“Originality? It’s over-rated at best and at worst deeply limited. It’s also mis-understood. So you think that fan fiction is derivative? That the covers band that entertained the pub last night weren’t credible creative artists? That any artist working in a genre they didn’t create is simply pastiche? Seriously? I guess nothing’s original, right? There’s no point trying to come up with anything because all of the good ideas have already been explored? You know what? Fuck you! Fuck your petty bourgeois reactionary rationalism! Fuck everything you’ve ever thought! How fucking dare you tell anyone else what is valid as art? What the fuck do you think makes you judge, jury and fucking executioner over what is and isn’t original or acceptable different or worthy? I’m done with fucking arseholes pontificating on subjects about which they know precisely half of fuck all!”
I took a swig from the dark, black, bitter, burnt coffee, swallowing the lukewarm dregs with a grimace,
“Enough already! Fucking makes me sick, bunch of fucking deeply unpleasant pricks!”
I blushed as I realised that the background volume of chatter in the coffee shop had fallen away as my rant had increased in intensity and ferocity, my vitriol overtaking any self-esteem issues just as the power and passion that inspired writers, singers, artists to revisit and recreate the glorious work of their idols and heroes, their muses overwhelms their natural instinct to try to create something unique, the dark desires awoken by a chance discovery, the need to do it again only better, harder, faster, deeper, softer whatever. I slump in my seat, drained as the adrenalin flooding my system abates. She smiles, acknowledging that she has once again coped with my outburst, coped with the strange passions and behaviours of her friend, coped with being my friend….