Copy, copy and copy

The unexpected realisation which I wrote yesterday about took me to a Woody Allen’s line I read time ago. I cannot quote it verbatim (it was in a Spanish translation), although the point was that he’d never intended to be funny but to write dramas à la Tennessee Williams.

Strange to believe. I’m certainly not the only one who struggles to imagine Woody Allen being someone different from Woody Allen. The man who’s always performing himself, or that version of himself he’s closest to. The most difficult argument to defend his films in the current #metoo is precisely the looming presence of his autobiography.

Encountering your voice while you pretend to be another is what aspiring writers do. It’s almost an act of faith: find an author you admire deeply and replicate their style in order to find your own. Like being in love. The best version of ourselves comes out when someone releases the tension from that deeply ingrained nerve. And in the process of trying to be Zadie Smith, Olivia Laing, James Baldwin, Derek Jarman, Ali Smith, Richard Ford or even Tennessee Williams, apparently I’ll discover who I am.