Borrow Clothes from Other Writers, But Don’t Forget Your Skin — Influence vs Originality
In 1965, a young musician named Fela Anikulapo-Kuti was still trying to find his sound. He played jazz, copied a bit of James Brown, mixed in some highlife, and even dabbled in trumpet solos like Miles Davis. During this phase of his evolution people did not quite understand his style yet. This was because Fela sounded like everyone and no one at the same time.
On a fateful day, however, something clicked. He began to sing in pidgin. He started to talk about the government, about people, about survival. Suddenly, the horns, the drums, and the chants found a new meaning. Afrobeat was born.
That story has always stayed with me, because every writer goes through a “Fela phase.” A stage where we sound like someone else. Maybe Chimamanda. Maybe Orwell. Maybe that smooth-talking guy on Medium whose metaphors make you jealous.
Relax, I am not about to judge you.
It is normal to borrow at first — every artist starts by echoing another voice.
But the danger is when we wear another writer’s voice so tightly that we forget our own skin underneath.
Writing is not about being original from day one; it is about becoming original through imitation, reflection and courage.
When you borrow, borrow with sense. You can borrow the rhythm of Hemingway, the calm of Achebe or the wit of Cyprain Ekwensi but when it comes to telling your story, it must still sound like you.
I remember another story — this one from 1889, when a young painter named Vincent van Gogh died, mostly unrecognized. He used to study the works of Japanese artists. He copied their brushstrokes, colors, and composition styles. But he didn’t stop there. He added his pain, his madness, his yellow light — and in doing so, turned imitation into identity. Today, nobody remembers the names of the painters he copied. But everyone knows Van Gogh.
That’s the trick: study widely, but feel deeply.
The words you borrow are clothes. Your emotion, your background, your rhythm comprise your ‘skin.’ And it is the skin people come to read, not the outfit.
The truth is that readers can always tell when a writer is pretending — when the style is wearing the person instead of the other way around.
So yes, borrow phrases, borrow rhythm, borrow inspiration. But always return home. Add your own accent, your own humor, your own soul. Because somewhere between what you admire and what you truly are; that’s where your real voice lives.
And like Fela, once you find that sound — nobody will ever mistake it for anyone else’s.
