I sit down at my desk to write. I shake off the residue of half-remembered dreams to embrace the reality around me. Almost immediately the words appear. They come out of me like a swarm of bees from a hive knocked down by a spiteful burst of wind. My fingers can't move fast enough. The words wind and buzz angrily and without direction. It's early morning and the clacking of the keys mixes with the sounds of daybreak beyond my window. The chorus of birds outside intertwines with the percussive rhythm of the keys at my fingers to create a dissonant melody of creativity. Each new word announces its birth boldly. There is a beauty in the simplicity of it.

As I write the words mature and take form. Through them abstractions become clear, characters are born, towns are built. I fill in the nubile narrative with clips of memories of my own. I get lost in the click click clacking crescendo. I find myself in my words. My words hold my soul in check.

My words are born without purpose but still manage to find a direction. I hold on for dear life. I can only hope that my strenuous grip won't fail me.

I walk to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. In my early morning frenzy I forget to eat breakfast. I rummage through the crooked top left pantry cabinet for something to eat. I wonder why there is never food in my house. Proud of my burst of creativity, I return to my desk. I read the words to regain my focus. I take a sip of coffee. I take a deep breath. I begin to write again. I stumble through the twists and turns of the narrative. I add and subtract from my new world with the simple press of a key. I embrace the power of the action. I acknowledge my abilities and am proud.

When I sit down to write I often have an overwhelming feeling of pride because I have something important to say. I know deep down that others will want to hear me.

And there is a power to words.

Words have the ability to comfort, to empathize, to instruct, to destroy, to propel. Authors must choose their words carefully. All the best ones, at least, understand that their fictions may impact the real worlds around them. That real people read their ideas and make real decisions based off of them. That real emotions will be felt by their character's tragedies. That the worlds they create will invariably affect the worlds of their readers as well.

In a very real way, authors create worlds.

That's what gods do.

I continue to write but I can feel that something is wrong.I continue to create but I for the first time I sense my creation falling apart around me. I lose grasp of my meaning. I forget my purpose. The keyboard and my fingers are out of sync. The harmonies are out of tune.

The characters have wandered off without me. The world turns on its own. There is a serpent in a garden and a bleeding brother on the ground - my world no longer looks to me before changing.

I attempt to regain my control - I look through my words on the page, in my memories, in the birds outside my window, in my mug of coffee, but I have been abandoned without a single parting word. I am caught off guard. I am furious. I stare at the cold white page. "Dammit." I mumble. "Every time."

I turn my longing gaze to the yard beyond the window pane - the birds dance in the daylight - the wind glides lightly through the undergrowth - a bee lands on the window screen.

Writing teaches me humility.

In college, my professors often quoted the words of men. Mostly dead, white men. I imagine they hoped that this would inspire and enlighten us. The men my professors quoted all had something to say. They said things about law, and family, and love, and hate, and Communism, and God, and sex, and springtime.

Some of them said beautiful things that still haunt me today.

As a college student still looking to make his mark on the world, I would listen to these men and often wonder what I had to say and when I would say it. When I imagined my future, I could see my name emblazoned in college textbooks, my words in the ears and minds of young college students looking for clarity and purpose in their own lives, looking to the words of men of prestige and power for guidance.

Fast forward.

The sun whispers through my window. It scrapes away the shroud of night. It begs me to awake and revel in the daytime. It begs me to tell my story like those who came before me who waded through the crud of memory and emotion and created worlds. I sit down at my computer with ambition. A short hour later I am demolished - my focus devolved - my thoughts on my inadequacies - paralyzed with thoughts of failure.

I question my words on the blinking white page. The coldness of it hurts. It begs for warmth. It stares at me blankly, expecting me to end the night. But I can't. I have no words. I have no story to tell.