Creator

Words have power. I’ve realized that now. In my comfort, I’ve had ample time to think and reflect, and that is the conclusion I’ve reached. Not only to influence the hearts of others, but also to influence the worlds around us. When I was young and naïve, I put pen to paper creating tales beyond the imagination of others. Knights slaying dragons, explorers finding new lands, the joys of finding love, all these and more I would write by the fire. These were places for me where I could be happy, unburdened by cold reality. And I wasn’t alone. Others found warmth in my worlds. Family and friends found enjoyment as well. My creations, my children could make people smile. My earliest works were made in the old college dorm. I vented my frustrations into my words. You could call it symbolic, or you could call it simply writing. I had no direction or purpose, I just wanted to make something. More importantly, I wanted to make something happy. I always made sure that the knight slew the dragon or that the characters found true love. My roommate, I can’t remember their name now, would mock me, lightheartedly, that I was predictable, but now I see that there’s nothing wrong with that. Predictable, mainstream, these are just words to indicate what people don’t want to hear. I never worried about what they wanted to hear though. I just continued without a care. I brought my creations to life to bring a smile to myself and those around me.

Nothing lasts forever. Reality is harsh, and its grip began to squeeze me dry. I needed to survive, so I left my worlds behind and picked up the journalistic approach. Though dull, the work got me through. History, science, politics, reviews of things I’ve never heard of, I wrote all sorts of things. It was educational, I thought. Even if it wasn’t happiness, it was something. During this time my creations nagged at the back of my mind. I could not ignore them; they were my children after all, so I began my first great work. I carefully constructed their world. I made sure they had friends and family. I ensured them a purpose. It was predictable, but it was my creation made for me, just as it had always been. As funds became tighter, I had to choose. Choosing was impossible. I could not leave my work behind, so loosened my morals. I took money from all sorts asking for an opinion. They never wanted it, rather in exchange for payment, they would give me theirs. And I took it for my children, so I could keep building their perfect world. How I wish I hadn’t. The lesson I learned, that I wish I could go back in time and tell myself, is that corruption spreads fast. Like others before me, I believed that I was different. For them, I could sacrifice. All I needed for my world was myself and time; nothing else mattered.

Years later, at long last, my masterpiece was complete. Finished with fine details, heroes and villains playing their roles to perfection. The brave were rewarded and the malicious punished. I was relieved and proud. My children had a world to call their own. In my joy, I wanted to share my creation with others, and others voiced their thoughts. “Wonderful, amazing, a joy to read.” I was shocked. My predictable, mainstream work made for me was popular. Not just with those close to me like back in my youth, but people from all over the globe. I had to make another. With the funds I acquired from the first, I was able to more efficiently create another story with new characters. People loved that one too. And so, I began to write more and more books. Some were continuations involving favorite characters from past works. Others were brand new worlds, settings that were themselves new and challenging to me. The offers continued to come in: publishing deals, translations, even a movie. I couldn’t contain my excitement. And then those same words came back. Predictable. Boring. I should have ignored it. I should have realized that I had enough. But each time I sat to work, the words came back. I didn’t want to lose everything I worked so hard for. I didn’t want to let down the people who looked to stories as masterpieces. So I wrote. It was terribly cold, sad, and worst of all, popular again.

I had everything I wanted, but nothing lasts forever. Age took its toll. Some days my hands refused to work. At some point I realized that I barely smiled anymore. Cold reality has come for me, as it did for my children. I used my words to create worlds and fill it them with people. I wanted to see smiles on their faces to bring one to mine. But I forgot the power of words. In my lust for acknowledgement and fortune I used my words to bring misery. I tore apart lovers, killed off heroes, felled worlds, all for what? They were my children, and I abandoned them. You did not deserve this reality to be thrust upon you, not when I could have given better. I am not the perfection I once believed myself to be. My worlds are fallible, just as I am.  I’m sorry. Forgive me, my children. I am no grand creator, only a simple person. While my hands still hold on, give me one last chance to make amends, to bring happiness and joy back to your worlds. It will be no grand magnum opus, no award winner, nor a critiques perfect example. It will be simple, filled with words I want to hear, to give.

“Once upon a time a lonely shopkeeper took up the sword to protect their village. They traveled over mountains and through darkened woods until at last they arrived at the villain’s keep. Breaking through the traps, they arrived at the final lair, finding someone sobbing in the corner. A lonely villain stuck in darkened woods, across the mountains too far from the village. The shopkeeper took their hand and led them home where they lived happily ever after.”