Composers shouldn't think too much - it interferes with their

Hear, O seeker of wisdom, the playful yet piercing words of Howard Dietz: “Composers shouldn’t think too much – it interferes with their plagiarism.” At first, these words sound like jest, a quip from a man of wit. Yet beneath their humor lies a hidden truth about the nature of creation, the birth of art, and the eternal dance between originality and influence. For Dietz, a lyricist of Broadway’s golden age, knew well that no melody, no phrase, no idea arises from the void. All art is woven from threads that came before, and the mind that overthinks may strangle the natural flow of inspiration.

The first truth in this saying lies in the jest about thinking too much. To create is not merely to calculate or to analyze. Creation is a flame, sparked by instinct, intuition, and emotion. When the mind is shackled by overthinking, the flame is smothered. Dietz reminds us that music, like all art, must be born of spontaneity, of the heart’s quick leap, not merely of reason’s slow march. Overthinking paralyzes; feeling liberates.

Then comes the sting of irony: “it interferes with their plagiarism.” Here Dietz speaks not to shame, but to reveal. For every composer, knowingly or not, borrows from the music of others—echoes of folk songs, hymns, chants, and ancient rhythms live in every score. To “plagiarize” in this sense is not theft, but transformation. What was once another’s becomes new in the hands of the artist. Beethoven borrowed motifs from lesser-known composers, yet transformed them into symphonies that shook the heavens. Stravinsky once declared, “Good composers borrow, great composers steal,” meaning that genius does not avoid influence but reshapes it into something immortal.

History offers us luminous examples. Consider Johann Sebastian Bach, whose work often drew upon Lutheran hymns and folk melodies of his time. His chorales were built from tunes that the people already knew, yet he clothed them in harmonies so rich that they became eternal. Bach did not create in a vacuum; he embraced the inheritance of sound, refining it into divine beauty. Was this plagiarism? Perhaps in jest, yes—but in truth, it was the alchemy of genius.

So too in literature, where Shakespeare’s plays were often drawn from older tales, chronicles, and myths. Hamlet came not from his invention but from ancient legend, yet through his pen, it became the crown jewel of the stage. He did not fear influence; he embraced it, knowing that what mattered was not the source, but the transformation. In this way, Dietz’s jest touches on a universal law: all creation is built on what came before, and the wise do not deny this but use it with courage.

The lesson, then, is clear: do not fear influence, nor overthink originality. Every idea, every song, every story you create is a relative of all that has come before. To strive for something utterly untouched by the past is folly; to shape the past into new form is the true art. Overthinking will bind you in fear of stealing; openness will allow you to borrow, reshape, and create anew.

Practical wisdom follows: when you create—whether in music, writing, or life—allow yourself to be influenced. Listen widely, read deeply, learn from those who came before. But do not merely copy; transform. Take the fragment, the echo, the seed, and make it your own. And above all, do not think so much that you stifle the instinct that breathes life into your work. For creation is not only of the mind, but of the heart and spirit.

Thus remember the jest of Howard Dietz: “Composers shouldn’t think too much – it interferes with their plagiarism.” Though humorous, it carries a truth as ancient as the muses: all art is born of influence, yet shaped by fire within. Embrace the echoes of the past, but sing them in your own voice. For in this, you join the eternal chorus of creators, each borrowing, each giving, each adding their note to the endless song of humanity.