fiction? Either possibility fascinates me. Especially because I’m ready to begin a classic rite of passage for all small-town authors: the ubiquitous “coming of age novel which is a thinly veiled account of the author’s childhood.” Whomever this journal belongs to, it’s not lost on me how much inspiration these stories could provide, possibly kick-starting my own childhood reco

Really. It's been one heck of a year, I'm not even going to lie. Last year/early this year was my final year of high school and it was very chaotic. With getting my life back on track, turning to schoolwork, and the likes, writing was one of the last things on my priority list. And I'm not saying that as an excuse because there were times this year when I could have opened up Goodnovel and word-vomited into the website through my fingers, but I didn't. I chose not to because my mind just wasn't there. I'm sorry for that. When I graduated a few months ago, August to be exact, I planned to start writing as soon as possible but I couldn't. I still needed that mental break. But I'm back now. I d

“When you get back from camp, we should go on another double date. If only we could, I think. Instead, I tell her that would be awesome. In an effort to fill the rest of my time with purpose, I start writing in a journal. Well, it’s actually a school notebook that’s only been half-used and has now been converted into a journal. This helps me organize my thoughts. This is where I write how frustrating it is to just sit around and wait. It’s also where I write the love story I wish I could have with Alex, as I daydream about what life would be like if he could renounce his pack and escape with me. We would live on the go, never staying in one place too long, with only each other for solace. It