Could there be an openly humble school of literature, which goes ahead and admits that the page is not superior to fifteen minutes of an ordinary morning, if you are in good health and paying full attention?
Writing like a friend who says, Look. Who sits near you, and now and then holds your hand. Writing that is quiet company. A cleaning lady with a kind word as she confronts the mess.
The manifesto for such a school would likewise have to be modest and brief, free of posturing and denunciation, and without any sort of shouting or waving of hands or flags.