I will never understand the love of pop music. Today’s pop music has decreased exponentially in quality and I am not sure how one line repeated over and over and over (and over and over…and over) again is considered a lyric. To what distant land has our creativity disappeared?
Lead me to where out starving artists have wandered because I am starving for art!
It appears that half of movies these days are either sequels (or trilogies, etc.) and/or based on books. The movies that are considered original are generally mediocre, kindling my desperation for that next plot that will remind me artists still exist, although they may be hiding in the deepest corners of the earth.
And the quality of fictional writing has declined horrifically. Books should challenge readers with unfamiliar words, provide questions to ponder, and ooze originality. I want to weep when a beloved character encounters tragedy, exclaim with triumph at the protagonist’s success, and become delightfully frustrated when the perfectly woven plot leaves me hanging and begging for more.
Part of me aspires to be one of those starving artists and remind the world that originality is still alive!
(Please pardon my extreme use of adverbs and other writing taboos because I have not written in a long time and am fond of lengthy descriptions.)