Submitted for your approval: you’re writing the great American novel. Scratch that. Your idea is so inspired the great American novel is writing itself. Galactic forces dictate cosmic secrets and you, the humble writer, just transcribe them. You are a vessel, a witness to a celestial ritual that has been documented throughout the ages. Sure, you have a hand in building this universe. You populated it with characters, but the characters have all the real clout. They make the decisions for you.

The writing is automatic. A seance across your keyboard. The characters borrow your hand when they need it. They page you at the least convenient times: at work, in the shower, on the bus.

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You’re digging a trench, poring the mortar, stacking the bricks. You’re an author building a brand. Wait for the grounds to grow fertile from the comfort of your spire. Wait for the town’s minstrels to sing praises of your handy work. Wait for the peasants to come clamoring over your draw bridge. Wait and watch the cobwebs form over your intellectual property. The time has come to go out among the commoners. The time has come to plant some seeds out in the country. Send your squires out to tell the world of Camelot.

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