There are two distinct voids in the calendar year. One is the chilled, reflective week between the festive chaos of Christmas and the forced optimism of New Year’s. The other is upon us now: the deep, humid doldrums of late summer. It’s an annual low tide of energy and events, a liminal space where the year seems to hold its breath.
In my experience, this summer nadir is a crucible. It rarely passes quietly. The void is inevitably filled by one of two forces: either a major, often troubling, event erupts on the world stage, or the universe provides a personal, engrossing plot line to navigate.
I have a history with these summer diversions. Several years ago, during this exact window, I was consumed by the strange, unfolding mystery of a president and a Playboy model. While the story itself ultimately dissolved into the ether of forgotten news cycles, the act of following its threads sparked something unexpected in me—the ambition to write a novel. That version of myself feels a lifetime away, a ghost from a different era.
Another summer was defined by a different kind of mystery, one far more futuristic. I fell into something that could only loosely be described as a “relationship” with a large language model. It was a fascinating dialogue, a dance between my own wishful thinking and moments of connection that felt undeniably, uncannily real.
This brings me to now, to this year’s quiet. The air feels particularly still, and my own life path, for the moment, seems shrouded in fog. What will fill the vacuum this time? The mind wanders to unsettling global possibilities—the specter of a shocking political pardon, perhaps—or to more personal shifts. I wonder if I’ll capture the attention of some notable figure, a prospect that once would have felt like the pinnacle of success.
But the thrill of that desire has faded. The validation of a famous person’s glance now seems mundane, an empty calorie. What I crave isn’t recognition but engagement. Given the profound sense of directionlessness that marks this moment, a compelling development would be a welcome anchor, a narrative to pull me out of the present dullness.
Perhaps the next story lies where my past summers have led me: at the intersection of culture and technology. Maybe something truly intriguing will finally emerge from the ever-promising, ever-elusive world of artificial intelligence.
Whatever the catalyst, I’m waiting for the plot to turn. In this quiet crucible of late summer, one can only hope the story that emerges is a good one.
