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Description
Writing. To let out the emotions in a torrent of personally chosen diction is the perfect outlet. The creation of characters one could bend to one’s own will, sending into battle the people and emotions of an individual imagination, incapable of replication by anyone else. Love, hatred, loyalty, deceit, and all such other things of the human condition - exaggerated or tossed aside at your leisure if you so please. Because of course, in the imagination, the writer has all control of the purpose and actions and ideas of the minds that are of their making - in essence perhaps the separate representations of the writer’s own self. The god of their own worlds, the writer is capable of changing everything, flipping beliefs and warping the senses of their oblivious and obedient victims caught in paper.
          Or so one would think. …

She sat silently, tapping her pen lightly on the side of the desk, thinking with all her might of what she should have happen next. Her mind almost literally drew a blank. For a moment she feared writers-block, but with what should have been an unnecessary amount of concentration, she finally dragged a few ideas to mind. Forbidden love? Or perhaps a tragic death? The people of her story, strolling obliviously through their lives, were unaware of her complete control of their world, as she knew they should be. She began to write, her own experience and bias showing through as the characters of her malevolent side were crushed by the opposing benign forces. But this should not have happened, giving the superiority of the dark military previously in the story (which had not been her intention initially either, but something of the leader that she had created showed to have more power than the soft and peaceful counterpart fashioned of her own beliefs).
          But she couldn’t figure out how to write the victory. Every time an idea came to her, it was replaced by a new and rather more grotesque version in favor of the opposite side. This seemed to be happening more often lately than not in her mind.
          Frustrated, she wrote vehemently, scribbling whatever came to mind onto the poor battered paper. She eventually leaned back, breathing to calm herself. Looking back to the paper, she found she had written quite the other direction of what she had wanted to happen. She tried to think of a way around that, but something told her there was no logical way for her beloved good side to defeat the dark. She knew she had not thought of it that way. Her irritation bled away and left only confusion.
          She looked through her notes, then at all the papers she had written. The notes illustrated a classic hero story, and as she read them she found they were really quite boring and overrated. She had never felt that way about them before. She then reread her story so far. The further into it she got, the more she found she had strayed from her original purpose, but had led to a stronger idea, a more believable struggle, both more tragic than the simple schoolchild story, but also not overly and pointlessly dramatic.
          Then, a corruption in her text made itself evident. She continued to read and found her themes got darker and less helpful and supportive of the new plot. Cruel and deceptive, this phase had little hope. But this would shift back again to prevailing matters of concern in the design of the world, with hints of optimism and honest struggle to overcome the dark. She read as these ideas battled with each other across the paper, as if the planned and plotted fights were not enough to satisfy the story. She could almost see her imagination clashing in combat.
          It was then she knew she was no longer in control. A captive of her own mind, the characters had taken over their own fate and she was their puppet to write it down, to specify their events and record them as history. Their future was unclear, entirely obscure as the life of the living and they fought to find the outcome. She fell into her imagination and found herself trapped in the conflict. She tried to think of a way to solve the endless fight, but try as she might, all her ideas were twisted by one side or the other, the people too developed to be changed by her so late in their narration. The story flooded onto the paper as fast as she could write, but no part of her conscious self could change the carnage that occurred. Tears flowing down her face, ink streaming across the paper, she wrote the story of her mind. Could this be her own doing? Could her ideas have developed on their own?
          When she finished she found a mirror of her subconscious turmoil thrown onto the pages of her abused notebook. Finally, she sat back and lost herself in her thoughts, unable to figure out whether she had truly intended this, somewhere deep in her mind, or if she had perhaps been taken over by her own thoughts, the ones she was still sailing through to find an answer to that very question.

Description
Writing. To let out the emotions in a torrent of personally chosen diction is the perfect outlet. The creation of characters one could bend to one’s own will, sending into battle the people and emotions of an individual imagination, incapable of replication by anyone else. Love, hatred, loyalty, deceit, and all such other things of the human condition - exaggerated or tossed aside at your leisure if you so please. Because of course, in the imagination, the writer has all control of the purpose and actions and ideas of the minds that are of their making - in essence perhaps the separate representations of the writer’s own self. The god of their own worlds, the writer is capable of changing everything, flipping beliefs and warping the senses of their oblivious and obedient victims caught in paper.
          Or so one would think. …

She sat silently, tapping her pen lightly on the side of the desk, thinking with all her might of what she should have happen next. Her mind almost literally drew a blank. For a moment she feared writers-block, but with what should have been an unnecessary amount of concentration, she finally dragged a few ideas to mind. Forbidden love? Or perhaps a tragic death? The people of her story, strolling obliviously through their lives, were unaware of her complete control of their world, as she knew they should be. She began to write, her own experience and bias showing through as the characters of her malevolent side were crushed by the opposing benign forces. But this should not have happened, giving the superiority of the dark military previously in the story (which had not been her intention initially either, but something of the leader that she had created showed to have more power than the soft and peaceful counterpart fashioned of her own beliefs).
          But she couldn’t figure out how to write the victory. Every time an idea came to her, it was replaced by a new and rather more grotesque version in favor of the opposite side. This seemed to be happening more often lately than not in her mind.
          Frustrated, she wrote vehemently, scribbling whatever came to mind onto the poor battered paper. She eventually leaned back, breathing to calm herself. Looking back to the paper, she found she had written quite the other direction of what she had wanted to happen. She tried to think of a way around that, but something told her there was no logical way for her beloved good side to defeat the dark. She knew she had not thought of it that way. Her irritation bled away and left only confusion.
          She looked through her notes, then at all the papers she had written. The notes illustrated a classic hero story, and as she read them she found they were really quite boring and overrated. She had never felt that way about them before. She then reread her story so far. The further into it she got, the more she found she had strayed from her original purpose, but had led to a stronger idea, a more believable struggle, both more tragic than the simple schoolchild story, but also not overly and pointlessly dramatic.
          Then, a corruption in her text made itself evident. She continued to read and found her themes got darker and less helpful and supportive of the new plot. Cruel and deceptive, this phase had little hope. But this would shift back again to prevailing matters of concern in the design of the world, with hints of optimism and honest struggle to overcome the dark. She read as these ideas battled with each other across the paper, as if the planned and plotted fights were not enough to satisfy the story. She could almost see her imagination clashing in combat.
          It was then she knew she was no longer in control. A captive of her own mind, the characters had taken over their own fate and she was their puppet to write it down, to specify their events and record them as history. Their future was unclear, entirely obscure as the life of the living and they fought to find the outcome. She fell into her imagination and found herself trapped in the conflict. She tried to think of a way to solve the endless fight, but try as she might, all her ideas were twisted by one side or the other, the people too developed to be changed by her so late in their narration. The story flooded onto the paper as fast as she could write, but no part of her conscious self could change the carnage that occurred. Tears flowing down her face, ink streaming across the paper, she wrote the story of her mind. Could this be her own doing? Could her ideas have developed on their own?
          When she finished she found a mirror of her subconscious turmoil thrown onto the pages of her abused notebook. Finally, she sat back and lost herself in her thoughts, unable to figure out whether she had truly intended this, somewhere deep in her mind, or if she had perhaps been taken over by her own thoughts, the ones she was still sailing through to find an answer to that very question.