'Obsession it takes control, obsession it eats me whole. I can't say the words out loud, so in a rhyme I wrote you down. Now you'll live through the ages, I can feel your pulse in the pages.'

The page is white. Like, blindingly white, but somehow it's not off-putting. I could turn the screen brightness down if I wanted, but I don't and that's okay. This is usual for me, fiddling around with the keyboard keys, turning on music and then turning it straight off again when I can't find a track that suits my mood. Sometimes I click onto the internet before he clears his throat to remind me I should be writing and not googling something random or checking my Twitter feed.

You see, even though the room is empty, I'm not alone.

All five of them are here, keeping me motivated and helping me push through those awful first few paragraphs. They look bored, but that's only because it's their default position when I have absolutely nothing to type. I'll admit, I'm a little bored myself.

While he's got his legs crossed at the ankles as he slouches low in the easy chair, another flicks through a magazine absent mindedly, now and again meeting my eyes when he turns the page. He likes to clear his throat to remind me he's still there too, although there's no way I would've forgotten. He does it just to annoy me sometimes I think.

They've been hanging around a lot lately, and this has sort of become our routine; them lounging around without much to say until inspiration strikes.

You see, we're all waiting.

Waiting for an idea to spring to mind so they'll have something to do besides kill time and try not to draw attention to themselves. I need to feel they're close by for the creative juices to flow, but I need quiet, too. And that means no throat clearing.

Yes, Chasez, that was directed at you.

He smirks and his eyes crinkle at the edges, just the way I always write them. When he begins to chuckle, I poke my tongue out a little and he knows the game is up. He has been doing it to annoy me.

While my fingers hover over the keyboard keys, my attention is focused on these five guys. How they behave, what they think, how they speak... Five men who feel closer than family because that's how I've created them to be. Looks wise I wouldn't be able to differentiate them from anyone else's, but they are mine. My name is inscribed on the labels of their clothes so they can be returned if they get lost.

My guys.

My muses.

No one else writes them the same way I do, and as I glance around the room, smiling at the way he's examining his nails, while he stands before my DVD collection, smirking to himself – probably at my expense – I feel the need to swallow the lump in my throat.

They seem so real. To me, at least.

When I can't think what to write, they whisper the words to me. When I'm stuck, I allow them to swipe the laptop away from me to take over. They fight over it, squabbling over who should be allowed to type, and who should get the next line of dialogue. They edit places they're not happy with, removing whole conversations they say doesn't sound anything like them. Occasionally I get upset, but mostly I'm grateful for their help and enthusiasm.

The reality is, I suck without them.

They rarely let me down - unless they're cranky and tired and refuse to sit with me while I type. When that happens we all agree to call it a night. There's no point trying when they're not feeling it.

Same for me, really.

These five guys are wonderful, but annoyingly undependable. When insecurity hits, they desert me along with my confidence, and I'm left all alone with my doubts and fears struggling to get past the huge block in my mind. They're the best cheerleaders when everything is going well, but terrible at picking me up from rock bottom.

Having said this, no one else understands how I feel in the moment when everything is going well and the words just flow. They get that it's being creative that matters more than anything; more than the reviews, more than the reader count going up, even more than hitting the submit button and putting myself out there for all to see.

They get that I need this little bit of unrestricted power to keep me sane. Having command of my own creations... and even as I type that he raises an eyebrow and gives me that look. 'Power mad,' mouths another, drawing a smirk from him. They love mocking me about it, but I know they understand why this is so important to me.

These five guys have given me something important – a safe place to run to when things get tough in the real world, a creative output to spread my wings and a chance to feel empowered, even if it is only fan-fiction.

Nowhere else in life will I have this kind of unquestioned authority, and as long as I don't get carried away – I hear him snort with amusement, but I choose to ignore it - they allow me to run with it. They'll never be real, these phantoms, even though they feel like it to me. But strangely, somehow, that's okay. Who else would be this lenient with me? Obliging to my every whim?

The fact is, I love being able to write a twinkle into that one's eyes, a smirk on that one's lips. I like making that one shy - because let's be honest, he's not really - and they humour me, no matter what my crazy imagination comes up with.

Now and again I hear the odd weary sigh, usually from that one when I start writing him into yet another love scene, and I catch the odd eye-roll, but on the whole I think they like the attention. They pretend not to, of course, but they do. Especially him. Yes, Joe. You.

It's taken years to get to this stage; to feel comfortable in my skin and them in theirs. Years of listening as they whisper to me, telling me how they want to be written, what they want to say and how they should act. They've been patient, rewarding me with more of their time when I get it right, until now it feels like they're calling the shots, not me.

These five guys will probably always be whispering in my ear, even when they're no longer the centre of my fictional universe. It's a white elephant in the room, but we all know the day is drawing closer to when I'll no longer see their faces in my fictional heroes. It makes me feel a little sad, but I know I'll owe it all to them.

They found me as an insecure thirteen year old, who was just starting to have her eyes opened to the world, and who scribbled away each night on a notepad writing goodness knows what. I look up when he starts mumbling that he remembers what I wrote, and we both blush.

It's better left forgotten.

Without their encouragement, I don't know if I would still be writing sixteen years later. I wouldn't have the confidence, or have developed my writer's voice in the same way, of that I'm sure. We've grown together, me learning to trust my instincts and take the time to study proper grammar – I'm still a work in progress, guys – and them filling out into three-dimensional characters, although that one could still do with some work.

He pouts and everyone turns to look at him, and I feel bad for drawing attention to it. I'll write you in more I promise, although he shakes his head and grins smugly until I throw something – anything – at him.

It's not nice to gloat, Timberlake.

I turn back to the blank screen and the text select cursor that sits alone in a page of white. I stare at it for a moment and let out a sigh.

We're still waiting...

'I have written you down, now you will live forever. And all the world will read you, and you will live forever. In eyes not yet created, on tongues that are not born. I have written you down, now you will live forever.'