In the street behind my tiny West Village apartment is a charming little bookstore named Bookbook. I found myself inside and taking a peek at all 2 shelves of their stock. Front and center was a perfectly square, blue book titled “100 Ghosts,” written by someone named Doogie Horner. The book has no dialogue, no impressive illustrations, no twists or turns, only 100 pages… with 100 ghosts… in 100 different poses drawn in sketches I could spit out in my sleep. Doogie had a vision and Doogie put it on paper. If Doogie could publish what appears to be a middle schooler’s 3rd period English notebook, remind me why haven’t I started writing my own damn book yet?