I’ve Been Having a Lot of Anxiety About Writing Lately and I’m Going to Whine About It

I wrote Jackalope for my Writing Fiction II course last Fall. Earlier in the semester we had done a generative writing session where we modeled the story we were writing off of Antigone. I was also taking American Realism and Naturalism with Professor Minter and loving it, and so I modeled Jackalope off of A White Heron, a story I very much enjoyed and very much recommend.

This is something that’s central to my writing process–I read something I like, and it inspires me to write. I had a lot of cool themes I wanted to explore in my story: the transitory period between childhood and adolescence, American folklore, loss, etc. I also wanted to try emulating Jewett’s naturalistic writing style, and so on top of the skeleton of A White Heron, “child climbs big thing in nature with lots of personification and sees animal,” I threw in all the things I wanted to.

People enjoyed the story, in workshop. But something Professor Thien said in passing took a bite out of me and just won’t let go: “Sometimes it can become a habit.”

Since then, I’ve lived in a miasma of anxiety. What is “original?” Does it exist? If you’re familiar with the concept of Masterplots, then no, it doesn’t. Or rather, imitation and then innovation is where originality comes from. I’m a fantasy author, and to write a good fantasy book you need a good magic system. There’s a million: The Iron Druid Chronicles has druids interface with AI like elementals; Inkheart by Cornelia Funke has a little girl read things into existence; The Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss has magic that’s more scientific than arcane; The Godserfs Series follows of system of universal poetics; and more and more and more and more and more, and every time I read one now and love it, all I can think is: Now I can’t do that. I can’t turn it off.

I used to wonder how I got so good (yuck) at writing when I never remembered doing it. But then, like some sleeping abysmal terror, unknowable knowledge brushes against the surface of my mind. Ah, yes, thousands of pages of Bleach fan fiction, how I’ve missed you. Oh, right, I was too nervous to talk to my first girlfriend, so we only spoke through handwritten letters. I was one of those teenagers who felt really smug about only texting in perfect English. I’ve always felt I’m better able to express myself through writing. I’m more eloquent, controlled. I can go back and edit the things I’ve said.

I go back, sometimes, and read stuff I wrote years ago. There’s a ton of it on my Google Drive; hundreds of D&D campaigns and vent pieces and old short stories I wrote and forgot. Most of the time, I hate it. I can’t look back at the blog post I wrote last week without rolling my eyes. But sometimes I come across something that makes me laugh, or smile. A story a Different Matthew from a Different Time wrote without fear or ambition, something really good, excellent. And even though I can see connecting threads from the stories of authors that are the truest part of me, there’s a tiny fragment that, despite everything, is original.

-M.C.