I shape the sphere, the seas may roil, or they may be still, the sky may crack and thunder, it may be still and sweet. I lay the land, through my hands it is barren, or it is bountiful.
The flora I shape, the fauna I furnish.
The people who go upon the world, they could be elves, cherishing the waters and the trees that surround them, or they may be werewolves, relishing the hunt and the kill; they could be humans, toiling at war with one another or enjoying the easy peace of farming the soil.
I may call magic from the land, radiating from the ground itself, or summoned from etched runes and incantations, rituals or sacrifice.
I give breath to the protagonist, I provide the rage to their nemesis.
Each word, every motivation, I prescribe.
Whether from my waking world at large, the depths of my dreams, or some fevered combination of the two, it’s all the same; it bleeds from the point of my pen, the tips of my fingers.
Writing is creation, and I, we, are the creators.