Mid way through last year I started working on a story. It had a definite style, a definite voice which was different, a kind of extension, of how I’d been writing before. And I liked it, it was good. But I stopped. I got stuck. Couldn’t figure out where to go and went on to other things.

One of the reasons I stopped was because I was worried that the style was not my own. Honestly I thought I’d been too heavily influenced by reading Kurt Vonnegut. And me being me, well – I want what I write to be me, to come from inside.

But yesterday: a revelation.

I was working on an old laptop and I opened a story I’d written AGES ago.

And it was written in exactly the same style as the thing I’d given up on. The first piece had been written a year or so before I’d read a Kurt Vonnegut book. The more recent piece had been written before I’d read a Kurt Vonnegut book too, I discovered. I hadn’t nicked his style. It was my own.

You have no idea how happy that makes me. And free.

Now, if I could write something at least half as good as the master…

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