To be honest, and this is terrible to admit, I hardly read any

Hear now, children of wisdom, the confession of John Allison, who spoke plainly and without disguise: “To be honest, and this is terrible to admit, I hardly read any teen mystery books at all.” What seems at first a small admission is in truth a window into the soul of creation, a reminder that the paths we walk as artists, thinkers, and dreamers are not always paved with the stones one might expect. The man who became known for his tales of youthful strangeness and subtle mystery declares that he did not grow up with the very books that many would think were his foundation. And yet, from this absence was born his unique vision.

Consider the weight of honesty in his words. To say, “this is terrible to admit,” is to bow before expectation, to recognize the pressure of tradition. Yet he does not cloak himself in falsehood; he does not pretend to have been nourished on teen mysteries like Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew. Instead, he admits the lack, and from that lack we may glean wisdom: one need not always drink from the wells of one’s genre to find the strength to create within it. The streams of influence are many, and sometimes, it is the barren places that force us to dig new wells.

Think of the painter Vincent van Gogh, who in his early life admired few of the established masters of his day. He did not tread the familiar road of copying the classics, but instead was drawn to strange colors, bold strokes, and visions of life others called madness. Out of that estrangement, that refusal—or inability—to be steeped in the canon, came works that reshaped the world. So it is with Allison’s words: by confessing he had little touch with teen mystery books, he reveals that his own path was forged through different fires, and perhaps that is why his works carry a voice unlike any other.

The quote also speaks to the strange paradox of creation: that sometimes the best way to build anew is not to build upon old foundations, but to wander in other landscapes until a vision strikes. The mystery in Allison’s stories is not born of imitation, but of instinct, of life observed in schoolyards, in quiet towns, in the shadows between comedy and the uncanny. He reminds us that it is not always the most devoted disciple of a tradition who reshapes it, but the outsider who enters with fresh eyes, unbound by its rules.

This lesson must not be lost on the young. For how often do we feel unworthy because we have not read enough, studied enough, or lived enough in the footsteps of others? Yet Allison’s confession becomes a liberation: you need not have absorbed every classic to create something worthy. You need not have mastered the tradition to leave your own mark upon it. The heart of art lies not only in memory but in imagination, not only in inheritance but in invention.

So let us draw forth the teaching: be honest about your influences, whether few or many. Do not clothe yourself in false credentials, for authenticity is greater than pretense. Seek inspiration where you find it—whether in books, in the streets, in music, or in the lives of people around you. If your well is not the same as others’, then perhaps the water you bring forth will refresh the world all the more.

Therefore, the practical path is this: do not despair if your journey does not mirror that of the masters. Read widely, yes, but live deeply also. Observe with the eye of the poet, listen with the ear of the sage, and be unafraid to admit what you have not known. For out of such honesty may come works truer than mimicry, and voices more enduring than echo. As John Allison has shown, one may confess to have hardly read teen mystery books, and yet still craft stories that inspire, delight, and endure. And so, the absence itself becomes a gift, a lesson to us all.