You don't need to be original

Death will not immediately take you if your writing is crap, but sometimes it feels that way. (National Library of Medicine, London)

When I first tried to write songs as a teen, I was stuck. I had a few ideas, but nothing seemed complex or interesting enough.

As I built my repertoire of other people’s songs, I had a breakthrough. I realized that most of the songs were built out of simple and familiar patterns. I decided to try writing a song that consisted of only four chords, with two of them repeated extensively to comprise the verses. I finished my first song and was on my way to writing several others.

Was my work notable or groundbreaking? No way! They are cute songs, but they will never make me famous. That’s fine. They showed promise, but they were just like any songs you might expect from a teenage beginner.

When we endeavor to create something, sometimes our minds play tricks on us. In writing a song, we might believe that we have to write lyrics like Dylan, melodies like McCartney, and carry the whole thing with the flair of Freddie Mercury. Meanwhile, our tweets should get as many laughs and likes as Chrissy Teigen’s and our first novel should be on the level of The Bluest Eye.

That’s setting the bar a bit high, isn’t it? There are so many stories of people who, seemingly overnight, established themselves as world-class, world-changing artists. When we look at our own feeble beginnings, it may not seem like enough. For some of us, it’s enough of a reason to never try.

We may fear creating something bad or derivative. We may find ourselves paralyzed by the desire to bring something into the world that’s unique and beautiful.

Our fears are well-founded. In order to create unique and beautiful works of art, we first have to be okay with turning out embarrassing and terrible ones. We may be boring, unoriginal, and just plain awful for some time.

Why wouldn’t we be? Notwithstanding the occasional great talent of a generation that seems to arise from nowhere, most of us have to learn and practice. It takes time to develop a singular vision. It takes practice and refinement to figure out what you want to say to the world and how you want to say it. It’s unglamorous, but it’s real — and replicable.

We love the stories of overnight successes and God-given talent precisely because they are fantasy. I don’t intend to take away from anyone’s accomplishments when I say that there’s nothing magical when you investigate most of the supposed geniuses of the world. Even Bob Dylan, who rose to world fame when he was only in his early twenties, spent years copying Woody Guthrie, American folk music, and his Greenwich Village contemporaries before he began crafting songs that were uniquely, identifiably his. And good ol’ Mozart had a relentless father who gave him no childhood — and probably helped along many of his early works.

If you want to make great things, start where you are. Embrace what Anne Lamott calls “shitty first drafts” — and second and third ones. Try stuff, fail, and try more stuff.

You may eventually get to the point where you are proud of what you can do. You may get to the point where others recognize your skill and talent. Or you may decide that doing it for fun is enough.

Either way, the key ingredient is not talent that you either have or you don’t. Instead, the thing that will ultimately make you competent at your chosen craft is consistent effort over time.

There’s no guarantee that the world will embrace your work. More often than not, that’s a matter of timing and luck. Instead, you are guaranteeing yourself a satisfying life, filled with opportunities for growth and challenge. That’s more important than your body of work.