The writer sat down at his desk, ready.
Ready to write. Ready to create. Ready to inspire.
Ready to paint, to weave.
But first, what to do? How did he want to get started?
Would the worlds he was to dream up be vibrant and full of color?
Would the created lands be mythical and legendary?
Would they have dark secrets at their cores?
He would decide this. For he was a god. A god with magical powers.
A god of worlds yet imagined, woven, dreamt of.
He was the person that could bring them to life. Create, if you will.
The characters, places, the events.
The legacies. The basis for one’s imagination.
Oh the things he could do!