Shakespeare had it wrong when he suggested that “our winter of discontent” could be “made glorious summer” whether by Richard III or anything else. At least that’s the way I’ve been feeling about things.

So here we are nearing summer’s end, the discontents of winter turned into the miseries of COVID spring, the angers and unrests of summer, and a numb stumble into a fall of tension, uncertainty, and anxiety.

Blacks keep dying at the hands of mostly white police. American cities are roiled by 100+ days of protest, mostly but certainly not entirely peaceful. California burns.

Millions — 13.6 million as of August — are jobless. Millions more have contracted a dangerously virulent virus. COVID deaths in the United States now top 190,000, more than any other country on earth.

And we learn today that the president knowingly and purposefully lied to the American people about how dangerous this virus really is. He admitted it on the record in a taped interview. And he could still win re-election in November.

Boats keep sinking at Trump boat parades. OK, that one may be a bright spot.

So yeah, I haven’t been writing much. But I’m working on changing that, not because I think anyone has been hungering for my perspective, but because I need to do it to get myself back onto something that feels like a normal track.

Let’s face it. Nothing is normal now. Certainly not in my personal or professional life. Maybe your situation is different.

Anyway, to get back to normal I need to do some normal things. Writing is one of them.