I do this thing lately when I am laying in bed at night where I try and think of the most innocuous thing possible. Grandma’s and Apple Pie and all of that stuff and by the time I am done I have created a world where the Apple Pie Overlords are using Grandmothers to conquer and enslave the human race by impregnating each of us with apple babies. It is a shitty story, but it illustrates the point that I was trying to make with someone this morning that I thought I would try and elucidate on here,
Person A, we will refer to them thusly as I continue, tried to tell me that there is a finite amount of acceptable story ideas in the world and everything else is a copy of a copy of a vague copy kind of a thing. Now, while this idea has grains of truth in it, a great many actually, I still say it is patently false.
While it is true that people are fond of repackaging things and calling them new, there are things being written every day, written by professional writers and bloggers schmucks like me alike, that have never been seen by the eyes of man or woman and will, the great majority of the time, never be seen again. They are the three-hundred-word flash fiction you see in blog posts, the poetry you scream into a microphone on the anniversary of your divorce that you wrote on a tear-stained napkin an hour before.
Most of it is what you would expect, not very good at all. Maybe though, maybe one out of ten thousand thousand is that thing that the world needs to see just then. It is a Siddhartha or a Kubla Khan. Maybe it is a hopeless romantic who just found his inner Shakespeare and wrote a sonnet that will melt the hearts of people for centuries to come. From the depths of a computer lab at a community college maybe it is a Lovecraft of the modern age, an Asimov reborn or a Patterson discovered.
No. You see, no. According to Person A, these are all just generic copies of greatness that should be crumpled into little balls and cast aside to never be read by anyone, swallowed words to be forgotten in moments because the moment has passed and never to be shared with all of the world because one worthless fuckpatty seeing the world in such a straight line that they say there are nor curves purely because they cannot see them.
I am not a giant, metaphorically at least. I write what I write and I hope people enjoy it. Never stifle people who are brave enough to put the words they draw from their very soul and present them as a gift to the world, the blood from their heart still dripping from each word and the deep breaths of panic and terror still trying to be held in as the consummation begins and the inevitable judgment follows.
Maybe keep your mouth shut about things you will never understand.
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