| There lies a big, clumsy, strainer of literature in my brain and in my heart. The good books are tiny gems that fall through the mesh of my opinion, experience, expectations and sense of wonder. Somehow these books pass all the tests and touch me where I feel it, and even occasionally, just haphazardly, slip through that strainer anyway…is there an unnoticed snag or tear that lets them? But the majority of reads are bulky stones that remain behind, unused, unfinished. They are unable to move on past the sluice gate of passionate interest. They pile up on the floor at my bedside, waiting for my return, but they are worthless to me. No matter how much, or why I anticipate being enthralled and captivated by a novel, I can never predict the outcome. And frequently I can not give reasons or explanations for my list of personal Nobel winners.
The beauty in this, of course, is that the huge expanse and variety of strainers in the brains and hearts of other people in this world, gives hope to every writer that they will, at some point, produce a jewel for some reader, somewhere, to experience. And the readers are given continual hope that that jewel is out there being written.