On Writing Another Novel

You'd think it'd be easy by now,
And in a way, it is,
But one has to be extra extra careful,
For artistry and the artificial
Run neck and neck in a coin-flip race,
And who knows which will prevail in the end?
Twain talked of buckets draining dry
And setting aside some 'neath the eaves
To replenish gradual-like in the rain
Of inspiration that's always splattering,
Pitter-pattering back of the brain.
The intersection of forward thought
And reverse reflection is bustling-busy,
With rumbling tractor-trailers of plot
And sputtering concept-coupes interweaving;
Policing this mess is quite the hassle,
So really, why bother when other means
Less taxing are at our digits' disposal?
Already intelligent applications
Can chew on input--choose your options:
Characters, settings, themes, and styles--
And pump out logorrhetorical prose
At seventeen thousand words per minute.
Give up, future Prousts and Pynchons!
We analog-authors can't hope to compete.