Once upon a time there was a little girl who had enormous ears. They were beautiful ears. She used them to listen to everyone. She listened secretly. She learned all their secrets. She grew up listening in on everyone and everything.
One day, she scrambled up all she'd heard and wrote a book and the book got published and everyone thought she was very clever and very nice and truth be told she was both of these things but deep inside she kept a dark secret.
Because she listened so much and everyone made her feel so good for listening and started calling her a 'good listener' and inviting her to great parties where she met fabulous older men who found her cute despite her ears and who she found interesting despite their years and because the critical reviews were mixed and because she had to please her publishers she went and on and on with that deep dark secret buried deep inside her.
But the second book came out to lukewarm reviews and the play didn't quite live up to its hype and the movies she had written got lost and it began to dawn on everyone what that deep dark secret was.
As she talked more and more, naturally she listened less and less until one day, while writing her third book in her very clever loft writing studio it even dawned on her that the secret was out.
It was a secret buried so long and so deep and so far from her waking mind that had it not been for her success she would never have figured it out. Having spent her career scrambling up the words of others and the thoughts of others she realized at last that she hadn't an original thought to call her own.
Suddenly the dreary stylistic and thematic repetition of her fiction was revealled to her in all its tattered bits and having done so much talking she reached the dreaded point where she had run out of other peoples' words to scramble around on her word processor.
Finally, she had to write out her own, and in despair, she found them to be the same words she had so often heard before.
Not a damn original thought in her head.
She shrugged. 'It's a business,' she said to the empty loft writing studio and got busy writing down a new addition to her house. Her words, his words, she didn't care as long as the paycheques were in her name.