So I’ve been thinking a lot about omnipotence lately. Not in a megalomaniacal “I should rule the actual world” kind of way (I can barely keep track of my laundry schedule), but in the “I’m literally the deity of an entire imaginary cosmos and it’s getting weird” kind of way.
Remember how I said I built an entire fantasy world to avoid planning my financial future? Turns out that was just the beginning of an existential rabbit hole I didn’t know I was about to fall ass-first into. The procrastination project has evolved and grown a dark sentience. My index card collection is now organizing itself into neat little narrative arcs while I sleep (I’m definitely not doing it in a fugue state). I’ve abandoned the whiteboard idea. Partly because I couldn’t justify the expense when I’m still avoiding my actual financial planning, but mostly because an entire hallway wall in my apartment has transformed into what can only be described as “the mind of a serial killer, but make it magical.”
Timeline shifts. Character notes. Lore fragments. Sticky notes upon sticky notes. Sometimes I stand there at 3 AM, herbal tea in hand, just… squinting. Adding. Removing. Reshuffling 10,000 years of history because I suddenly decided that the blood sacrifice of the Sumrakar makes more sense if it happened before the Great Culling of Luxos.
I’ve become the (mostly) benevolent god of my own little universe, and honestly? It feels fucking good.
There’s something intoxicating about creating a world where villains will (eventually) lose, where cruelty has consequences, where justice might be slow but it’s at least somewhat inevitable. In my world, the moral arc of the universe actually does bend toward justice, because I’m the one doing the bending. Need to rewrite an entire civilization’s history because I came up with a better idea while showering? Done. Want to ensure that the egomaniacal theocrat of the Aurelian Concord gets exactly what’s coming to them? I’ve got a shockingly brutal downfall already outlined in excruciating detail.
It’s control, plain and simple. Beautiful, absolute control.
And it’s also, if I’m being brutally honest with myself (which I try to avoid as a matter of principle), a way to cope with the horrifying lack of control I feel watching the real world crumble around me.
I’ve been trying to pretend I’m not building this elaborate escape hatch from reality. But every time I check the news and see the US speedrunning towards outright fascism, I find myself retreating further into my island kingdoms and maritime conflicts. When Canada’s elections stressed me out more than I realized they would, I responded by developing three new background characters for an exploration ship that (so far) only appears in one chapter.
My neighbor knocked on my door yesterday to politely inquire if I was “doing okay in there” because apparently I’ve been playing sea chanty playlists on repeat at volumes that suggest I’m trying to communicate with actual sailors lost at sea.
“Fine, thanks! Just working on some creative writing!” I shouted over the fifteenth rendition of “Wellerman” that day. Then I closed the door and went back to contemplating the horrifying reality behind the line “One day when the tonguing is done, we’ll take our leave and go.” (Turns out it’s about cutting the tongue out of a dead whale, which is both disgusting and deeply sad. Poor whales. This is why we can’t have nice things in the real world; we’re the kind of species that writes a jaunty tune about whale mutilation.)
Obviously, now I need to write my own, more humane sea chanties for my female main character to collect on her travels. Because that’s completely essential to world-building and definitely not another elaborate distraction from my actual responsibilities or the slow-motion apocalypse happening outside my window. (Spoiler: It actually is going to be a key plot point. We’re in too deep to skip out on writing music, too.)
It’s strange how my imagination, which lay dormant for so long, has suddenly reawakened with such force. I wrote constantly as a teenager, maintained blogs in my twenties, but fiction? That creative muscle has been in deep freeze since high school. Now it feels like I’ve taken a flamethrower to that frozen part of my brain. The thaw is messy, overwhelming, and sometimes painful, but gods, it feels like coming home to a part of myself I’d forgotten existed.
Sometimes I worry that I’m using this world as more than just a creative outlet or even procrastination from adult responsibilities. I’m using it as a bunker to hide from reality itself. I’ve furnished this bunker with complex magic systems, political intrigue, and characters who feel increasingly real to me. I’ve installed mental blackout curtains so I don’t have to look at the increasingly terrifying headlines. I’ve created a place where I get to decide how things turn out, where evil doesn’t win just because it’s louder or richer or more willing to break the rules.
The maritime obsession has leaked into my actual life too. I’ve started pricing out live-aboard boats since I live right on the Pacific Ocean. Do I know anything about boats beyond getting my Pleasure Craft License several years ago (in case I ever needed to captain my dad’s boat while he was incapacitated) and crewing a friend’s sailboat during races a decade ago? Absolutely fucking not! But what a brilliant compromise to cut down my rent without moving across the country. Nothing says “I’m dealing with reality in healthy ways” like considering a major lifestyle change based primarily on fictional world aesthetics and pirate music playlists.
But is that really so bad? Humans have been telling stories to make sense of the world since we figured out how to communicate. We’ve been creating gods and myths and heroes to help us process the terrifying randomness of existence for millennia. I’m just doing it in a slightly more organized way, with colour-coded index cards and an embarrassing number of Google docs with titles like “Trade Routes – Age of Lords v17 (DEFINITELY FINAL).”
I’m not delusional. I know my world isn’t real. I know that spending hours deciding on the correct terminology for a specific type of magical current is objectively ridiculous. I know that the wall of notes is probably concerning to anyone who visits (which is why no one gets invited over anymore).
But I also know that this world has become a lifeline in turbulent times. It’s the place I go when I need to remember that creativity still matters, that imagination is still valuable, that I can still make something meaningful even as the real world seems determined to strip meaning from everything.
My trilogy now has titles for all three books. The character arcs are developing in ways I never anticipated. The background characters are starting to demand their own storylines. The magic systems have evolved beyond my initial concepts. The sea chanties continue to drive my neighbours to contemplate my murder. (They’re going to hate it when it’s time to listen to blood magic ritual vibes.)
And somehow, improbably, this elaborate procrastination project has transformed into something that feels like purpose.
I’m still avoiding my financial planning, to be clear. My retirement account remains in a quantum state of definitely-not-enough-but-I-refuse-to-check. But I’m creating something. I’m making a world where things make sense, where actions have consequences, where history has patterns and meaning, where good people sometimes win not because they’re stronger but because they’re kinder.
Maybe that’s not escapism. Maybe it’s hope.
Or maybe it’s both; a complex, messy, human response to a complex, messy, human existence. Maybe it’s me trying to be the deity I wish we had, creating the world I wish we lived in, while simultaneously attempting to find meaning in the one we actually inhabit.
So yes, I’m embracing my role as the mostly benevolent god of an imaginary maritime world. I’m writing and rewriting and obsessing and creating. I’m probably spending too much time in my own head and not enough time dealing with reality.
But in a world that seems increasingly bent on destruction, isn’t creation an act of resistance? In times that feel increasingly hopeless, isn’t imagination an act of defiance?
My wall of notes keeps growing. The sea chanties keep playing. The real world keeps burning.
And somewhere in the space between, I keep writing.
Because sometimes, making an imaginary world is the only way to survive this one.
Leave a Reply