What does it mean to have a distinct writing style?
I have a lot more time to ponder this question. Having completed my studies in the visual arts, I suspended my practice and oriented focus back to story writing. A lot of this energy fed into the writing of “Treasured Pair,” which ended up eight chapters long from its original intention of five. The novella functioned as an intermission project to unwind after a year of thesis research; an opportunity to take a break from “Of A Flower” and engage with a novel world of my imagination. Of course, the systems that were established in Treasured Pair ended up being very similar to that of a long-term personal project, bringing back some form of familiarity. Nevertheless, I still got what I needed out of it: a break from anything related to thesis without sitting around and doing nothing.
Once Treasured Pair concluded, I returned to finish the writing for Of A Flower. Since my expectations for this novel are high, I asked myself a myriad of questions as I wrote. I questioned the way I write—secluding dialogue and exposition into their own sections within a chapter—the structure of my sentences, the words I use, and the techniques I employ for dialogue, to list a few. Some of these questions lingered in my head when I alternated back to writing for the Eighteenth Station.
All the while, my thoughts never really vacated the art space. Eight developmental years of deep engrossment with this human construct has irrevocably shaped my psyche. Whenever I wasn’t working, I spent free time observing other people’s art. How they illustrated. How they animated. How they told a story. How they critically analyzed artforms, such as the strengths of two-dimensional animation. And even how they composed music. Yes, I wasn’t just focused on art as a visual practice. I was focused on art in the grand scheme of human existence. This includes writing.
Which finally leads back to the question I posed. (This station is really earning its title.) What is a distinct writing style? Furthermore, is my writing style unique?
Of course, when I pondered, my mind didn’t take a straight path. Self-awareness for both sides of the argument, along with a touch of doublespeak, immediately led me in circles. Mathematically speaking, the answer is of course: yes and no. Yes, because the number of possible combinations of alphabetical letters, spaces, and punctuation is astronomical. But at the same time, no, because there are programs such as the Library of Babel that contain virtually every single combination.
But as stupefying as it is, I am not interested in the mathematical answer. Let’s get subjective.
There is still some math to be done. On first guess, my answer would be a hard and fast “no.” With how many humans that exist and have existed, I couldn’t possibly be unique. Even if I was, there is a finite capability for people to accurately distinguish two works of art. It is almost impossible to avoid a comparison with the work of another, given how proficient the human brain is at forming connections. A good example of this is with music, where similar melodies are found all the time.
However, once I took a step back from this pessimism, I realized I was likely missing the forest for the trees. Yes, I will inevitably have influences from other people’s works, whether I am aware or not, but that is simply the nature of art. Artists sample, adapt, reshape and remix what they observe in the world around them to form their own combination, their own expression, and their own interpretation of the creative world. The beginning of art was lost millennia ago, when the first homo sapien thought to pick up a rock not for food or sex, but for reasons other than survival.
So, in a sense, nothing is original. Everything is built upon the past, not in the vacuum of space. Yet, in terms of uniqueness, does that fact really matter? Does it matter to people if they are excited about a work of art, and its original inspirations along with the originals’ original inspirations have long melded away with the past? Remember, there is a finite capacity for the human brain to remember the past before it becomes disconnected to them. Especially in this day and age, where the accelerated rate of change has made even one decade ago feel archaic and foreign.
Or, perhaps, there are two camps to this excitement. One camp with nascent fans, young and bright, who simply love the work for what it is. Their reasons are simple: its funny, relatable, suspenseful, action-packed, pretty looking, or they simply can’t place their finger on why they love it. They aren’t actively comparing it to other works out there. They’ve found their gold. Then there’s the second camp, usually comprised of older individuals, who are excited for how the work combines the old into something new. They are hit with nostalgia for the familiar at the same time they are hit with excitement for something new. It’s a powerful feeling and a potent force behind some of the ardent fandom wars on the internet.
In the case of the first camp, the work can be unique to them. Their slate has hardly anything written on it; thus, anything that’s currently written will stand out. In the case of the second camp, it can vary depending on their repertoire. If they recognize one or two familiarities, perhaps the work would feel novel enough. If they recognize many familiarities, or can draw connections from the work’s novel aspects to old ones, perhaps the work would feel familiar enough to lose its uniqueness. Or, perhaps a similar person with a broad repertoire could perceive the work as unique, in spite of all the inspirations it draws from. The way in which the work combines those ideas is distinguishable enough for such a person to enjoy. Again, uniqueness can certainly be subjective.