We live in a world of echoes, awash in the genius of the past.
Whatever great things that can be written, have been written.
Our works are crafted after those that came before, old paths retraced.
Creativity has become lost art, imitation the word of the day.
We’re nothing more than reverberations, rapidly fading afterthoughts.
by Nicholas Byrley
I know I’ve related this sentiment before, but sometimes writing feels like an uphill battle. I imagine its how fashion or car designers feel, trying to reinvent themselves with every new iteration even though they know it will borrow heavily from old designs. Can we call our works truly original when we are influenced so much by other authors and are essentially retelling old stories? I suppose it is the content that determines its originality and success, the meat of the story we apply to the old bones of the past. This is sounding a bit depressed, but really I’m just sounding out my thoughts. It won’t keep me from writing, I just find myself wondering these things at times.