I remember one of my first jobs. I was published in a magazine with a bunch of established writers, most of them with several novels under their belt, whilst I had a handful of unpublished poems. As contributors to this certain issue, we were all invited to read at an official launch. I’d only read once before, in a small art gallery on the Gold Coast, and there I was, amongst a group of writers with their short stories and articles, about to perform in my first literary cabaret. I had only one poem in the magazine. I had one shot. The stage lights were bright, like I was shooting straight into the sun. I picked my target. He was the biggest, most obnoxious-looking punter in the audience; a man who sipped his Chardonnay with the air of someone well-read and cultured. Each writer before me had read with spirit and arrogance. I breathed easy, and squeezed the poem out gently. I had this punter’s blank face in my cross-hairs and as the poem hit its conclusion, his complexion exploded in sheer appreciation. Applause followed. I hit my target. One message, one story, one stanza.