Just an extract from something quite a bit longer and significantly more depressing that I wrote

You get lost inside story worlds to protect yourself, those inside your head and on written pages. You wish you could be like the characters in a novel, created and controlled by some unbidden force, that of the author. You feel that life would be so much simpler this way. Then you curse yourself, because what, really, is an author if not a God? Molding his people to be whom he wants, setting their paths clearly ahead of them, allowing no alternative. No, an author is worse than a God, an author can murder and destroy what you grasp onto relentlessly and without consequence. He can manipulate your emotions and drag you into a world that you cannot escape from, that resides in your memory far after you have laid down to rest. He keeps you awake at night. You envy him.