I am an author.

I am an author.

I have to reaffirm that to myself almost daily.
As I have stated many times before in this blog, I love writing. I love words.
I have written out of joy, I have written out of curiosity, I have written out of absolute emotional agony.
But I have yet to really finish any of my stories.
I have so many of them, both fanfiction and original fiction (along with a few non-fiction pieces) that I have plans for, BIG plans, but I just can’t seem to get any of them to stick around long enough to grow into mature tales.

Right now it’s Admon.
I love Admon. I adore Admon.
But, man… he is being a pain.
I feel like he is right there, sitting in front of me. Telling me his story from beginning to end, and I just can’t seem to make the words appear on my screen.

He loved his mother.
He loved her as deeply as any boy can love his mother.
He broke vows for her. He chose to turn his back on the way of life his kind has lived in for thousands of years for her.

Admon is now Josiah.
A new name, for a new man… that’s what he thought anyway.

Josiah still loves his mother.
He is living with the consequences of choosing his mother over everything.
But I just can’t seem to make the words show up on that white page.

How far back do I go? All the way back? That’s pretty far back.
Do I skip forward? Show him as a boy in school? He is excellent in math, fyi.
Math and physical tests. But he is… not good with social skills. Even among his peers, who are well known among other fantastical beings for their severe lack of social graces, he is bad at interacting with others.

Do I skip forward even more? Do I skip to the moment when Admon becomes Josiah, and for the first time in his life discovers he can love someone besides his mother?

Poor Admon.

I am trying, I promise.

I am sorry that as a character you got stuck with me as an author.

But, just like always, he only smirks at me, rolls his eyes and downs what is left of his whiskey.

“Perhaps next time,” he muses as he stands and pulls on his jacket.

“Tomorrow then?” I ask, my heart hopeful that he will continue to speak to me.

“Of course,” a small, mischievous smile grows on his face, “perhaps I will bring Mai.”

I shake my head, “then we won’t get anything done.”

He opens the front door to leave, “do we ever?”

And with a wave of his hand, he is gone.

Reapers. I swear, no social graces, the whole lot of ’em.

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