Sometimes I look at one of my stories, and say, "Did I write that?" They are like children. They come out of us, but they are not us. Our stories go on and have a life of their own.
Even before my story emerges, it has a unique personality. It is influenced by me, it has been written in my style, but I lack control over it. Especially the characters, they got up and ran away while I was planning what to do with them. I can polish the language, but the soul of the story extends farther than I had ever dreamed.
When I read my story over time, I see things there I never intended. Are they messages my subconscious wrote to myself? Or, is there something operating here that somehow ties into a consciousness larger than ourselves? Perhaps the connection is to an oversoul, or to the energy created by all humans, or the hidden charged particles that drive the universe. I just know that I am in awe, not at how good it is, it might not be good at all, but that somehow this, this, THING traveled down my arms and through my fingers.
Creation is larger than I ever imagined.