The Protagonist

"Write my life," the Protagonist said.
The writer took a long drag on the cigarette. There were no less than fifteen stories already in the works when they met. A week later and the Protagonist had filled the writer's mind with enough narratives to fill a library. 
The writer tugged on the horse blanket and thought.
Where to begin?
If only the writer didn't love the Protagonist so much. How to honor someone with such unimaginable memories?  And when to write?  Their conversation runs hours into days.
Five minutes after the request was made,  and the writer had heard two more stories and was being handed a plate of grilled snook and vegetables.
"...I dragged my mom into the police station and begged them to do something a year before the murder," the Protagonist said as he swirled his glass of Pinot Noir.
The writer,  now carrying the weight of the mantle placed on her shoulders tried to think like a writer.