On Writing Fiction [Dream Stories, or Seeds for Short Stories #12]

My boyfriend Nathan, lying on the bed, says, "I'm thinking of getting a haircut like Liam Gallagher used to have," and I feel annoyed. I don't dislike Liam Gallagher. In fact, I'm more of a Liam fan than a Noel fan.

But even though it's a lovely Sunday afternoon, I feel put off and say to Nathan,

"You shouldn't. It's not a question of whether it suits you or not."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Imitating someone is incredibly difficult. If you just try to look like them, you'll never be anything more than a cheap copy."

"It's not that deep. I just want a Liam-style haircut."

"Look, do you realize that unless you have talent and put in the effort, you'll never be anything more than a Liam-style-ish-style-ish haircut?"

Nathan lets out a light breath, "Hmph," and playfully strokes my chest from behind, reversing our roles as preacher and listener. Nathan whispers in my ear,

"Here's the thing. You imitate, and imitate, and keep on imitating, until the parts that just won't look like the original are squeezed out. You keep layering on the imitation, but no matter what you do, the parts that don't resemble the original at all start to seep through. That's what becomes your originality."

I feel my heart tighten, as if he has perfectly articulated something I've been thinking about for a long time. Nathan laughs teasingly and keeps touching my chest, and I start to get in the mood. Nathan continues,

"So, what about the stories you write?"

I feel like I've been struck in a vital spot and fall silent. Nathan says nothing more. In truth, I have been writing my short stories with Brooke Keats very much in mind. An author who quietly published only ten stories and then gracefully disappeared. I don't know if they are a man or a woman. It's unclear when they were born or even if they are still alive.

Do I have parts that, in imitation of Brooke Keats, "no matter what I do, don't resemble the original at all and start to seep through"? No, I have no confidence. I don't answer Nathan.

Nathan doesn't say anything else either. I find it strange, and when I notice, the room is dark. For a moment, I feel relieved, thinking it was all a dream. I am relieved that Nathan's words, as he touched me in his sleep, were just a dream, but at the same time, I have a conviction that he hit upon the truth. This piece, which I wrote immediately after waking up, still feels like it resembles Brooke Keats.

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