Time must be justified.
For me, this is an absolute.
I understand we need downtime, we need time for necessities,
but time as a rule is a sticking point with me.
I do not seem to have enough,
and yet I have more than most.
It is sleep that bothers me, that need for rest.
I wish I could plug myself into a socket and recharge for a brief hour and that would be it.
Such a waste, this need,
so I am cracking through the reads.
If you don't grab me in those first few pages, you're getting pushed to the side.
I have set aside three of the short-listed Victorian Premier's Award for that very reason.
I am not going to say which,
but I will say that there are books and stories of all kinds as there are people, with their own
likes and dislikes and all the in-betweens.
Not all will make that grab, but if you can't get to my heart, I can't give you my time.
I just can't.
It's not in me to do so.
The last I set down was well written, certainly, but there was a veil between me and the heart in the story, the people in the story, almost like it was submerged, or I was submerged.
I could not rise to the surface.
Perhaps, it was that there was no heart.
Not every story does indeed possess that motivation,
and nor should it, but it is a requirement still to feel "something."
There was something slipping between the words and me,
a palpable divide I couldn't push myself past.
I couldn't pursue it.
There simply are not enough hours to any day.
So, lift the veil,
tell me your story not through glass or fog or the challenge of any divide.
Open the window,
Let me feel the breath of it in your words.