In college I took novel writing with a friend whose goal was to compose a grand space opera.  Ever week he would bring in a new chapter, and every week he would be at least one step closer to his goal.  The semester went by, and we spent hours bouncing our story ideas off of one another at the campus restaurant and were both as thrilled by our own created worlds as we were by each other’s.  A few months later we passed the class with partial works on our hands.  While mine languished in the netherworld of my computer hard-drive, he took it upon himself to continue what he’d begun.

It was a project he’d spent countless hours on – penning a history to his universe, character backgrounds, alien societal backgrounds, not to mention the actual prose of the work itself.  And, having read pieces of it myself, I can say that his hard work was really paying off.  It was compelling, had likeable characters, an intriguing plot and a diverse and well traversed galaxy.

Then, about a year ago, he found a list online of space opera clichés.  And as he read through the list he realized that his story conformed to almost every one of them. 

Disheartened, he gave up.  And another worthy tale died within the mind of its creator.

Thinking back on this, the words “nothing new under the sun” come to mind.  This familiar phrase can be seen in the book of Ecclesiastes 1:9-10.

“What has been is what will be,
         and what has been done is what will be done;
         there is nothing new under the sun.
 Is there a thing of which it is said,
         ‘See, this is new?’
     It has already been,
         in the ages before us.”

What a humbling thing for any Christian who dares to create what they assume is novel.

Critics often talk of clichés while they moan and pine for some originality.  But, personally, I find comfort in clichés.  And so does the mass audience.  Clichés are like that old pair of shorts you keep around forever, because even though they look ratty, they’re the most comfortable article of clothing you own.

I love knowing that everything is going to work out in the end.  I love knowing that the hero of the story is going to find his one and only.  I love it when the bad guy gets what’s coming to him in a particularly poetic way.  I love it when a story takes me somewhere that’s different enough to be exciting, but familiar enough to be comfortable.

Though I’m almost loath to admit it, one of my favorite books is I, Jedi, by Michael Stackpole.  It breaks no new ground.  It even retreads some old ground by using plot points from another Star Wars book as its basis.  In fact, the basis of the story is ancient – a man becomes a knight in order to save the woman he loves from a tower.  Only this knight’s sword happened to be a shaft of light.

Despite these things (or, perhaps, because of them), this book enraptured me like nothing I’d read prior to it.  It took me on a fantastic voyage through that familiar galaxy far, far away that I’ll never forget.

I say all this to make this statement – Originality is overrated (and impossible anyway).  But that doesn’t mean that your story isn’t worth telling.

Don’t let the death of another worthy tale be on your conscience.  Do it for me.  Do it for that lonely fifteen year kid living in his parent’s basement.  But, most of all, do it because you love the story.  Don’t worry what the critics say.  They’re just tired of speed-reading so many books.

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