Today has been tough on writing. The desire to write has been there. But the daily life of connections and chores has taken most of the time. Stupid time. Hate it so much. When I write these days, one of our bookshelves is in front of me. I look up and BAM–books. So many books to read. So many books I’ll never get to read. And I keep trying to add one of my own to the pile. Some days, I wish I was simply a reader. Or a writer who could write normal, marketable manuscripts.