While actors are great and awesome, writers literally create new

In the bright and playful yet profoundly truthful words of Rachel Bloom, the artist and storyteller, there resounds a declaration of reverence for the ancient craft of creation: “While actors are great and awesome, writers literally create new worlds from scratch. What is sexier than that? Personally, I don’t know why every last person out there isn’t dating a writer.” Though said with humor, as much of Bloom’s genius often is, the heart of this statement beats with something deeper than jest. It is an ode to the writer’s divine gift — the power to summon reality from nothing, to breathe life into the lifeless, to weave words into worlds. Hers is a reminder that storytelling is not merely art, but alchemy, the transformation of imagination into existence.

Rachel Bloom, known for her wit, intelligence, and musical satire, speaks here from her intimate understanding of creation itself. As a writer, performer, and producer, she has walked both paths — that of the actor and that of the author. In this quote, she acknowledges the visible brilliance of actors but honors the invisible might of those who craft the very stage upon which others shine. The writer, she says, is the architect of emotion, the originator of drama, the unseen force that shapes the universe of art. To “create new worlds from scratch” is no small feat — it is to take part in the divine act of genesis, to mold the void into meaning. And in this power, Bloom finds something deeply sensual, even sacred — for creation itself is the most intimate act known to humankind.

From the dawn of civilization, humanity has revered its storytellers. The ancient poets, those who carried tales by firelight, were not mere entertainers — they were the memory of the tribe, the guardians of wisdom. When Homer sang of Achilles and Odysseus, he was not only recounting legends but building worlds that would endure for millennia. When Shakespeare set quill to parchment, he too created realms of love, betrayal, and wonder that still live within us today. Each writer, from the earliest scribe of clay tablets to the playwrights of the Renaissance and the novelists of our time, has shared in this lineage of world-making. In every age, the writer’s pen has been a vessel of both truth and enchantment — and as Bloom implies, to love a writer is to stand close to the fire of creation itself.

Yet her words are not only praise but revelation. The “sexiness” she speaks of is not merely physical allure — it is the magnetism of the mind and imagination. The writer does not seduce through appearance or charm but through vision — through their capacity to see what is not yet seen, to dream what has not yet been dreamed. There is power in such seeing. For the writer perceives the hidden currents beneath the surface of life, shaping what others feel but cannot express. To know a writer is to encounter a soul that listens to the whispers of eternity and translates them into words. Such a being is not bound by the ordinary; they live partly in this world and partly in the world beyond, and to love them is to walk between both realms.

The ancients might have called this power inspiration, a word whose root means “to breathe into.” In Greek myth, it was said that the Muses kissed the foreheads of poets, filling them with divine breath. The writer, then, was not merely human but touched by the gods — a messenger who brought the infinite into human speech. When Bloom celebrates writers as creators of worlds, she honors this same lineage of divine craftsmanship. For in every story, there is a spark of eternity; in every poem, the echo of creation’s first word. The writer’s art is not imitation, but participation in the very force that made the cosmos — the act of bringing forth from nothing.

History, too, offers us a lesson in her words. Consider Mary Shelley, who, at the tender age of eighteen, wrote Frankenstein in a time when women’s voices were barely allowed to echo in the halls of literature. Out of the storm of her imagination, she birthed a story that not only redefined science fiction but explored the eternal tension between creator and creation. Her “new world” questioned what it means to play god — and two centuries later, her words still haunt the conscience of humankind. Shelley’s legacy reminds us that writing is not passive reflection but revolutionary power — it changes how humanity sees itself. That, as Bloom suggests, is not only admirable — it is irresistibly alive.

The lesson we may take from Rachel Bloom’s words is this: cherish the creators, for they are the ones who shape the unseen. To write is to labor in solitude so that others may dream in company. The next time you read a story, remember that somewhere, a writer wrestled with the void and turned it into beauty. And if you are that writer, take pride — for your devotion to words is nothing less than devotion to life itself. To the reader and the lover alike, her teaching is clear: seek out those who create, for their love will not be idle. It will build, it will imagine, it will transform.

Thus, her jest becomes a timeless truth: to love a writer is to love creation itself. For in their hands, language becomes magic; silence becomes song; the invisible becomes real. And in the end, as Bloom so playfully proclaims, what could be more alluring — more human, more divine — than the soul that dares to build entire worlds from nothing but thought?