Originality

The world has felt absurdly poetic to me the last few days. As if every commonplace event is imbued with intense significance.

The observation: "Huh, a solitary falling leaf."
My mind's interpretation: "Every man's lonely and unstoppable journey towards death."

You get the idea.

But really, I feel like there's something in me trying to get out. I just don't know what or how. A story? A painting? A four-volume epic novel? Bah. Whatever it is, it's apparently not something I can squeeze out of myself by sitting down and forcing myself to write or paint it. I think it will have to be something which takes me by surprise. (If there's anything actually there at all, I guess.)

-musing-

In one of his essays, C.S. Lewis talks about "originality" as being among the least important aims when creating literature (or art, or music, or whatever). Particularly when it's originality for originality's sake. To be daring, or different, or more interesting so that everyone can gasp and say talk excitedly about how daring or different or interesting you are. Lewis' idea is to aim for truth instead of originality. He believes--and I think he's probably right--that by writing truth, you'll likely find that you end up being "original" without trying.

I think I'm still stuck wanting to be original, though. Bah to pride.