I’ve been told all of my life that there is nothing new under the sun: no new art, music, literature, or thought. I can toil over things for countless hours extracting every possible thing that something could muster and still create nothing truly original. What’s the point of creating when your ideas have been done before?
I can set my sights on the novel. I can look to media and innovations that are growing more and more defunct in our Contemporary world. Look somewhere in-between them, as studies of sorts, as probes, to find a yet unknown void. I can’t tell if I can ever make something unabashedly new. I have to live with the failures of this in all of my pieces.
At least I’m trying.