Today's writing inspirational thought, (from today's nnonfiction essay critique in Honors English) from Bradbury's forward to The October Country:
So, the first ten of my writing years were dumb stuff, hardly worth filing away as proof of my blind attempts to be something I could never be. Imitation was my way of life, so true creation couldn't raise its fine head.
To put it another way, there was an Undiscovered Country behind my medulla oblongata, but I never traveled there. Shakespeare's Undiscovered Country was Death itself. Mine, when I finally charted it, led by my voices, was the territory of ideas, concepts, notions, conceits, all immensely personal, nowhere to be found in Burroughs, Baum, and Verne. I had to learn to reject them as models, keep them as loves, yes, but stop trying to live like John Carter, Tik-Tok, or the Nautilus' mad captain.