A Word a Day

Day Thirteen: Ink

        People ask me why I hole myself up in the same room everyday, why I wander into my mind almost exclusively. I do not think they know who they are talking to; the scorn me and show me nothing but respect and ridicule. They do not seem to understand that I have a greater role than they in this world, for I am the Author.

        While they are merely characters in another's created universe, I am the goddess who brought life to yet another universe. And that universe is so very expansive, so much that many of my characters never collide. Oh, look! In that galaxy are the Metas, superhumans with extraordinary powers living amongst their lesser cousins! And in that one there you can find a world of knights and dragons! And there you can find the Majiks, the elemental creatures who nevere die!

        They scorn me, for they cannot do what I can. They can create, to be sure, but they can only create what their Author has permitted them to create. As I am the Author of my own universe, I holdd endless possibilities. I can create princesses and dragons, heros and villains, angels and demons, gangsters and cowboys. The options are truly limitless. Ideas flow out as though from a fountain, a never ending stream that inspires madness as it builds up, the only solution being to let it all out. But as soon as it is let out, the fountain replenishes the supply of stories, and thus the agony is unending. Like my brothers and sisters in greatness, I am insane. I cannot deny this truth.

        There are, however, imposters in the midst of gods and goddesses, mere characters who believe they hold within them the ability to create as we do. Yet soon their fountain runs dry, and they are revealed as frauds. They are put off by our madness, for they do not have it. They have never truly experienced the blinding agony of being an Author.

        From my pen spouts many beings, my children moreso than any to come of my life and blood. Without me they would not exist; it is I who controls their every motive and aspect. It is I who makes them suffer and die. It is I who spills their blood.

        Yet just as in our own world, the death of these beings born of pen and paper are not to be moments of sadness; instead, they join their goddess, their Author, in eternal celebration of a successful story, a plot well-woven. Their deaths are not vain, for they always contribute to a greater purpose. Their sacrifices are to be celebrated, never scorned. Even the most vile of villains will rejoin their Author; for their Author is not only their God, but their Satan. Their Author is both All-Good and All-Evil. This is beyond the comprehension of many, but if you share my gift and burden, you will understand.

        If you are an Author, you will always understand.