Complete Utter Honesty.

[atrenchantcoat]

The artist waved her magical pencil and the shapes appeared on paper, shifting, moving and - they were dancing with each flick of her wrist. She wasn't really a writer, she discovered - but a magician - she stared at the half - formed objects that slithered onto the pages, sliding into the creases and curling around the edges. Some of them spoke to her in radiant voices. This was her prophecy. These were her children. Like babies, she carried the shapes into her arms, all jumbled up, moving around, restless, as if they desperately has somewhere to be.
"Dears, I've got you."
Some objects leaped out of her arms and skipped around her glowing body. She was celestial, engrossing the adoration that surrounded her being.
Some letters formed a layer on her until she was entirely made of graphite and ink.
The artist hugged herself, because now she adored her body. She was one with her art and she was madly in love with her own skin.
She rolled on the ground, spreading her collected thoughts everywhere, words appearing in the room by a blink of the eye - a nod of her head. She seemed to be running out of something to write with - slowly she was dissolving.
"But that's alright," she said.
She knew everyone runs out of ink someday.
And then she disappeared forever - because everyone must.
There were only the words she had left in the room.

And that is when the creator becomes a god.