I was shelving books at the library. I was not feeling happy. I pulled a long, sort of famous book off the shelves. It was written by a Nobel Prize winner.
"This is supposed to be what great writing is." I opened it to the middle. There was something about strawberries. "It's just a bunch of words." I thought, disappointed but not surprised "Words like other words."
"What if I quit writing." I wondered, as I sometimes do.
Then a thought came, almost as if from outside of my mind:
"Art is just not giving up."
I would have scoffed at it if I could have thought of anything half as decent to do.