The Idea of an Essay, Volume 4

Narrative & Memoir 45 only experience. Following that failure and others like it, I learned to grind the ideas up more finely, mix them more thoroughly, and paste them into the shape I wanted with linguistic varnish. Unfortunately, this form of “creative writing” was anything but creative; I was still just recycling other, greater authors’ work, parroting back the status quo I had seen so many times. The more I read, and the more I wrote, the more I was unable to avoid this fact. Time and time again, I came across plot devices I had used, characters far too similar to my own, and sometimes even the same names I had so carefully invented. Once, I told one of my sisters, “My stories are just a bunch of stolen ideas ground up and mashed together finely enough to be unrecognizable.” The gist of her reply was, “That’s what all stories are these days; all the new ideas were taken ages ago.” I clung to that idea. I told myself that it was fine to be unoriginal, because at least I wasn’t alone in it, and I lied to myself. That lie became a roadblock, and my writing stagnated as I wore a rut walking up against it. If human originality can be defined as using the special properties and experiences God has given us to create something unique, this point was the lowest on my journey towards it; I churned out recycled ideas, pasting them uninventively into the pages of bland, mediocre prose, and tried not to be concerned with the emptiness flowing from inside me. The volume of my writing steadily dropped off as I began to lose interest in the stories I was “creating.” Eventually, however, the lie weakened. Though I began to neglect my pen, I never set aside my books; in their pages, I saw my own unoriginality reflected, but I also saw the authors’ own creativity, reflecting back my failings all the more. Their shining originality and the way it continually shed light on the blandness of my work created a nagging doubt within me, a remote spark piercing the shadows behind the wall I had built between myself and my true desire. That tiny light grew into a seething flame which slowly cut through the foundations of the barrier before me. As it collapsed, I was forced more and more to become honest with myself. Finally, I had no choice but to face the truth. I realized that I didn’t just want to forge sawdust tales; I wanted to write stories that moved people to think, to feel, and to aspire. I wanted to write meaningful stories that told stories of their own. I wanted stories that I could say I owned, not stories I just borrowed. I wanted my