Meant to write this post last night, but somewhere I lost focus. My Twitter account was giving me issues so paying attention to that seemed more important. It did at the time, anyway. Right now, it seems petty and foolhardy. Which can describe a mountain of decisions I’ve made in my thirty-five years. And the reason is always the same. It’s something I heard a lot in my adolescence. Clearly, I lack focus. In my writing. In life. In romance. Several ideas left on the back burner, shelved, or scribbled on quad pages long forgotten in my journal. When I do write something, I start going on tangents. I fall into traps of writing with morals and hidden imagery for people to decipher later…