Writers are gods. Creating worlds. Breathing life into characters. Killing them off when we decide their time is up. Is it any wonder, then, that some of the writers I meet have a pride the size of New York City?
A large ego, however, is usually a sign of a writer who's not been at it too long. Eventually, one of two things will happen. Either they'll take enough hits to get whacked down to size, which is a good and necessary process.
Or they'll quit. Writing, that is. Their pride will continue to balloon.
Writing has a way of sifting through a person, paring them down to the barest essence. A true author at heart not only lives through the experience, but grows in character...just like one of the fictional beings they create.
I hear voices. Loud. Incessant. And very real. Which basically gives me two options: choke back massive amounts of Prozac or write fiction. I chose the latter. Way cheaper. I've been writing since I discovered blank wall space and Crayolas. I seek to glorify God in all that I write...except for that graffiti phase I went through as a teenager. Oops. Did I say that out loud?