Writing In Flow Novels & Stories

My fingers tap rhythmically on the keyboard, each keystroke a dance of creativity as I attempt to weave words into a captivating tapestry. But despite my fervent efforts, I find myself facing an invisible barrier, a daunting blockade that hinders the flow of inspiration. Writer's block, they call it. The bane of every writer's existence. I bite the back of my pen, a habit I've developed over time as if trying to extract ideas from its plastic casing. It's frustrating, maddening even, to feel the words slipping through my fingers like sand.

Dania preferred to combine the method of writing by hand–with a digital note application installed on their iPad instead of paper–and typing on the G****e Doc application. In the past, she once asked Dania about their work method, which she found it really strange. "It's not strange at all, really! By writing by hand, I could make a rough sketch of the scene I wanted to appear in my novel. Yes, it's still a rough sketch. Whereas using G****e Docs are the scenes that are ready to be shown to the public. You can put it more or less the same as an artist or a fashion designer's method of work when they get inspiration for their upcoming design!!”

However, I did not want him anymore. He slumped onto the floor and buried his face in his hands. He trembled uncontrollably. When he looked up again, he saw a letter on the dressing table. His gaze lit up at once. He scrambled over and grabbed it. When he opened it, he saw the familiar, delicate handwriting. [Goodbye, Clayton. I’ve submitted the divorce agreement to the lawyer. You’ll soon receive notice of the court proceedings. [I’m sorry you have to find out this way. I thought of saying goodbye to you properly on the day of my departure, but I overestimated myself. I just could not wait any longer.

It was the movement of someone used to being watched. "Productive," I lied, standing up and stretching my arms over my head, letting the oversized black shirt ride up just enough to catch his eyes. "I wrote twenty-five thousand words." He paused, a noodle box halfway to the table. He actually looked stunned. "Twenty-five thousand? In one day? Is that even humanly possible?" "For me? It's a slow Tuesday." I walked over to him, my bare feet silent on the polished concrete. "When the flow hits, I don’t stop. It’s a trance. I just... vomit words onto the page until the story is purged."

Flora's determination was a formidable force, and I needed to act swiftly and decisively. I returned to my desk, staring at the blank sheet of paper in front of me. Inspired by Flora’s relentless determination, I finally decided to reach out to my brother, Michael. Taking a deep breath, I picked up my pen and began to write, letting the emotions I had buried for so long pour out onto the paper. After finishing the letter, I paused, my heart heavy with the weight of my words. I decided to read it aloud one last time before sending it off, ensuring every detail was perfect.

I gasped, my hands finally free. Rowan pointed to the keyboard. "You're the Author now, Kaima. But you’ve been writing for the Shareholders. It’s time to write for the **People in the Tanks**." He grabbed my hands and placed them back on the keys. This time, there were no electrical pulses. There was only warmth. "Write the truth, Kaima," Rowan said. "Not the 'Drama.' Not the 'Hooks.' Write what it feels like to be 'Real.'"

The city was quiet past midnight, the usual hum of traffic softened to distant murmurs. In her flat, Amara sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed, a stack of cream-colored stationery spread before her, pens scattered like weapons in a war she fought silently. Outside the window, streetlights spilled pools of gold across the damp pavement, reflecting the tumult of thoughts in her mind. Tonight, she would write to Liam, not with emojis, not with fleeting texts, but with words that bled from her soul, raw and unfiltered.

Amazing. I sighed and wrote: Against the law. Fiancee? Ladies and gentlemen, I already had a title. I rubbed my hands together and started writing. Like all the other times, the words practically flowed on their own. The spaces were being filled in and the adjectives appeared almost alone. I just put the fingers and inspiration was responsible for the rest. I wrote very fast because when G returned to the world of the awakened living I was finishing page 25. I am usually slower writing. I am a lot to erase, to think again ... But this was coming out of my soul.

It feels like a physical release, like I am ripping the poison out of my own chest and turning it into words. The story flows out of me like an open wound. Hours pass, but I don't look up from the screen once. My eyes burn from the bright display, and my shoulders feel tense, Lila watches silently from the back of my mind, her renewed energy humming beneath my skin as if she is fueling the fire behind my words. Finally, my fingers hover over the keyboard as I reach the climax… I press the enter key with a heavy sigh, my breath leaving my lungs in a long, shaky exhale.

I could already see several flaws. Several. Which meant the project might not be as impossible as everyone believed. I reached for my notebook and began writing. One page became three. Three became ten. Ten became twenty. Ideas flowed faster than I could record them. For the first time all day, genuine excitement filled me. Then suddenly... Ding. A notification appeared on my phone. I barely looked at it. Probably another email. I continued writing. Ding. Another notification. Annoyed, I finally reached for my phone.