This is a short story I just whipped up. It’s not clean or fantastic–but it’s an idea. And so it matters.
An idea is born.
In the whirling vastness of a power beyond power, there is an Idea. The Idea takes on physical form: a baby boy. A body is formed around it, encased and smothering the idea, though it was never meant to. Because the Idea is smothered, the baby is selfish and cares only for itself—but when it is happy, a little of its Idea shines through. And the people around him love the Idea.
The baby grows up, and so does the Idea. Now the child can communicate with simple words. He can speak. He begins to have the idea of his Idea—and so he is wonder at himself and the world he lives in. The young child doesn’t understand it…and that is why it is wonderful.
The child gets older. Now he can move freely and think for himself. But he mostly emulates. His ideas are the ideas of the things around him—the television, books, his friends, and parents. Though it is still trapped, his Idea is not as smothered. It lives through the ideas of others…and slowly but surely the Idea comes forth on its own.
The child is now older. He writes and speaks easily. His ideas come from so many places—but now he knows that he has his own Idea. The boy tries to find it through writing, but he cannot. He lacks the words, the experience, and knowledge. But he tries. His stories are weak and without the Idea, but they are a step towards it.
So he becomes a teenager. He is jaded now, wary of the world and not without his own wiles. The ideas he receives are more dangerous now, both to himself and those around him. For the first time he has a true choice—to take his Idea in both hands and embrace it or to let others take it from him. He chooses to take his Idea…and it takes physical form again. It is a story. Not so simple and convoluted as his stories of his younger years, it contains both his Idea and those of others. They are too intertwined to be separated…but now he knows he has find it.
The teenager grows up. He becomes an adult. The boy, now a man, is a published author. Writing is his passion. He writes story after story, enthralling his audiences with tales of wonder and imagination. He looses sight of his Idea. It begins to wane— for he is not writing for himself and his Idea—he is writing for others. His ideas, while perhaps original, are his not his Idea. So he writes on, but the Idea…the Idea is weak.
The adult becomes old. His stories are still read. His books still sit on too many shelves to count. He writes serious stories now. They are full of the world and ideas that are not his own. They are good, but they lack life to him. With each one he writes, something goes from him that cannot be regained. The man becomes sick, just like his Idea is. He begins to weaken. He can no longer write—his pens and his keyboard sit unused. His Idea is lost to him. He tries to find it, but he looks in all the wrong places, destroying others and himself. Finally he gives up the search and lives his life without the idea, confident in the little strength he has left.
And so his Idea dies. And with it dies the writer.