To me, seeing is believing – in person and in print. I'm empty, even after all that filler in print.
Wishing to be fulfilled emotionally and intellectually, there's so much more I want from what I read.
I want writing that’s worth investing precious minutes of reading, for which I’ll pay any price.
I want to connect with the writer through the writing’s mental monologue.
I want writing that I can’t wait to get back to after being forcibly pulled away.
I want to feel devastated when the piece ends; losing the connection that can’t even be made with lovers or resumed again with another writer.
I want phrases rattling through my head like an obsessive compulsive deprived of her meds who can’t purge her endless thoughts.
I want words to hit me hard like the clanging of a cast iron skillet, which soothes with its brittle coolness to the touch.
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