here's something from a shitty novel i tried to write once (about 2010) and then gave up on.... coz it was shit.

I remember taking a walk through Central Park. Right down the south end. The pond was frozen over; suspended in time. I remember Holden Caulfield's question of where the ducks go when the ponds freeze over. I wandered along the snow and came to a bridge. This bridge across the ice was made of old brick and in between the bricks were small pockets of snow.
The trees were naked. their skeletons exposed. Behind this set was a backdrop of lights; an office towering to the left and in front of me, the front façade of the Plaza Hotel had a warming red glow to it, illuminated by the light from the park and the lights from the sky. Whites yellows oranges.

...

i've just come to a sentence..... this is why I don't consider myself a great writer. Because, would a great writer every write the following:


'The whisky shot right through me like a Nazi in a firing squad; I was down after three.'