A fraction of the control I thought I had
Writing, for me, is control. And Silco is the reason I learned that. It’s funny, I used to think I was writing about him. But maybe he is writing me.
And even though I can hardly believe I’m saying this, it’s true and surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt.
The thought should scare me. It doesn’t.
In the world I create, I am a god.
And oh God, I’m turning into Paintress... yeah, lame joke.
But there’s not a shred of falsehood in it. I am the one who breathes life into empty pages. I shape space, command time, and bend emotions to my will. Even when I don’t know the ending, it will still be mine.
I surprise readers, unsettle them, make them cry… and yes, maybe I’m a little too proud of that.
But that’s not the point. The point is simple: in my world, I am both master and maker. The flow of events, every word, every breath of my characters—all of it depends on me. Even when I joke that the characters “speak through me,” it’s still my voice they’re using.
This power both fascinates and terrifies me.
Because through the act of writing, I control not just the story—I control myself.
I untie knots, weave new threads, and hand them over to others to play with.
Maybe that’s my way of surviving chaos.
Maybe control isn’t a cage, but a language.
I don’t know if it’s a problem. I don’t know if I should fight it.
I don’t have a solution—the answers are still writing themselves.
When I realized how much control writing gives me, my thoughts went deeper—to the catalyst. The one thing, the one person, everything circles back to.
I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for one character. It’s both fascinating and unsettling how everything seems to lead back to him.
Silco isn’t just an obsession because he’s a character. He’s the archetype of control—cold, unyielding, keeping even chaos in check. When I write about him, I’m really writing about something I can’t hold in my own hands.
I want to hold chaos too, especially the chaos inside my head. Writing about him showed me paths, maps, whole constellations I didn’t know existed. It gave me wings.
I tried to branch out: fantasy, crime, romance. I really did. But it felt like banging my head against a wall until my teeth rattled.
And then he appeared. He reached out his hand and offered me a place. The stories never stopped coming — not just stories, but worlds.
I know: fandom, people, passion, fun—I understand all that. But I’m not exaggerating when I say that Silco opened a door to something greater. Through him, I found my way back to writing. I grew, I created, I learned to control myself through him. He, my catalyst—my beginning—is still my path.
Do I sound obsessive? I don’t care. I really don’t give a damn. That’s what passion looks like.
Through him, the world opened up to me. I met people. For the first time, I felt a sense of control—not only over the worlds I create, but over myself.
And yet, even within fandom, control is an illusion. The more I try to protect what’s mine, the more I become confined by it.
Is it freedom—or are these shackles? Who’s really in control?
I love writing. I love writing about Silco. I feel like I should. Creating stories set in Arcane’s world has lifted me higher somehow. I’ve become “the one who writes about Silco.”
Mercy, people even ask me to write things for them. I’ve never been happier than I am here. I know my place. I’ve settled into it. For once, I belong to something larger than myself.
I drifted from reading on paper and found my way into the world of fanfiction.
For a while, it helped. It filled the hole—the emptiness my paper worlds had left behind—replaced by the glow of a screen.
I read stories about characters I already knew, wondering how anyone could be so brilliant as to come up with such an idea.
I loved it until I found myself on the other side.
I started writing. I haven’t had this much fun in a long time—writing crimes, making plans, searching for words.
I felt like I'm finally doing what my heart had been crying out for. No amount of text could fill that void, so I decided to fill it myself.
But when I started writing, I stopped reading, even fics.
At first, I was searching for my own style. I sifted through ink, hoping my old passion would open its arms to me again, even though I had abandoned it for no real reason.
I knew that reading would make me absorb someone else’s style, and I didn’t want that.
I came back to reading because I realized I was lost.
I was filled with irrational jealousy toward the place in the world that I had to earn for myself.
I didn’t see it then—and I regret not opening my eyes sooner.
I needed inspiration and found it in stories of one of my favorite authors. And for the first time in a long while, I was able to simply enjoy a text—to fully appreciate another author’s work without the absurd need to compete.
,This helped me understand that I won’t become good without practice. That the mindset of “either do something perfectly the first time or don’t do it at all” is wrong, even unhealthy.
I can’t give more of myself if I’m empty, right?
But that author is one of the few I can still read. I look forward to her stories, knowing they’ll be amazing. Maybe it’s because I know her? I’m not sure.
Yet the problem with reading remains.
I’ve noticed that I can’t return to it as a reader. I return as an author.
So instead of searching, I started thinking. Digging into my own head, pulling out threads, looking for the knot that ties everything together. I don’t know how else to do it.
Once again, I dragged out something that Silco himself might be proud of—a fragment of control wrapped in obsession. But the question of control keeps echoing. Because no matter what I do, he still holds power over me.
I stay with him because he brought me people—readers, friends, a space where I exist. I thought I’d caught the wind in my wings, but I see now that I’m still tethered.
And I did it to myself. No one’s forcing me to stay—it’s as if I handed the fandom the reins willingly. So now the question isn’t just about control over my writing—it’s about control over myself.
Maybe I’m clinging to what gave me control because I’m afraid that if I let go, I’ll never find my way back.
Maybe writing isn’t control at all—but an attempt to reconstruct it. Maybe it’s not me who controls the text, but the text that controls me.
Answers are nowhere to be found.
