A room...A room with glue

The writer just looked at the screen in front of him. The white electric paper on the screen was blank waiting for him to write something. Anything. He was not a good writer, in fact he would not even call himself a writer yet. He did have another job, one that actually paid the bills. It was a job he did not like, that was soul draining, but ,again, it paid the bills. Besides most people had a job that they did not like, he was not unique. Also, the people that liked their jobs also probably didn't, they just lied to themselves while sub-consciously hating their jobs.

No, he did not want to write to buy his bills. He wanted to write to create worlds, to creates gods. It was like what his mom said about D&D. The DM is GOD! Except, in this case, it the writer was God, or was supposed to be. God probably would have an easier time typing out the story without the frequent misspellings. It was not he was bad at spelling, while not entirely that, but it was like his fingers moved on their own when he was typing and random letters and keyboard symbols as he was working on typing a word. This meant that his writing took a lot longer than he wanted it to, and he had to stop every now and then to back up and delate what he had written so that the words on the page looked a like actual writing.

Of course, that was when he had an idea of what to write, or had the time. The writer was supposed to be the God of the world of the story that he was writing, but right now the created world only consisted of an empty white room with bucket of glue. Why glue? He did not know. Maybe it was evil glue.