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.


Muddled Mind

Sometimes I want to write.

Sometimes I feel the need to write.

Tonight my mind is too full to do so.

I have written words of a demon tied to a hunter, of a shark drawn to a dolphin, and of a reaper caring for a fox. But they were all short and void of the feelings I wanted.

My mind is muddled.

Even sitting here, listening to the words of the songs that reflect the feelings in the stories I am working on I can’t seem to see the scenes. I can’t touch the characters. I can’t be in the moment they are in.

I want to write them so badly, not just for those that I know read the stories I post, but for the sake of the characters themselves. Their stories need told. They deserve for the their stories to be shared, but I can’t seem to find the words to do so, at least not tonight.

I have a demon who still needs to fall in love with the daughter of his partner.

I have a high school boy who needs to accept that he is loved, even when he doesn’t feel loveable.

I have a reaper who still needs to tell the woman he has been following for over a century how he feels about her.

I have a fox and a satyr that I need to lead to their deaths.

I have a kitsune god and a tengu god that need to find a home.

I have a dark elf who needs to find her jester.

I have characters that are relying on me to finish their tales, to bring their stories to a climax and ending, to bring them to a place of ending… and I can’t seem to.

Maybe I will try again tomorrow.

The Beginning…

So, it’s been a long time since I’ve tried starting a blog. It’s not out of a lack of desire, simply unmotivation. So here’s to a new one, hoping that perhaps, given a little luck, this one will stick.

I have been seeking a writing outlet I suppose. I enjoy my fiction, love it actually. But writing fiction is often slow and tedious, with little to no feedback from those who read it. I am not seeking feedback here (although, all authors love feedback), I am simply looking to write and connect with those around me.

Sometimes I feel as though I would float away into my imagination if I weren’t securely anchored to my body. It’s as if I could close my eyes, slip away and never return to reality, simply float in the fictional realms I have created, residing with the characters I have created. However, I am not sure I would be welcome with them. They don’t need me around, they don’t know me or desire to know me, they have their lives with their families and I have mine.

I can’t tell you what may end up on this screen for you to read. It might be some of my characters coming by to say hello. It might be my thoughts on the traffic I faced today. It could be what I made for dinner three nights ago. It could be pictures of my furbabies. It might be heartache or joy, but I can tell you one thing… it will be me.

For now I will leave you with a picture of my brother and I, because I love it.

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