“Who was it, then, that gave you the desire to write? For certainly, it did not come from you.”
A single finger taps where her heart ought to be, hidden behind its cage of bone, “You may think you thought it up – that it was your splendid idea – but no. This desire does not come from you, but Me.”
She casts her mind back, to her childhood, her adolescence, and tries to recall where the yearning had come. She thinks it was a natural result of all the books she had read, all the stories she consumed, remembers notebooks with scribbled plots and passing fancies, unfinished document upon unfinished document of tales spun but never finished, the desperate ache of yearning fulfilled inexplicably by the mere fashioning of words.
“Like all good things, this, too, came from Me.”
The finger taps her again, in time with her steady heartbeat. Her heart beats with the rhythm of unshakable purpose. She is sealed with a promise, a stamp of authority. She has a duty now, a burden, a task to fulfill.
“Write,” He says.
So she shall.