Have you ever had a thought, a little spark of an idea, that felt so bright and especially yours? Maybe you were writing, or painting, or just daydreaming, and it felt like you stumbled onto something precious, like a secret you wanted to hold close and tell no one about. I used to have moments like this all the time when I’d write for someone else. Ghostwriting was a major part of my “professional” career, just putting words together based on client’s needs.

Every so often, a really good idea popped into my head, one so shiny that I didn’t want to waste it on some article I was writing for cheap. My first instinct was, “I shouldn’t waste this here. I should save this for me!” Inevitably, my conscience would chime in with something to the effect of “Isn’t that… hoarding? Shouldn’t good ideas be free? Shouldn’t they be allowed to fly free?”

This feeling of ownership over something as floaty and intangible as an idea becomes a funny little tug-of-war. We talk a lot about ‘intellectual property,’ which is a big, formal phrase for that feeling of ‘mine’. Yes, getting credit is nice. Getting paid for your creation, especially, helps keep the lights on, helps buy the instruments, the notebooks, and the coffee that fuel more ideas. It feels validating.

But what if it’s not the idea itself, and it’s the final result that holds all the value. Maybe it’s the skill and the effort, the hours spent learning, practicing, and refining one’s craft, that are the most valuable. The act of making something tangible out of that floaty idea, though, seems like what we should compensate. So, how do we value, and compensate, the different stops on the creation journey, not just the destination?

I’ve always tried to imagine an economy built purely on ideas. Like water, ideas always seem to find a way to trickle down through thought streams and eventually even the ages. Ideas are meant to mingle, to merge, and to change as they flow from one mind to another. Still, it seems like Copyright laws try to build dams or at least channel the flow. Yes, Copyright has its good side, protecting creators from blatant copying, giving us a chance to benefit from our work. But sometimes, maybe those dams hold things back too much? Maybe they stop the natural mingling and evolution of ideas? It’s a delicate balance.

There’s a line from a song by the band U2 that echoes in my mind sometimes when I think about this. It goes: “Every artist is a cannibal; every poet is a thief.”

It sounds harsh, at first, doesn’t it? Cannibal! Thief? But should we take it literally? Maybe it simply means we all consume what came before. We absorb influences, we digest the art, the music, and the stories of others. We take little pieces from it and add them to our own consciousness, knowingly or unknowingly. Perhaps, we steal, but we also borrow. We reinterpret. We build upon foundations laid by countless others.

Think about your favorite song, film, painting, or book. Did it spring from nothing? Of course not. So, can you see hear the echoes of things that came before? Can you see the colors someone else used, the rhythm someone else tapped out, or the story structure someone else perfected?

Perhaps some of us are just better thieves than others, more skilled at weaving together the threads we’ve borrowed. Some of us are more adept at transforming what we’ve consumed into something that feels fresh, even if its ingredients are familiar. Maybe some of us just have greater appetites for ideation, like me, constantly seeking out inspiration, soaking it all in, and ever hungry for more.

Truthfully, though, none of us can truly own an idea in its purest form. Those sparks of inspiration flicker everywhere. Even our expressions of ideas, the songs we sing, the pictures we paint, the words we write… once they’re out in the world, they become part of that shared flow of creative byproducts. Others see them, hear them, feel them, and they become part of their own inner landscapes, ready to spark something new again.

What we can claim, perhaps what feels truly ours, is the work and efforts themselves. We must properly value our hours spent wrestling with the words, the colors, and the sounds. The care, the focus, and the heart poured into the making must be recognized. That journey, and that process, those feel like something we own. The dedication and our skills honed over time are things nobody else can replicate exactly.

So, are we creatives thieves? Perhaps, on some basic level, we are. But maybe ‘borrower’ is a kinder word to give ourselves, or ‘remixer,’ or ‘alchemist,’ transforming the old into something new. We stand on the shoulders of giants, yes, but we also add our own small steppingstones to a much longer path of cocreation.

It’s just a thought, but maybe the real beauty of creative effort isn’t in owning the ideas. Rather, it’s in the act of sharing them, shaping them, and letting them flow out into the world.

~ Artemis Desertsong

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For a more enjoyable listening experience than my own raspy soft-spoken voice, this essay is read by Vivienne, a natural-sounding AI voice from Microsoft. Join us for this intellectual journey and share your opinions in the comments! 👇