[image description: A smiling and laughing young woman with black hair and large glass taking up much of her face is drawn in soft watercolor strokes and colors. Text reads “Slash_Borden, small god of fanfic, 240”]
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She used to be the small god of retellings, and sometimes she wishes she still were. But she was born by firelight, the first time a storyteller, fumbling for a tale, grabbed hold of something they had heard and made it their own.
Then, for a long while, she was a small god of the oral tradition, and for a short, hot-blooded time after the dawn of the printing press, the god of knockoff narratives. But then came copyright and ideas of intellectual ownership, and she was forced more to the fringes, a once-respectable god remade into a source of shame.
Which she refuses to carry. She is, always and indisputably, a god of the imagination, and she is glorious. She encourages her believers to remake fictional worlds in infinite diversity and glory, in cascades of yes-and, what-if, and might-have-been. She nurtures epics and understated cozy dramas, and she treats them all the same.
She is a god for everyone who has ever wanted to tell a story, who has ever dreamt a world more perfectly tailored to their own desires. She claims ownership over everything and nothing, and she teaches her faithful whether they realize it or not, because education comes through action, and she hones them into some of the finest scribes of their time, forcing them to understand how settling words into a line can change the world.
She changes worlds. She is a small god of literature, no matter how much people try to dismiss her, and scholars understand how much she has her hooks in human nature, how much she’s always been a part of this story, how impossible it is to extract her from the narrative. They no longer try.
You do not need to eat the fruits of her garden, but don’t try to tear it down. What she plants will always grow back: all you’ll gain is the anger of a god.