I found myself in one of those rambling used bookshops. It's the type of place where the books stretch high out of reach. The smell is seductively deep and musky. It's almost overpowering. A certain surprise hit me to see so many faces trotting around the thin aisles. A sense of pride overwhelmed me when I thought of this place still standing concrete in the face of bargain monstrosities like Barnes and Noble...
... I've been entertaining the idea of writing a novel. A little voice in my head laughs everytime I think about it. It seems pointless. The chances of me writing anything profound (or at bare minimum, sellable) seems ridiculously slim.
Love,
Tiff
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