OUTSIDE LOOKING IN

My wife has this cousin. He wanted to write a novel. He didn't really care all that much about being a writer, he just wanted to write a novel. So everyday he would make himself write between 500-1000 words and before he knew it, he had written this whole book. It was this cold-war-era-spy-thriller, and it wasn't to bad.  I told him it was at least as good as half the shit out there. I asked him if he planned on trying to get an agent or if there was somebody he was going to approach to get it published. He said that he was really happy that me and a few other people had read it, and that he had accomplished everything that he had set out to do. Now he wanted to get back to his wife and his family and back to his job at the bank; there were a bunch of things that he had let slide over the year or so that it took to write the book.  He told me that apparently my own life as an artist had had a profound effect on him as he had watched me and my career as an artist. He was inspired by this and this is what got him interested in writing his novel in the first place. He was happy that I read it and thrilled that I liked it and now he was totally ready to move on. Well, I was very satisfied and moved to hear that I had such an effect on him and his life. My only problem is that I am still looking for something so satisfying and constructive to take away from my own fucking existence.