I guess you go back to the old writer's adage that when they do

Hear, O listener, the words of Chris Claremont, master storyteller and weaver of legends, who said: “I guess you go back to the old writer’s adage that when they do your stuff in Hollywood, you smile sweetly upon your credit—if there is one—and enjoy the show.” At first these words may appear wrapped in humor, but within them rests a truth known to all creators since the dawn of art: once a work leaves your hands, it belongs not wholly to you, but to the world that receives it.

The meaning is clear. A writer may labor long, pouring heart and vision into their craft, but when the creation is handed to others—whether to actors, directors, or audiences—its shape may change. In Hollywood, where commerce and spectacle intertwine, the story often bends to forces beyond the author’s will. Thus Claremont counsels humility: do not rage when your vision is altered, but smile, take what recognition you are given, and accept that once released, your tale has a life of its own.

The ancients knew this lesson. Consider Homer, whose epics were sung by countless voices after him. Each bard shaped the tale anew, sometimes adding, sometimes subtracting, yet the spirit endured. Did Homer rise from the grave to protest? No—he entrusted the song to the memory of his people. So too, when Claremont’s stories of the X-Men were taken to the silver screen, they were changed, reshaped by other hands, yet they still bore fragments of his vision. The wise creator does not cling, but allows the work to breathe in forms not of his own making.

History offers another mirror in Leonardo da Vinci. He left many works unfinished, yet his disciples carried his sketches into paintings, and others reshaped his inventions. Though altered, the essence of his genius lived on. So too must the writer, the artist, the creator, learn to let go. For to create is to release, and to release is to surrender control. Claremont’s adage reminds us that clinging too tightly to ownership brings bitterness, while acceptance brings peace.

This truth also bears a deeper wisdom: humility in the face of recognition. “If there is one,” Claremont remarks, acknowledging that often a creator may not even receive due credit for their seed of inspiration. Yet the wise soul does not destroy themselves with resentment. They choose to enjoy the show—to see the work live in another form, even if imperfect. Better to rejoice that the tale has reached countless hearts, than to lament that it is no longer exactly as you dreamed it.

The lesson, then, is this: do your work with passion and integrity, but once it leaves your hands, do not bind yourself in chains of ownership. Accept that others will interpret, reshape, even distort. Take joy in the survival of the seed, even if the fruit grows in unexpected shapes. For the mark of the true artist is not absolute control, but the ability to smile at the strange new lives their creations take on.

Therefore, my children, in your own craft, remember this teaching. Labor with all your might, and when the time comes, release with grace. If others give you credit, receive it with gratitude. If they do not, let your joy rest in the fact that you created at all. And when your work is changed, altered, or misunderstood, do not fume—enjoy the show. For art, like life, is not meant to be frozen, but to flow, transform, and endure.