Ovid’s Metamorphoses inspired Romeo and Juliet. It contains parallels to Shakespeare's story: the lovers' parents don’t like each other, Pyramus falsely believes his lover Thisbe is dead, and some other similar story plots. We don’t exactly know where the story originated.
We don't know the storytellers of the most compelling stories told to us. One reason, I assume, is that the story mattered more than the storyteller.
That seemed to have changed with time. We started honoring the storytellers with academic positions and badges of honors. That probably was to inspire them to come up with even better stories. Lately, these honors take the form of likes, shares, and retweets on various social media.
But that backfired! When we made literature into properties, the owner inevitably got greedy. The inner anguish, the suppressed desire, or the hurt that found no escape were no longer the driving force of literature.
According to Raven, over 80% of all the novels published in Britain between 1750 and 1790 were published anonymously. During the 1790s, the amount dropped to 62% and less than 50% in the first decade of the 19th century. Today you will struggle to find many anonymous paragraphs, let alone a novel. What does that tell you about the writers and writings of our generation?
The book, Faces of Anonymity: Anonymous and Pseudonymous Publication points out some insights into cultures that have plagued modern literature. Although not explicitly mentioned in the text, subtle pointer makes us wonder if the greed to earn the dopamine high took over the expression’s authenticity. That, I would argue, even fostered the rickety culture of plagiarism.
The most intriguing definition of plagiarising I have come across is “hiding behind other people’s words.” But isn’t getting inspired just a euphemism for the same act? That makes me wonder: Do I own the words I write? Seeking an answer to that deceptively simple question invariably takes me another one: Am I a writer because of my ability to write or the words I have written?
Writing is an act of vulnerability. There is this duality of expression and realization at the same time. When I type a word I feel, I am also feeling the word I type. I silence my inner critique and convince myself, “this is readworthy!” just to craft my first draft. That sure deserves my name below it, does it not?
But, as soon as I am done writing a piece, I wonder if this is my writing. I read many books, listen to poems and songs, talk to people, watch movies, and consume much other content. All of that undoubtedly influence my writing. I am not sure if I deserve to put my name below that! Sometimes I wonder if anything is original.