By Leslie Lindsay I have this thing, it’s an affliction called writing. I tend to do it all the time. In my head. On the computer. On a sheet of paper. But lately, I haven’t done it at all. Okay, well the in-my-head kind of writing has been happening, it just hasn’t made it past my tentorium, or the blood-brain barrier, or my cranium. Recently, we went on a little family outing to an area nestled in the southeastern corner of Wisconsin not far from my suburban Chicagoland home. The rule was: no laptops. I brought the dang thing with me anyway. It sat in a pretty Vera Bradley laptop bag against the dresser in the hotel room unopened, unused the entire time. No one said anything about not bringing a journal. Or my brain. And so I used both. I people-watched. I pocketed details and observed architecture. I listened for strange-but- -true-trivia on the boat doled out by the tour guide, and also the tourists. I cataloged what they wore, how they wore it, …