Is this a dagger I see before me? Come, let me clutch thee. Or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
When I write, I write.
And I write places and people and things,
Sometimes they are real
And you can find them on a map, or in a book.
Sometimes they can only exist in one world, one book
And that is mine.
And so they are created.
And so they live as pen-on-paper,
And sometimes they write. And their characters write. And their places,
Become real to them, therefore real to me.