Everyday Art Forgers
Finding Authenticity in a Copycat World
Photo: Jamie Feldman
It’s funny how small moments can stick with us. I was holding a pint, standing amongst a circle of writers, talking shop in a pub. The current topic was what famous writer would we each most want to be like. Several names of the usual MFA literary darlings were bantered about with replies of, “Oh yes, I can see that,” and “Absolutely, definite similarities there,” — except when it came to my turn. I chose Neil Gaiman. This was apparently a wrong answer met with an astounding backlash of “No, you don’t sound anything like him at all,” and “You’re writing’s not like his!”
Had I misunderstood the question? Of course my writing isn’t like Neil Gaiman’s! We already have him to write like himself, why would anyone need me to try and do it, too? I’d assumed we were answering the question in terms of which writer we’d most want to be like in terms of career, impact, and literary scene. I’d love to write for multiple genres and age groups, explore both real world and fantastical themes, have writerly respect and wide commercial appeal — just like Gaiman. Was this not what we were discussing?
My naivety at the time led me to believe that every writer wanted to write like themselves and that we were all on a journey to uncover our authentic voices. Now, many years — and crossed paths — later, I can confidently say that a good chunk of creatives are not seeking an authentic voice, but are instead brilliant art forgers. By this, I mean they have an incredible ability to copy the style, tone, theme, etc down to the syntax of another author — usually whomever is having their 15 minutes — and create new similar work in their own name. Perhaps this points to a brilliant ghost writer or biographer, but what true value is there in this copycat style when we already have the original creator still doing their thing?
I suppose it’s a way to piggyback on trends, though trends are fleeting and hard to predict. Plus, a copycat artist will only ever be able to come in second place in comparison to the originator. Is it maybe more of a way to hide one’s true style when they either haven’t quite found it yet or don’t have confidence in themselves? Or maybe it’s more of a flaw in how new writers are taught to create their writerly voices.
Back when I made the switch from primarily script writing to fiction writing, I participated in a two week graduate level writing workshop. It was one of the best things I did, but as someone who did not have a graduate degree at the time — or any degree in english, fiction, or something similar — I felt intimidated. So hungry to learn and catch up to my peers, I found it difficult to discern good advice from bad. One prominent writer with a slew of novels to his name offered the following advice: Emulate another author until all of you is gone. Not even your own mother should be able to identify you on the page.
Yikes. Even then it sounded like Art Forgery 101. However, to be fair, I can appreciate the importance of not writing with the voice of your own inner monologue. I’m just not sure that was the point of the advice given. The thing is, a lot of beginning fiction writers often have protagonists who are thinly veiled versions of themselves. Yet, I found myself in a minority of writers who write an equal number of male protagonists as I do female ones. In workshop I’m inevitably grilled on whether or not my male characters sound authentic, given that I’m not a man. They usually do, though, and I credit that ability not to some sort of clever forgery, but to having my education in theatre.
As a playwright, my ability to write outside myself was never questioned because it’s just part of the craft. Both playwrights and actors have to create characters that are different from who they are. Can you imagine a script that was just a bunch of identically aged characters of the same gender, race, background to the playwright? It doesn’t sound very interesting. So with the expectation in theatre to create outside yourself, why hadn’t I ever heard this copycat approach before? Because it’s not necessary. Some of my most favourite playwrights and biggest inspirations wrote original and innovative scripts while maintaining a sense of authenticity and auteurship all their own. (Think Wes Anderson, Nora Ephron, or Andy Warhol, if you’re not familiar with theatre. You know their work when you see it.) Let’s take Angels in America, for example. It will always and forever be equated with its playwright, Tony Kushner. And I bet no one asked him in workshop whether or not the angel felt realistic enough considering Tony isn’t one, himself.
Which brings me back to that writing workshop many years ago and, perhaps had there been a fantasy writer in the room, would he or she have been grilled on the authenticity of a dragon? It shouldn’t matter, because that’s not what authenticity is at all. Authenticity is aligning creative intention with yourself to truly produce something new.
Let’s simplify by taking creativity out of the equation and just look at authenticity in general. In my usual insomniac way, I’ve been watching late night tv where, lately, there are all these old 90s episodes of Oprah playing back to back. I’d forgotten how materialistic everything was back then, and how everyone seemed to be chasing this outdated capitalist dream — complete with two car garage and white picket fence. Yet, every single guest was unhappy. Regardless of the topic, every episode could have been titled ‘My BMW Didn’t Make Me Happy’, or ‘I Bought a Boat but I Still Don’t Know Who I Am’. By today’s standards, it sounds a little ridiculous to be looking for a personality or identity through buying stuff, but maybe that 90s materialism is overlooking what’s really going on here.
For example, a guy can buy a top of the line pickup truck for the same price as a sports car, yet each vehicle says something very different about the owner. So which car will he buy? I’d bet the answer would change depending on whether he lives in Texas vs California, Alberta vs Vancouver — you get the point. It’s like we never really leave high school and we’re still trying to wear the cool clothes that are in style in our area. However, let’s say our guy would really be much happier buying a second hand jeep with a jacked suspension so he can go off-roading with a few buddies on the weekend. But what magazine would that car be on the cover of? What would his Lexus-owning neighbours think of it parked in his driveway? And what would his wealthy coworkers think about him buying second-hand?
At the end of the day, it’s not really about materialism, but about trying to please an outside force or imagined authority. And how could that ever breed authenticity, let alone happiness?
It’s an easy trap to fall into, though, especially with creativity. I did. Back in that first fiction worksop I left with a very long list of books I felt I needed to read — and love — in order to be taken seriously as a writer. I spent all my spare time trying to catch up and feeling guilty that I wasn’t enjoying most of the novels on the list. I used to lie about enjoying certain books, or outright fumbled my way through conversations about authors I’d never read lest I felt any more insecure than I already did. Was there something wrong with me? Was I not a meant to be a writer? Nope. I just didn’t like those books, and that’s okay! But it took a long time to be able to admit that and be secure in a more authentic version of my identify as a writer.
A few things happened that allowed me to do that. In part, it was going back to school in a foreign country where that list of must-love literary darlings was completely different. Some of the most famous great North American novelists are unheard of in Europe — and vice versa. I also had a mentor then who was very big picture as opposed to obsessed with line edits and classic structure. This was so valuable in terms of learning what I wrote about thematically and seeing how my personality seeped into my work regardless of what a story was about. It allowed me to lean into my authenticity instead of chasing who I thought I should be.
However, the most significant thing that contributed to my own authenticity was something very small: A good friend who’d known me for years loaned a book to me that he thought I’d enjoy. The book was Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, and it smashed down the door to creative possibility. Here was a whimsical novel with mythical beings and important things to say that seemed to be breaking all the rules, but it was the most original, most enjoyable, most thought provoking novel I’d read in years. I’d spent so much time chasing this outside pressure of needing to be a literary darling, of worshiping Booker and Pulitzer prizes, of heavy academic influence, when all along I’d been driving in the wrong lane.
Writing became much easier after this realization, and I enjoyed the process so much more. My publishing rate went up. I even landed a residency shortly after I stopped looking for outside validation and started taking creative risks from a more authentic place.
So perhaps the real reason why I said ‘Neil Gaiman’ when asked which writer I’d most want to be like was really just one thing: Authenticity. You know one of his novels when you see one, and ultimately I’d love to have that kind of creative recognition, too. Like Gaiman, I wish for my work to be — uniquely and unequivocally — my own.
