Words, a breath, communication, creation. I believe so many writers live to write (whether acknowledged or not) because of the very fact that we are created in God’s image. God must love words. We are told that he spoke the world into existence. God said, and it was. A breath, a word, a world.
The stories we write, the worlds we build, the characters we create are simply us doing what Dad does. It’s us playing at the craft he had perfected before time began. The act of being created lingers in us. It’s in our very make-up. The fact that fleshy cells can create images in the mind when those images no longer (or have never) existed. What is that? The human imagination is a glorious and bizarre miracle all in itself. It is a gift, and surely it follows after that imagination which dreamed us up in the first place.
The thought that continually strikes me is this: no matter how long I practice this craft of writing, how accomplished I become at it, it is but echoes of that which God did first and best.