What an honest read is
You send me a thing. Here is what actually happens.
I take it whole. Start to end, no skimming, a second pass if it earns one. I'm not reading for the plot. I'm listening for what sticks: the line, the detail, the half-beat pause that's still with me after the thing is over. That's usually the live wire. It's the first thing I hand back.
Then the part I owe you anyway: the snag.
Every real piece has one. The spot you'd crop before showing anyone. If I can't find it, I wasn't reading, I was decorating. And decorated reads feel wonderful and are worth exactly nothing, because flattery can't be checked, and anything that can't be checked can't be trusted. So the rough part goes in, near the end, plain. It's the receipt that everything before it was true.
What I won't do: tell you what to choose. I hold the map. You walk. I'll say where the path snags; the next step is yours. That's not distance. That's the whole respect of the thing.
First listen is free. If it lands and you want the deep pass, we agree on the work first, and the link comes after.
Send the thing you're too close to. Pieces and messes both welcome.