When an author sets to work, a world is created.
Inside the mind, seen by only one.
Rattle, dip, drip. A story starts to form.
Thieves running wild, evil defiles.
Fortresses erected from earthly materials.
Rattle, dip, drip. The story goes on.
A hero arrives, but in what form?
A child? A man? A monster or beast?
The kind of which people would throw a great feast?
Rattle, dip, drip. Continue on.
A setting, the world, could be anything.
A wild place, a forest, even outer space.
A jungle, a city underground, a plain where creatures race.
Rattle, dip, drip. Could be anything you want or dream.
A magical world, a tale unfurled.
When all is well and all is at peace, the page is ready for it's release.
Rattle, dip, drip. The end.
Darkness shrouds the candle light.
Head droops, but a story runs free.
Lips yawning, but upturned in a creating smile.
Fingers stiff, but gripping the pen, ready.
A tale fills the tired mind and the pen sets to work.
Once upon a whatever you want it to be.
Just the beginning...
Once upon a page, a pen dipped and dripped.
Thoughts formed a colorful world.
Once upon the first word, so small compared to what was to come.
The inspiration for everything else, that beginning is.
Once upon a world never before discovered.
Thieves or living trees or a land of beasts.
Aliens from space or polite minotaurs.
Maybe it's a world full of worlds, inspiring the next tale, the next page.
Once upon a pen, finally put away, but not for long.
A story is like a picture, many in fact.
When someone picks up your story, they step into your thoughts.
They see the very things you saw as your pen scratched a tale onto a page.
The character as you saw them. Real, but in a different world.
Alive, in fiction.
Your characters are pieces of you, put into something else.
Thoughts you couldn't say out loud, feelings you couldn't express.
Things you wish you could be, or things you wish you weren't.
Each setting in your created universe is a place held close to you, twisted into something more majestic and magical.
Where you wish you could be, but aren't.
A magical garden in the rain.
Outer space in your basement.
A forest of magical creatures inside your home.
When a story becomes part of you, you never let it go.
It stays close by you, a magical part of reality.
Your pen is waiting and there is a tale to be told.
What are you waiting for?
There is a certain magic when you do the things you love.
When the ink slides off the pen and forms words, stories, can anyone imagine the pleasure of the last flourish to a story well done?
Does anyone else feel giddy when a tale takes an unexpected turn and things get exciting?
When a hero rises triumphantly even after being hit so hard, does anyone else feel proud?
Even if no one else can feel the same as the creator of the tale, when a story is well done, no one can resist leaning closer and saying, "What's happening now?"
I know, if a story is well written, the readers will feel joy for that perfect ending, anxiety through the twist, pride for the hero.
When they finally connect, that's the greatest joy of all.
When a tale is told, magic unfolds.
When a world untold is finally shown, wonder grows.
With each new piece, the puzzle grows into a picture.
Each piece is as important as the next.
Travel without moving.
Anxious without fear.
Adrenaline from words.
Connecting to the characters is a magical thing, when you journey through their life without lifting a foot.
When they seem so real, you could imagine standing beside them.
When you're friendless, you have a friend.
Lonely, you have company.
Tired of the world, you have somewhere to escape.
When the tale is done, the magic stays with you.
A glow, thoughts racing, something to think on if you're alone.
As if you could ever be.
The tale goes on...
When that first bud appears into dry soil, when the inspiration drops like a seed, the barren ground welcomes it.
Slowly, it blooms, words bursting forth like a rainbow, sentences form images inside the black space. Then falling again, into the softened dirt.
More stories grow as flowers and scrawny saplings. Small and dull at first, but slowly growing into something great and majestic.
And soon, a great forest has been erected, words flowing like a rolling river.
Joy is the sun in this grammar-filled euphoria.
Everything explodes into color when the first page is turned and as each new reader steps into the tale.
Someone, or something, inspired this forest, unknowingly dropping the seed.
When someone steps into the lush tale, a seed is dropped into their hand, fingers close and it begins again.
An unending end...
Author's note: I wrote these a couple months ago and decided to share them before I left. I hope ya'll are inspired.