Writing IS like baking cupcakes with cute girls, just so you know.

Two figures labored over a forge piecing together a new work. The iron bubbled in the crucible and the carbon disintegrated into it, creating steel. They pulled at it, finding the pieces that rang true. They say that one way to worship God is to create in His honor, and this is what they did. It was not sanctified nor holy, merely a pittance. It was a small sacrifice to sooth their own hearts.

The first figure was big, muscle and fat mixed together. He had a great brown beard and short brown scalp-hair. His beard smoldered a little, but he had long ago ignored it. He wore boots, a great leather apron and thick jeans. His hammer was held in a meaty fist and seemed small comparing his bulk. It was carved about with Greek lettering, calling on the blessing of their God and savior. Every hammer strike marked some shout or roar from his grinning mouth. He reveled in life.

His partner was no human, but a dark red unicorn. Unlike his companion, he was silent and serious, his eyes closed in concentration as he worked bellows. Soon, he would be needed for the proper booksmithing. His companion yelled and brought out sufficient steel and began to shape it rectangular and drew from it pages. His companion ceased his labors and began new ones.

The unicorn was clothed in leather himself, as no other material could protect him so well against the spark and heat. He flicked his dark navy blue hair back out of his eyes and began his own forging. He called on the powers of the moon and the stars and from them danced letters and words. He summoned the might of the sun and transcribed them to the cooling metal. Every word and every sentence was punctuated by a hammer blow and his partner’s great bellows.

Finally, a page was complete and with undisguised glee the human smithy pulled back a page and began a new one. His partner kept silent. He would drink and sing with the best of them, but only when he had finished his labors. Again his horn glowed and light transcribed itself. They would work for hours like this. Silence and laughter mixing itself with the hammer blows and fairy lights of magic.

This is creation!

I don’t know why, but this always goes through my head. Writing isn’t like an artist’s painting. It’s more intense and at the same time… obstruse. For me, it’s like forging. The metal is hot and I strike it! MOLD IT! The words are my iron and carbon! My writing is the hammer and my creativity is the moon, stars and sun. Finally, when the metal cools, I’ll post it. And maybe I’ll get good reviews. By the way: