My worst fear is repetition. See what I did there?
No, I am not referring to the literary device of repetition. Instead, I am pointing fingers at a personal demon, a constant ache surrounded by creative insecurity and uncertainty.
It is my immediate excuse to discard a short story, a poem, or this blog post. It is the sense of being overwhelmed by the awareness that there are a limited amount of words in the English language, billions of combinations spread across a millennia of civilization. Why is what I say important, if it is far from unique? hasn’t everything already been said before, the list of tropes widening with each era?
No. The human experience is not stagnate. New words are being added to the dictionary daily. Despite most additives being slang, such as the infamous ‘hangry’, it proves the everlasting notion of cultural evolvement, that change is inevitable.
There will always be the hallmarks of the human experience, the reason we brave through the dense, tangled beauty of classical literature. Love, loyalty, justice, and revenge are eternal themes, global experiences we can all bear empaths to.
However, while the core of what we write about is as unmovable as the Earth’s orbit itself, how we express such notions varies drastically. Even in the present, there are a plethora of countries, states, cities, and individual homes which each bear their unique traditions and forms of life.
An author’s duty is not to focus on the the whole of our evolvement, to become overwhelmed with the idea of reinventing the wheel, to try and tear apart what makes art human. Writers need to document the details, to inspect the smudges on the glass of our existence, the nail thin marks unscathed in previous years, unnoticeable by older pairs of eyes, by those on the other side of the cup.
Books are written, one word at a time, just as stories are formed, one idea, one detail at a time.*