The Author is a maker of life. They write a person of flesh and blood and heart and soul onto a page. A page that has a history, a present, a future. The Author knows when and where and how they are going to take a person from here to over there. The Author is responsible, they must be. I am just a reader and I have fears that the Author has made a mistake. They can’t have though. The Author knows best. Not in an oppressive, domineering manner, but with a steady, constant, reassuring, creative pen. The Author sees all faults, all covered up and squashed down thoughts, all failures of the character they’ve created. That’s because they’ve made the character like that. For that is real – real life. Otherwise there’d be no truth, no sticky, sweet life, and there is nothing to validate life if it is bland perfect. There’d be no work to be done in the character. It would be complete and the reader wouldn’t understand why. There would be no story to tell.