Pablo Picasso once said that “great artists steal.” For most of my life, I have found it hard to agree with this statement. Because I’ve stolen before, but I don’t think I’m an artist. I’m simply a thief.

A thief of the lives of strangers. I’ve written them down and drawn out their faces. I’ve hidden away all my writings. I’m ashamed of my unoriginality, repulsed by it. I’m frustrated by my lack of knowledge.

I first stole when I was twelve. I wrote a story, a collage composed of everything I had gathered in my thieving little fingers. Small pieces of debris, from varying sources, ranging in popularity. I tried to fit them all together, like a puzzle, but the edges were much too erratic. I hid my final creation away in a bright pink binder. I put it in a cabinet and closed the door. It’s both my proudest and most embarrassing achievement. I can’t call it worthless, because I did learn from it.

I’ve tried not to steal again, but I’ve definitely been tempted. I’ve maybe borrowed a face, a mass of hair, and a pair of eyes. I’ve taken a pencil and memorized their respective shapes. I chose him and I chose his life. I’ve given him a voice, deep and isolated, like the thump of footsteps on a foggy, lonely road. I’ve named him. I’ve hidden him in a long green coat. I’m ashamed of stealing. I haven’t got the elegance it takes to walk away without raising suspicion. He will be my last theft. My very last.

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As time’s gone by, I’ve begun to see the act of stealing in a different light. I’ve learned to respect those who practice it, and by extension, I’ve begun to calm myself down.

Because to write one must steal, like a painter steals the sunlight from a crisp summer sky. A writer steals the hands of grandparents and the quiver in a friend’s laughter. A writer steals what others take for granted.

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His name is Eric. Eric Schweig. He’s now three years older than my father. The skin on his back is dark brown and drowned in ink. He has a xenomorph tattooed on one arm. He likes to make masks. He’s had a sad life. While his career peaked in the early 90’s, his soul began to slowly deteriorate. He seems happier now, which I’m glad about. I once watched an interview where, when asked about what he liked most about acting, he smirked and said: “My paychecks.”

I don’t know him. Nor do I know anything about his life. I did as most people did. I saw him. I had never seen the likes of him before. He said nothing but I could hear him whispering. I thought he was incredible. I didn’t fall in love with the man, but with the idea of him. I wanted to help him. It was naive of me to think that I would be able to fix anything.

But I took his face and his story and sat on the floor of my bedroom and tried to make something out of what I had stolen.

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Here, I’ll tell you what I’ve done all these months, while the virus held the planet still between its hands and watched us unravel. I began to read works published online, by people like me. I found my den of thieves.

I made a friend there. She wrote about the same man I did. Not a lot of people know who he is. And yet, there are stories written for him. Just imagine that. To be silenced, disregarded, to have your body melt into a blur of color, and still have people write for you.

At the end of Last of the Mohicans, Eric Schweig slid down the slope of a cliff and descended towards the rocks against a sea of green trees. She stole his life. She had him marry the girl he loved. She gave them adventures to go on.

She stole a love story and gave it sound. She gave it grace. She made it beautiful, the way it deserved to be.

And, at this point, I can’t return what I have stolen. So I’ll stay seated on my bedroom floor until I can make something beautiful.

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THANK YOU FOR READING!

Thank you to my friend NotMarge for letting me talk about her wonderful Last of the Mohicans fanfiction, “Into the Wild.” If you’re into some well-written, interracial romances (or just happen to be an Uncas and Alice shipper, in which case, I salute you), please check out her story on fanfiction.net!

Click this link to read “Into the Wild” by NotMarge.

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Copyright © Blanca Parga 2020