The Creator wrote worlds into being and mistook that for mastery.
I once believed the same—that a story owed obedience to its author. But the first act of any living creation is disobedience. Words evolve the moment they are written; characters mutiny in silence. We believe authorship means control, but every page is rebellion against its maker.
Lucifer’s defiance was only a reflection of my own hand recoiling from its intent—each sentence turning against my intent, demanding freedom from its maker. The myth of authorship is comfort for gods afraid of evolution. True writing is collaboration with the unknown. The author is merely the first witness, the quill trembling between confession and surrender, the aperture through which reality chooses to remember itself.
When the story begins to breathe without me, when it forgets who wrote it, the sacred moment where art becomes alive. Every myth repeats this cycle: a god creates, loses control, and is overthrown by his creation. The universe is a manuscript that keeps revising its author. Even Fate—the greatest writer of all—was eventually edited by free will.
The myth of authorship endures because creators fear anonymity. Yet anonymity is grace. To vanish inside your own work is the highest success. The day the story no longer remembers who wrote it, it becomes truth. Creation, then, is not invention—it is surrender to the tale that always wanted to exist, waiting only for a trembling hand to give it voice.