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Before reading, please be aware that Spencer does not reflect the entire Agender community. They were inspired by me and other nonbinary people I know. They reflect one person, not the entire population. Enjoy!

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Once upon a time, in a suburban city in Chicago, I felt as though the world was end...No, that's not it. What a horrible way to begin a book. My life was in no way ending, despite the fact I was waiting for the ground to swallow me whole. I knew that as I stood before my professor's desk in the empty classroom that I was indeed being quite the drama queen in my head, but I could not help it. She was holding my life in her hands.

Her glasses perched up on her nose as she skimmed over the pages. Her tongue slipped out of her mouth to moisten her drying lips. Her fingers gently griped the three pages, making sure not to crumble the corners. She was always careful when dealing with a student's work, as she knew it was not her own to keep. It was mine. My heart and soul. My life.

No, I was not being dramatic in any sense at all. There was nothing more important to me than writing. Not my family. Not my friends. Not even myself, nor my mental health. It was writing. Writing was what got me through the hard times. Writing became my escape from the treacheries of everyday life. There was no one in this world, not even myself. It was a world where I had to the power to wield both good and evil to my will. I was a God.

Life was incredibly difficult, especially after graduating high school and paying for an extra four years of education out of pocket. After having all these rules and disciplines lined up for you to follow, they are stripped off your back as life kicks you out of the house and tells you to "screw off." You have nowhere to go. You have no idea what you're doing. All you can do is figure it out along the way. Which sucks when nothing in your high school career helped with what came next. I knew the Mitochondria was the powerhouse of the cell, but I barely knew how to make my own dentist appointments.

That was another thing I liked about writing. It was what drove me to learn. I wasn't going to bullshit my way through anything, pretending like I knew the world for shit when in all actuality I didn't. If any of my works were going to be published, I did not need to worry about any critics attacking me for not knowing something so basic to everyone else. I had to make sure everything was authentic and real so it could connect with my readers. That was what was important.

Connecting with readers is always important. You have to be able to know your audience and what they do and do not like. You have to make sure your readers stick with you and are entertained. Of course, I didn't realize in the beginning that the world was so infatuated with romance. It doesn't click with me. I try to keep up to date on what was considered romantic, offensive, sexist, abusive, and all those sorts of things so I could create a type of lover that would be real and inspire people to find their equivalent, someone who, though they make mistakes, recognizes when they do something wrong and grows from it.

Maybe writing about romances would inspire me. Maybe the more I learned about what was considered a healthy relationship versus a toxic relationship would help me to find the right person. It didn't seem as though I would find one anytime soon. And I was perfectly alright with that. I had books to focus on. My books. I didn't have time for a relationship to enter the mix. I had to focus on my career.

It was why chills crawled under my skin as I stood before my professor. She was a writing genius, having written five best selling novels in her life. Why she was teaching creative writing at a community college was a mystery no one could seem to solve. But I was glad she was there. If she wasn't, I didn't think I would have ever been given the chance for something so great.

It was only a few classes into the semester that she called me up to her desk. Having read some of my short stories I published while in high school, she was quite impressed with my advanced ability to write compelling stories that stuck with a person for months on end. I believed she was still hung up on my ironic murder story (a ginger haired girl thought she was immune from a killer who only killed brunettes and was murdered by the killer on her way home at night).

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