There are days I don’t write.  The words come slow, or they don’t’ come at all. The muse refuses to strike.  But anyway, if I wrote about love, the words would only break my heart…not yours.  If I wrote about sadness, it would be the most overwhelming sadness that has darkened my door…not yours.  If I decided to sell out, there would be no buyers. If there were…caveat emptor.  The days grow longer for smaller prizes.

There is nothing new under the sun.  There are no new plot twists.  They have been twisted into “seen that, done that, got the t-shirt.” There are no new story lines. They have been repackaged and rebranded as new and improved.  But yet we go on not as true artists but as technicians chasing the next big thing, reinventing the wheel, building a better mouse trap.

The next “Great American Novel” won’t be written by you or me.  It will be “written” by AI if it hasn’t been already, awaiting market research and just the right algorithms to ensure maximum impact.  Of course, there will be the obligatory film based on the book cast with the most fabulous, sexiest, actors and actresses that AI can generate.  They say Hollywood was built on an illusion, but now it really will be to the disillusionment of all the people who have worked on a film set.  We have set the stage (no pun intended), for us becoming glorified monkeys throwing caca at each other in a theater in the round.

I write this with Van The Man Morrison, aka The Belfast Cowboy singing in the background.  And how apropos that he is singing “Caravan,” a song about freedom, community, and the universal power of music to transform us into another realm. As Van sings the song, he mentions that the music has “soul.”  And while AI might have the knowledge, it will never have soul.

Well tomorrow will be a new day and according to Orphan Annie, “you can bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow there will be sun.” I’m such a sucker for optimism.