Kurt Vonnegut Jr.’s ghost gripes at the current crop of writers.
“Every creative writer is a teacher,” he preaches.
“Today, every creative writer is a sensual exhibitionist,” he gripes.
He lives on the planet Tralfamadore. With a porn star actress.
But there’s no room for Trump. “Let him get his own. Oh. He did?”
“Did Trump fuck a porn star on Earth while his wife was having his son?”
“Wowza,” says Vonnegut’s ghost. “Let me write that down.”
“And I thought Deadeye Dick was bad.”
“Remind me not to vote for him,” Vonnegut says, smirking.
“Only art can make the soul grow,” Vonnegut points out.
Kurt Vonnegut’s ghost believes most new writers are verbal narcissists.
He’s read most of the stories, and the editors can’t even proof the work.
They’re all friends, it seems, buying each other’s stories, and praising it.
Because talking heads and video games have taken over Politics and Entertainment.
Video game movies. Video game Congressional Hearings that don’t hear the public.
Oh well. “There are still artists doing their art,” he points out. “Artists save themselves.”
“The old Platonic (or was it Aristotle?) adage, Art is in the brain of the beholder is true!”
Only 1 percent are accepted and published widely. The rest are rejected.
“That looks like your world today,” Kurt V. says.
“Glad I’m where I am, and you’re where you are. Where else can we be?”
“Aware. Be aware of the Truth.”
And so it goes.
Copyright 2022 by James Musgrave
