The Beauty And The Curse Of The Pen

Sit down an write, they say

as though I can conjure up a life for them that is better than their reality,

and maybe I can.

I can bestow a dragon who grants magical powers to one human every hundred years,

I can shape our atmosphere into rainbows where each color represents a prediction of what tomorrow will bring,

red will bring about petrichor,

blue is the endless empty sunny sky,

yellow will bring about hail and snow,

green...we fear her.

I can even have a world where you see the ending of every story, but not the choices made to get there.

but these worlds

these characters

need to have their why.

If I don't have my own why, how can I begin to find ones for worlds of my imagination,

Is that the beauty of a writer or a curse of an author?