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FROM THE AUTHOR

On the Nature of My Authorial Work

 

The creation of a profound scientific study, an analytical treatise, or an authentic literary work demands more than mere academic skills; it requires a rare endowment comparable to a sacred spark. True creativity is born where dry facts and rigid rules converge with the author's intuition, depth of feeling, and inner vision. This creative impulse, often described as a God-given talent, cannot be artificially cultivated or replicated—it is either inherently embedded within human nature or entirely absent.


By no means is everyone granted the exceptional intellectual capacities necessary to think broadly, conceptually, and beyond conventional patterns. While an ordinary mind is capable of structuring information and following established instructions, only genuine talent possesses the ability to weave disparate phenomena together, look past the horizon of the familiar, and uncover hidden meanings. It is this non-standard, expansive thinking that transforms ordinary text into a living word, and routine data collection into a groundbreaking scientific discovery.


Ultimately, both great science and high literature are not mere crafts, but vocations accessible only to a chosen few. Without an innate intellectual richness and creative audacity, any research risks remaining a mere collection of trivialities, and a book—a hollow form devoid of soul. It is precisely this divine gift of thinking far beyond the mundane that distinguishes a true creator and thinker from a mere executor, leaving a lasting imprint on history and culture.


In concluding the present study on authorship, intellectual independence, and responsibility, I consider it necessary to say a few words about my own understanding of authorial work. For me, authorship has never been merely a matter of placing a name on a title page. It has always meant, first and foremost, independent thought, the ability to express that thought in one’s own words, and the moral responsibility of a human being for what he or she presents to the reader as the result of his or her own intellectual labor.


I received my education at the Faculty of Journalism of the State University in Tashkent during the Soviet period. It was a rigorous professional school. We were taught not only how to master the written word, but also how to work with facts, sources, textual composition, narrative logic, editing, and the journalist’s responsibility for the published word. It is precisely for this reason that I have never regarded the rewriting of another person’s text as a method of literary or scholarly work. Even more unacceptable to me has always been outright plagiarism. To appropriate another person’s intellectual labor and place one’s own name beneath it is something I regard not only as a violation of professional ethics, but also as a profoundly dishonorable act.


I began writing, composing, and creating my own stories in early childhood. I learned to read and write at a very young age, and one of the distinctive features of my childhood was an exceptionally developed memory. I was able to retain large amounts of material that I had read or heard for long periods of time. With age, this ability naturally changed, yet the essential quality remained—the habit of constantly working through thought, of retaining large conceptual structures, of connecting facts, and of rapidly transforming an emerging idea into a coherent text.


As Head of the Office of the Council of Ministers of the Turkmen SSR, I bore personal responsibility for everything that landed on the desk of the republic's top leader. While my team of journalists prepared exclusive analytical reports, I always chose to write the most critical and high-stakes speeches for Saparmurat Niyazov myself. It was a profession that demanded absolute focus and the ability to perform at the absolute limit of one's capabilities.

 

Memory often takes me back to 1989. The directive came out of nowhere: to prepare an extensive report by morning for an address before the party and economic elite of the Turkmen SSR. A sleepless night lay ahead. The clock ticked away relentlessly as I gathered materials, structured arguments, and piece by piece molded disconnected points into a single, monumental message. By dawn, a text calculated for three hours of speaking was ready. At the meeting, the speech was a resounding success, culminating in applause. The audience cheered for the man at the podium, never imagining that behind every word of that flawless delivery lay a sleepless night of intense intellectual labor by his aide.

 

Up until my emigration from the country, I prepared a monumental, 100-page analytical report for President Saparmurat Niyazov on a daily basis. This colossal document provided a profound cross-section of the entire nation’s vitality, ranging from the detailed monitoring of the economic and social spheres, culture, education, and healthcare, to a rigorous analysis of the current political situation in the country. Every single day, this massive volume of data was filtered through the lens of my personal responsibility, structured, and transformed into precise strategic intelligence that landed directly on the desk of the Head of State, serving as the very foundation for key government decisions.

 

This is not a matter of vanity, but a testament to an unprecedented level of trust: the drafting of all high-stakes documents for the international community—including the UN, OSCE, and other global organizations—was something President Saparmurat Niyazov would entrust to absolutely no one but me. I vividly remember a critical time when severe heart complications confined me to a hospital bed for intensive treatment. Despite my medical condition, the President’s security service delivered all the necessary state documents directly to my hospital room. Over the next 24 hours, fighting through illness, I worked non-stop to compile and finalize a comprehensive report and address. This text was meticulously prepared for his landmark state visit to the United States, which included his high-profile meeting with Bill Clinton and a key speech before the United Nations General Assembly.


To put my role into the context of contemporary international politics, I functioned effectively as the Chief Speechwriter and Senior Strategic Advisor to President Saparmurat Niyazov. Although my position was officially designated differently within the Soviet and post-Soviet bureaucratic nomenclature, it does not alter the core substance of my responsibilities: it was I who bore sole accountability for the ideological, analytical, and textual formulation of state policy, both domestically and at the highest international levels.


Serving as the Chief Speechwriter to a Head of State is a monumental, titanic labor, entirely hidden from the public eye. It is a profession that demands immense mental fortitude, absolute intellectual devotion, and an unprecedented level of personal responsibility. At this echelon of power, you have no right to exhaustion, writer's block, or error, for the price of a single misplaced word is the reputation of the entire nation. It is a life lived in a state of perpetual time crunch and relentless cognitive strain, where for the sake of a single, perfectly crafted phrase delivered by the leader, you sacrifice sleep, health, and personal time—all to remain the invisible architect of grand history.


That episode became for me one of the early practical lessons in the nature of authorship. The public name and the actual creator of a text do not always coincide. It is precisely for this reason that, decades later, the question of the true provenance of an intellectual result remains so important to me.


I have never regarded the ability to write quickly as a matter of mechanically producing words at speed. Rapid writing is possible only when the thought has already been organized within the author. When the author understands the subject, sees the composition, is capable of sustaining the development of a narrative or argument, and can already sense the direction of the next passage. In a state of particularly intense creative concentration, I am capable of producing exceptionally large volumes of literary text within a very short period of time. This does not mean that subsequent work is unnecessary: every serious work requires returning to what has been written, verification, editing, and final compositional refinement.


Today, at the age of sixty-three, I continue to feel within myself a strong capacity for intensive intellectual and creative labor. For me, working on a text remains a natural continuation of thought itself. I can work for long periods on scholarly argumentation and then move to literary prose, journalism, memoir writing, or legal analysis. The genres and tasks differ, but the essential principle remains unchanged—the necessity of understanding what I write and of determining for myself the intellectual direction of the work.


The tools of my work are, at their foundation, remarkably simple: human thought, memory, experience, pen and paper, and later the computer as a means of typing and technically organizing a text. I am accustomed to working independently on my works at all principal stages: developing the initial conception, writing the text, returning to it, correcting it, editing it, structuring it, and preparing it for publication. For me, this is not merely a technical habit. It is a way of preserving the direct connection between the author’s thought and the final work.


It is precisely for this reason that the emergence of new technological tools has not altered my fundamental understanding of authorship. A tool may accelerate a particular operation, help reveal an alternative formulation, or facilitate technical work. But it cannot replace the internal intellectual biography from which a human being’s own thought emerges.


Over decades of professional and creative work, I have arrived at a very simple rule: if a thought belongs to another person—name that person; if you use a source—cite it; if you develop another person’s idea—show where the predecessor’s contribution ends and your own begins; if you place your name beneath a work—be prepared to accept responsibility for every material assertion that you have consciously retained in that work.


I have never been ashamed to learn from others. On the contrary, human culture exists because one generation continues the intellectual labor of another. But there is an immense moral distance between learning from another human being and appropriating that person’s thought.

It is precisely for this reason that I have always regarded plagiarism as incompatible with the dignity of an author.

An author may be assisted.

An author’s work may be edited.

An author may be challenged.

An author may be offered a source, an argument, or another perspective.

But ultimately, there comes a moment when the human being stands alone before his or her own name and his or her own work.

And then there is only one truly important question:

can I honestly say that the thought I present to the reader as my own has genuinely passed through my own intellectual labor?

For me, the answer to this question has always been, and remains, the foundation of authorial honor.

Doctor of Philosophy Mayer Meir Kaltenbrunner
Researcher in Jurisprudence, Criminal Law, Criminology, and Criminalistics

Kaltenbrunner Veritas Press
Norway, © 2026

© 2026 Mayer Meir Kaltenbrunner