Annie Neugebauer

Consider the difference between these two reactions, theoretically spoken by movie-goers as they leave the theater:

“What an original concept.”

“What a unique film.”

While at first they might seem like different ways to say the same thing, I actually think they’re quite distinct, although it’s taken me a long time to realize it. Really, I only realized it because I’m a creator; I think if I were only a consumer I might never have thought about it enough to parse out this important distinction.

If you’re a writer or other type of creator—and have been for any length of time + don’t live in a bubble—you’ve almost certainly come up against the issue of “influence” and “originality.” You write a poem, paint a picture, or design a set, and submit it for some sort of external consumption, and someone tells you, “Oh you know what that reminds me of…”

Influence is when we do this on purpose, consciously or subconsciously. I’ve read a lot of Edgar Allan Poe in my life, for example, so there are times when the influence of his work on my work creeps in even when I’m not setting out to let it—which I also sometimes do.

But what is it called when the effect of influence is there without the actual process of it? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had stories or ideas compared to authors or works I’ve never even heard of before, much less seen or read. Obviously, they didn’t influence me. And yet, any consumer familiar with both will see a connection there.

I don’t know of any actual literary or artistic term for this, but I’m going to call it coinfluence: coincidental “influence.” Coinfluence is what we’re talking about when we say that there are no new ideas left in the world. (I mostly do believe that’s true.) It means that I can come up with an idea I think is totally original—I got it from nowhere but my very own brain—and still be directly compared to existing works that I’ve never actually consumed. A great example is my short story “Zanders the Magnificent,” which was published in Fireside Magazine several years ago to great reviews… and more than one message asking me if I’ve seen the movie The Prestige. (I had not, although I did after being asked for the third time.)

Top: The Prestige (2006) starring Christian Bale and Christopher Nolan. Bottom: Zanders the Magnificent at Fireside Magazine, illustrated by Galen Dara.

My concept was original to me, but it wasn’t actually fully original within the world. Not if people could point to another creation and draw clear comparisons. Still, the comparison didn’t bother me. Why? I’ve finally realized it’s because I care far less about originality than I do about uniqueness. (And yes, I do think “Zanders” is unique. 🙂 )

[Note: I forgot to mention in my original post that if you haven’t yet seen The Prestige and want to, reading “Zanders” first might be something of a spoiler. The twist in the film is the basis for my story, so if you’re wanting to check out both, I recommend seeing the movie first.]

What do I mean by unique? I mean a creation that feels special, individual, and like a thing that only that one creator could have made. It’s the opposite of writing by committee: it’s an artist being true to their voice/vision/style. Twenty authors could sit down with the same outline and theme and end up with twenty vastly different books, right? Because each author is unique. And, yeah, I know that “unique” is supposed to inherently exclude degrees of intensity, but that’s not the practical reality: some things are more or less unique than others. How far does one dare to deviate from the expected, the routine, the standard? The more specific our viewpoints, our goals, and our aesthetic, the more unique the outcome will be—regardless of whether or not it’s “original.” (Truly original or original barring coinfluence.)

This is an important lesson for me, one I sometimes have to come back to and remind myself of. Especially in those early brainstorming days for a new project, it can be so easy to get caught up in what’s been “done before.” Spoiler: everything has been done before in some capacity or variation. If you think it hasn’t, it’s almost certainly just because you haven’t found that work yet—not because it doesn’t exist. Realizing this can totally derail you from pursuing a worthy concept.

Concepts are rarely original anymore. Some are more so than others, given the right twist or “take,” but originality isn’t actually the important part. I still generally aim to be original at least within my own knowledge, simply because the fresher a concept is to me the more appealing it becomes to explore, but when I inevitably find the comparisons that I didn’t know about, I try not to let it bother me.

There are no new ideas, only new creations. And those creations can be as unique as we want them to be. (That’s why we continue to see remake after remake, and retelling after retelling.) Only I can tell my stories my way. Someone else can tell them their way. Someone else can even try to copy my way. (Influence.) But no one else will ever be able to fit themselves directly into my particular set of experiences, outlooks, goals, and visions. Those are mine, and they make me unique, just as they make unique the authors and artists who influence me.

I adore originality. It’s hard to come by, but so delightful when we find it. I’m not knocking it. But at the end of the day, it’s not required for a work to be truly unique. Some of my favorite novels, like House of Leaves and Bird Box, I loved at first because I thought they were original. I’ve since learned that neither is actually fully original, and that that’s not a criticism, because they are both utterly, spectacularly unique. Influence or coinfluence: I don’t necessarily care if/how they speak to the works that came before them. I care that they reached down into my psyche and rattled me with something fresh, new. Unique.

When it comes to originality vs. uniqueness, what concerns you? As a consumer? As a creator? I’d love to hear your thoughts!