A writer told me the truth once.
She said, "When I write, I am the God of my world and I am closest to the Divine that I can be. I form the men and women of my world from the left-over dust of my thoughts and I breathe the life of my inspiration into them."
Long hair, rich and brown. A glass of wine bled from fragrant grapes bursting with life. A slight tilt to her chin and eyes brash with a challenge to the whole world as though I wasn't even there. Drunk with the power of creation.
Beyond the porch light of her world, the demons watched, drawn by her passionate fire.
For the difference between the Divine and the Darkness is the gift of creation.
Writers create, plagiarists hide in the shadows waiting to steal what they cannot bring forth on their own.
