If originality is an illusion, what does this mean for creativity?
Since forever, I want to write books. So by proxy, my ideas mean everything to me. I keep a black notebook where every plot, character, and twist I dream up gets written down. However, despite my efforts to be original, I can't shake the feeling that someone else has already created everything I create.
Lately, I’ve been taking myself as a writer with a lot more seriousness. Downstream from that is me trying to convince myself that my ideas are different, that my take on things is unique. But the more I write, the more I notice echoes of stories I’ve read, movies I’ve watched, or myths I’ve studied. At first, this realization hit hard. How can I call myself creative if my ideas are just variations on what’s already been done?
Does that make me less of a writer or worse, a fraud?
The longer I think about it, the clearer today’s question becomes: is originality really just a remix? Is creativity a new combination of familiar parts? At first, this realization frustrated me, as if someone had snatched originality out of reach. But then it builds on the idea of how creativity works.
If creativity is just recombination, does that make originality a myth? So if that’s true, maybe originality isn’t about creating something from nothing.
The Psychological Lens: Why Does Creativity Feel So Original?
When I’m deep in the act of creating, it feels like I’m uncovering something no one has ever seen before. It feels mine. But is it really? Neuroscience tells a different story, one that’s harder to accept. The brain isn’t some mystical well of invention; it’s more like a brilliant recycler, constantly breaking down what it’s taken in and rearranging the pieces.
At the center of this process is the brain’s default mode network, the part of us that kicks into gear when we daydream or let our thoughts wander. It’s the reason inspiration strikes in the shower or walking the dog. The truth is, while I’m consciously stuck, my brain is quietly rummaging through the scraps of everything I’ve experienced. It stitches them together in ways that feel “mine” when they surface.
I wrote about this in an earlier piece.
But the problem is that the ideas feel like “mine” even though it's borrowed and stitch from what I experienced. Every word we write, every note we play, comes from a shared pool of the human experience. I can tell myself I’m being original, but isn’t my work just a remix of the books I’ve read and the art I’ve loved?
Well, sadly… no.
Yet, there’s a part of me that resists this idea. Sure, culture shapes what we create because it has to. But the choices we make within those boundaries still feel intensely personal. Two writers raised on the same stories won’t tell them the same way. The way we piece things together, the parts we choose to highlight or discard, says something about who we are.
Maybe that’s the real originality. Not the raw materials, but how we decide to use them.
The Philosophical Lens: The Absurdity of Originality
Why do we create works of creativity? Well, for me, it's because I want to create and share something worthy. But there’s another possibility, one that’s harder to admit. Maybe I create because I’m terrified of being forgotten.
Existentialists like Sartre and Camus would have had a lot of fun with that thought. They argued that life itself is absurd as we’re born, we search for meaning, we die.
And that search for meaning? It’s never-ending, because the universe doesn’t hand out answers. Creativity, then, might be one way of coping. We make things not because they’re original, but because they let us feel like we matter, even if just for a moment.
There is an uncomfortable truth in how repetitive it all is. Every story about love is a variation of the same handful of tales. Every painting is a reinterpretation of the same visual language humans have been using for centuries. Even when we think we are innovating, we merely rearrange pre-existing elements.
And yet, knowing this doesn’t make the act of creating any less interesting. Camus wrote about embracing the absurd. It is the idea that we should stop fighting the meaningless cycles of life and instead find freedom within them. Maybe creativity works the same way. If originality is a myth, does it really matter? Isn’t it enough to lose yourself in the process, to take the raw materials of the world and shape them into something that feels like yours?
Naturally, some would contend that this viewpoint is completely missing the mark. Being creative is more than merely battling existential dread or leaving a legacy. It’s quite personal, a source of happiness and contentment that frequently gives life meaning. Oddly, dismissing originality as a myth is equivalent to denying the emotional reward of creating something that is worth the effort.
We can, however, hold two truths at the same time. Uniqueness may be a fallacy, but that doesn’t lessen the power of invention. Accepting the silliness of absurdity can actually make the process much more liberating.
The Cultural Lens: Creativity as a Remixing Act
When I first learned about Joseph Campbell’s hero’s journey, I felt like someone had handed me the cheat code to storytelling. Every good story incorporates Joseph Campbell's analysis. And I could write stories with that framework in mind.
It was both thrilling and deflating. Thrilling because it revealed a shared human thread running through stories across cultures and time. Deflating because it made originality feel distant. How could anything be new when we’ve been retelling the same basic story for centuries?
Campbell wasn’t the first to notice this. Mythologists and storytellers have long understood that human creativity thrives on remixing. Shakespeare didn’t invent his plots; he borrowed them from history and literature. West Side Story didn’t spring from nowhere as it reimagined Romeo and Juliet. Even Star Wars is a modern retelling of ancient myths. The so-called “original” ideas we admire are often just existing narratives dressed in new clothes.
And honestly, that’s not a bad thing. In fact, it might be the point.
Creativity has always been taking what came before, twisting it, and making it speak to the present.
It’s not about starting from scratch, it’s about finding new ways with the familiar to express whatever you want to express.
Technology has made this remixing process more visible and definitely more controversial. Geneartive AI produces stories and images in minutes, drawing on vast databases of human-created works. To some, this feels like a betrayal of originality. But if we’re being honest, isn’t this just an amplified version of what we’ve always done? AI didn’t invent remix culture. It only made it more accessible.
Of course, not everyone’s on board with this perspective. My internal conflict reveals a little of the general unease. If we’re just reinterpreting the past, where’s the space for individuality? Does remixing diminish the creator’s autonomy, reducing us to echoes of what’s come before?
I’d argue no.
If anything, reinterpreting the past can enhance individuality. Shakespeare borrowed shamelessly, but who remembers the original sources? Yet, we love his works that we celebrate them!
What Does It All Mean for Creativity?
If originality is an illusion, should that make me feel like my creativity is somehow less valuable? For a long time, I thought it might. The idea that every story I’ve ever dreamed up might just be a remix of something older used to keep me up at night.
Why even bother if it’s all been done before?
But I’ve learnt to see things differently. Not easily, but gradually.
Creativity, for me, isn’t about proving to the world that I’ve made something completely new. It’s about the moments when things click. Like when an idea I’ve been chasing suddenly connects with another, or when I find a way to express something I couldn’t quite say before.
What’s shifted for me is accepting that creativity doesn’t need to be about breaking new ground. It’s about participating in something bigger. Everything I write, every idea I have, adds to this endless conversation humans have been having for centuries. That’s not a loss. If anything, it’s humbling and, in a strange way, comforting.
And there's a deep beauty in that I feel deeply lucky to be part of.
