(You Already Are)
A lot of writers tie themselves in knots trying to be unique.
They chase originality like it’s a finish line. They worry that their ideas are too familiar, their voice too influenced, their work too close to something that already exists. They read widely, love deeply, and then panic that it all shows too much.
Here’s the thing:
You don’t need to try to be unique.
You already are.
Uniqueness Isn’t a Choice You Make
Uniqueness isn’t something you decide one morning, like switching fonts or picking a new genre.
It’s an emergent property.
It comes from:
- the books you’ve read and the ones you haven’t,
- the things you care about,
- the way you notice the world,
- the questions you keep asking,
- the things you can’t not write about.
Even when two writers start with the same premise, the same trope, the same “what if?”—the results diverge almost immediately. Not because one tried harder to be original, but because they couldn’t help being themselves.
That’s not something you can fake. It’s something that leaks out whether you want it to or not.
Trying to Be Unique Is How You Get Stuck
When you focus too hard on being different, you start second-guessing everything.
Is this too obvious?
Has this been done before?
What if people think I’m copying someone else?
That line of thinking doesn’t lead to better writing. It leads to paralysis.
Most books don’t fail because they weren’t unique. They fail because they weren’t finished. Or because the writer kept sanding off the parts that felt honest, worried they were too familiar.
Ironically, the attempt to be unique often strips the work of the very things that would have made it distinctive.
Voice Comes From Accumulation, Not Avoidance
Your voice isn’t built by avoiding influence. It’s built by absorbing it.
You write badly.
You write derivative things.
You write scenes that sound like someone else wrote them.
Then you keep going.
Over time, patterns emerge. Preferences harden. Habits form. You start making the same kinds of choices again and again—sometimes consciously, often not.
That’s your voice.
Not something you invent. Something you reveal by doing the work.
The Takeaway
Stop trying to be unique.
Write honestly. Write clearly. Write the stories you’re drawn to, using the tools and influences you already carry with you.
Finish things. Revise them. Let your instincts show.
Your uniqueness isn’t fragile. It doesn’t need protection. It will survive familiarity, influence, and even the occasional cliché, the well worn trope.
You already are who you are, but now you’re on the page.
Your job isn’t to be different.
It’s to write the story that only YOU can write.