Writing Serial Fiction Novels & Stories

“We’ll do it in bits. Have you gone through the files at all?” “A few times.” “So you know there are phases,” he stated. She didn’t nod, but her silence was enough answer. “Once they see how well it’s going, investors will run to us. Serialized fiction is still relatively new. Well, it used to be popular in the past.”

“ I just need to sleep it off, Mav. Have fun at the bonfire.” ​I tossed the phone face down and opened my laptop. Writing was the only thing that made me feel better. I started typing, getting lost in the world I created. ​"What are you working on?" Jessie asked after about an hour. She was sitting on her bed painting her nails a bright red. ​"Just... fiction," I said, trying to sound casual. ​"Wait, like a book? Let me see!" ​"It's nothing, really," I said, but my face was already turning red. "I post on a site called StoryVerse under a fake name. I’ve never told anyone. Not even my best friend knows about it."

"Good to know the whole world is watching my life go up in flames in 4K resolution." I didn't wait for her to respond. I turned around, went back into my room, and slammed the door. I grabbed my laptop, flipping it open with enough force to nearly snap the hinges. Work, I told myself. Just write. Lose yourself in someone else's problems. I opened the file for my current series—the dark romance I’d been pouring my soul into under the name Bourbon. I stared at the blinking cursor. My characters were supposed to be having a tense standoff in a ballroom, but as I started to type, the words felt like gibberish.

I immediately went to the bookstore and saw that Sera was not there yet so I went into the bookstore first to have a look at some stands, magazines and novels. Before I loved dramas, I also loved reading, especially local novels. I'm thrilled and the plots are beautiful. I also thought before that I’ll try to make stories in my notebook but only one shot. After all, when it's a novel, I don't finish it because I'll suddenly have a mental block. It's like I just feel sorry for the characters in my story because it's either I'll just get married to them suddenly or they’ll be killed in the middle of the thrilling moments.

That would involve a lot of thinking. "So what would happen to the current story I am updating?" "You can make the story a meta fiction. You can write about your life story and about your characters at the same time. You can easily make it a two in one story." "Easily? So what do you want me to write about myself? My life isn't even all that interesting. Shall I just formulate some sappy romance story for myself involving some hot jerk of a guy? Look, this does not even look too possible." I huffed, uneasy and uncertain about everything.

I reach for my phone. I open a message to Sebastian. I type and delete twice. The first attempt is too much. The second attempt is too clever. I settle on the thing I actually mean, because I'm tired of not saying the things I actually mean: do you ever feel like you're living inside a story someone else wrote? I send it before I can think about it. I put the phone face-down on the duvet. I pick up Finn and Fiona and read three more pages without absorbing a single word.

Darien probably didn’t like having fictional characters being in successful relationships when he couldn’t be in one himself. “I guess it makes sense,” he answered. He took another moment to realise he had read smut scenes written by Darien himself. That felt strange. It was like he had an insight into Darien’s mind. After two weeks of reading erotica novel submissions he had started to realise that writing was often a way of coping with struggles for some people. It was probably the same for Darien. “I need to submit something before any editors from your department start contacting me,” Darien explained. “I like to read all my previous works before creating a new one to make sure I’m not r

Cara was still deeply immersed in her thoughts as she sat at her desk, scribbling in her diary. Her pen glided across the pages with a sense of urgency, trying to record every detail of the dream that had been haunting her since her therapy session. Her therapist, Jean, had told her that documenting her dreams was crucial to unlocking their hidden meanings, pushing her to be as thorough as possible. It wasn’t just a casual assignment; it was part of her journey to better understand herself, to untangle the threads of her subconscious mind. The idea of writing fiction about her own life felt strange, almost surreal, but Jean had explained that it was a way to externalize her feelings and memo

“What is this? I told you we just need a brief description. I didn’t ask you to make up some bullshit story.” “I added some colour-” “You didn’t add colour,” he interrupts the writer. “You wrote a whole fucking horror story. When did any of our children die? We didn’t pick up exploded elders in the forest. Everything we say needs to be believable. This is not.” “I’m sorry, your highness,” the woman says. “I write fiction, not-” “Do better next time,” Johnathan interrupts and shoves the folder back in her hands. “Who has the fact sheet about this man?”

“That’s rare around here. Everyone else just writes checks.” Adrian laughed. “Yeah, I noticed.” They stepped away from the crowd slightly, finding a quiet pocket near a window that looked over the garden. Eli leaned casually against the wall, swirling his wine. “So, what do you write?” “Articles mostly,” Adrian said, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Some short stories. Nothing glamorous. Magazines, online journals. You wouldn’t know any of them.” “Try me.” Adrian smiled, surprised by the interest. “I like peace and Quiet. Most of my stories are about small things. A town nobody’s heard of. A man who grows trees in his kitchen. Real stuff.”