Stories in Ether

I don’t think writers are truly creative people. Not in the way we usually imagine.

When I sit down to write, it doesn’t feel like invention. It feels like listening. Somewhere in the dense fabric of the universe, stories already exist — hidden, waiting, vibrating like energy in the air.

And sometimes, if you’re still enough, if you’re open enough, one of them finds you.

It begins as a pulse, a whisper, a flicker at the edge of a dream. Then it crystallizes in the mind — not fully formed, but insistent, like light trying to push through glass. A writer doesn’t own it. She just becomes a channel, letting the energy flow through her, shaping it into words.

That’s why stories often feel bigger than us, older than us. As if they don’t come from us, but through us.

The act of writing is simply saying yes: yes, I’ll be a vessel. Yes, I’ll carry this fragment of the universe into ink.