Writing Serial Fiction Novels & Stories

The man was a quick learner, picking up on what Marietta had said, even the word pupus that he didn't know, and embodying it. — First, I would like to talk a little about what I write. In Oz they say my books they are a little transgressive, that make a certain confusion of genres. Bookstores don't know much whether they are classified as mystery books, paranormal books or action thrillers. You've probably already noticed this trend in the publishing world. In the past, used to If so, there were clear limits to commercial fiction. A book was a mystery story, a fiction

Instead of facing his own demon, Sabrina's father took his own life in front of his family, scarring his own daughter for life. Being a non-fiction novelist, most of my stories are about people’s experiences. I collect facts through research and interviews, then retell the stories through books. My stories, in turn, memorialize their contributions in life and highlight their suffering and pain. This way, they shall be remembered and hopefully, their story helps someone along the way, someone who currently faces these difficulties.

"It's delicious! I mean, it's sweet, but not too sweet. Met my expectation!" "What did I say before? Apart from coffee, my boss is also an expert in cooking," the woman smiled happily at her reaction. "If you don't mind, may I ask what do you do?" "I'm working as a novelist," she replied after successfully swallowing her food in a quick move. "You know, writing stories. Most of them are young adults with the fantasy genre. But I'm trying to create a paranormal genre this year." "Oh," the woman nodded understandingly, glancing at her injured hand. "With that injured hand? Do you need my help? Maybe I can help you until you get better. What do you think?"

My imagination has gone too surreal to be called healthy. I just shook my head. I continued walking and looked a few more times behind me in case I… really… saw… a dragon…. But there was nothing, though. That’s it. Grandma's stories have gotten into my head. Besides, I’ve been working on fiction about creatures similar to it. I’ve been submitting more entries to the same ol’ publisher that has rejected every of my written pieces. I just didn’t know how to give up. Not yet. I knew I was born to be a well-known writer. And I swear that to the moon!

I stopped shopping in the boutique where Sophie used to work. I took my life off mute. I saw my son, Caleb, more often—now that the court had granted me full custody with monitored visitation for Daniel. We went hiking. We cooked burnt pancakes on Saturday mornings. We laughed without tension. And slowly, I started writing again. Not case notes or articles for the mental health journal. But stories. Real ones. Fictional ones. Versions of women who had burned their lives down just to build them into something sacred. I wrote about revenge. About healing. About obsession and grief and the thin line between love and destruction.

Well, she had just the thing - a Mason-shaped serial killer. Lisa worked solidly, first writing out a character profile and then plotting the story. It was dark and there were a lot of murders, but she was in a murderous frame of mind, an odd side effect of being sexually frustrated. She built the plot and the other characters, remembering to put Jim in as a senior officer, and she fleshed it out, channeling her restless energy into the story. By the time she was too exhausted to continue, the sky outside was pinking with the early rays of sunrise and she had finished her pre-production. After she got some sleep, she would be able to start writing with little or no interruptions. She felt go

Each song is healing. I write in the mornings. At the kitchen table with coffee and notebooks. Fiction at first. Made-up stories about made-up people. But slowly, the truth creeps in. Our truth. The bond. The trauma. The survival. "Are you writing about us?" Lucian asks one morning, reading over my shoulder. "Fictionalized. Changed names. Different setting." I bite my lip. "Is that okay?" "It's your story too. Write it however you need to."

Hmm, interesting. "Come on, I'll show you where my car is." I follow him to a black BMW and my mouth almost drops. A serial killer can't have fancy cars, right? He opens the door to the front seat for me and I blush and I get in. Serial killers also aren't gentlemen. I don't know! I don't watch serial killer documentaries on N*****x I'm a romance kind of girl, I love romance but I can't provide a nice groundbreaking romance novel to get published. Ugh! You know what, I'm not giving up I'm going to keep my head up high and I'm going to write another book one they'll love. I can't give up now, I won't give up.

****************** The next day my dad went to his office and saw Caroline sitting at his chair and she was having her coffee in one and hand and her Iphone in the other while she faced the window. My dad purposefully dropped a pen from the table so that he could grab the attention of Caroline. “How many times have I said you to knock the door before entering this...” Caroline shouted as she turned around but stood from the seat all of a sudden and dropped her phone when she saw my father standing. “Oh... I'm sorry I didn’t know it's you.” She tried to act calm while my father could easily notice that she was shivering. She kept her coffee aside and picked up her phone from the ground.

Just a sentence that arrived uninvited while I was reviewing grant proposals. Two people placed inside a design they did not choose, only to rewrite it. I closed the document in front of me and stared at that sentence in my mind. I had not written fiction in years. I had written essays, proposals, speeches, arguments sharp enough to cut glass. But fiction belonged to a younger version of me, one who believed stories could rescue people from themselves. Now I had lived one. I did not tell Dream immediately. Not because I wanted secrecy, but because I wanted clarity.