My problem with writing is — you have to actually write. It’s not that I am reluctant to write, it’s just I have yet to find a time that’s perfect for writing. Everything else seems to get in the way. My mornings are designated for books. It makes sense. You hit snooze a few times until you roll out of bed, grind a cup of coffee, add a dash of milk and curl up on the couch to get lost in words. Mine, at the moment, is Slaughterhouse-Five. I love George Orwell’s dystopian ambiance but I though...