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?

Macbeth, "Macbeth"

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,

Their people,

Become real to them, therefore real to me.