Acute readers (AMToNW) will have noticed that there has been a dearth of new postings on this and other web journals these few days. The possibility has been mooted that the leading literary legends have been offline at a secret conference, to share inspiration and bodily fluids. While decorum prevents me from commenting on this conjecture (Broomhilda, please stop doing that, we may need to eat that for breakfast later, and Mark, I know that Caroline said she didn’t have any objections to what you are doing, but please, not in front of the window), I feel obliged to reveal the real reason for the current hiatus.
The fact is that the unleashing of the power of the internet onto the world has meant that everything that has ever been written, or could be written has now been published. The limits of human invention and art have been exhausted, and there is nothing more to say. In a freaky parallel with the monkeys and typewriters story, we have arrived at the end of creativity and must now scratch our heads about what is left to do.
Personally, I am going to force a spot of breakfast down, watch the tri-nations game, the Trent Bridge test match while coming to terms with the endless dull hours that await me until the great sub-editor in the void applies the final full stop.