Originality is over. It doesn’t exist. It’s all been done. Too many people have lived for you to make your mark with it. The odds are against you. Or are they?
I find it disheartening to personally think that artists are meant to be original, yet will never reach that very thing anymore.
I know of no originality, other than that of everything I hold dear–merged together in one. That’s as original as it gets unfortunately.
Originality doesn’t exist in this world for us writers: That much is true.
We are meant to follow the system of life and live a particular way to survive; which means being artistic is a rare kind of freedom we are given, yet is also wasted on the regurgitated ideas of greater men and women before us.
Hell, I am getting a bit of an inferiority complex from just writing this post now.
I believe Stephen Fry sums up how it all is really: “An original idea. That can’t be too hard. The library must be full of them.” So yeah, that pretty much covers it.
The things I’ve learned from my favorite artists for my own fiction:
Oscar Wilde taught be to be deep with my words. Joss Whedon taught me to treat women as equals. Cornelia Funke taught me a story never truly ends. C. S. Lewis taught me that an allegory can work. Ernest Hemingway taught me that I should know everything about my story–but to only reveal a little of it on the surface. Frank Kafka taught me how powerful existentialism is for my characters. J. K. Rowling taught me how important pacing is. J. M. Barrie taught me how valuable a single year is. Frances Hodgson taught me what magic realism feels like. Jules Verne taught me what realistic science-fiction looks like; and yes, it exists! J. R. R. Tolkien taught me that worlds are created in parts.
That’s all from me.