There was an article in the Star a couple months back. I don't remember if I wrote about this yet or not but my mind can't help but go back to it every once in a while.

It was about plagiarism.

The author spoke of how 'everyone has done it', though innocuously and for virtuous reasons.

For example:

One day while you were still in college, you look at the clock and it's midnight and you only just recalled that you had an essay due for a class that was scheduled early the next morning.

In a hectic Google-frenzy, you stumble upon the work of an unknown 40-something schoolteacher from Smallstown, Nowhere who had written about the very subject you are writing about too.

You think to yourself, 'This is no one, living no where. They put it up for the world to read. For free, at that! It's not like I will be depriving this person of their livelihood. Why not?'

So you copy it, hand it in, get a decent score.

My initial reaction was indignant rage. I certainly have never outright copied any one's work. At least not intentionally. Therefore, 'everyone' has not done it.

I read this article on a plane flight so I had plenty of time to just sit and contemplate the subject. The more I thought about it, the more my rage died down but not the feeling of offense.

Each person owns their own writing style. Sometimes, if you read enough of their words, it becomes apparent. I know I have a writing style (I believe it to be immature and underdeveloped but I do have one).

Style cannot simply be copied. It is personal and developed over time, customised if you will, according to each person. It is an extension of a person's individuality and personality.

There, in the plane, I realized that if someone were to copy my words, the 'hurt' would not come from not having credit or not being paid or anything like that. No. The sting would come from something else. They did not just copy my words. They took my idea, a product of my identity, my soul even (if I were to get 'deep' on you), and claimed it for their own.

I find comfort in my individuality as a woman and a human and to have someone come around and just take it and say it's theirs. Kind of defeats the purpose of being your own person, don't it?

I suppose the argument can be made that if it is so precious, you shouldn't put it out there for the world to read. But there is something incredibly therapeutic about that.