Geek Glee

Oct. 15th, 2008 09:11 am
sartorias: (Default)
"At this rate, I shall not pity the writers of history any longer. If people like to read their books, it is all very well, but to be at so much trouble filling great volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be labouring only for the torment of little boys and girls, always struck me as a hard fate."

--Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

"Geez, you're writing another book? Why? There's already too many books in the world--can't people just read the old ones?"

--A Smith Relative, mid 1980s

Few of us get much respect for our daily labors, but I figured non-famous and caressed writers* who stop by here might get an empathetic thrill when I mention the intense joy--the very intense joy--of of finding the threads connecting up at last, after months and months of overlapping rewrites.

What creatures we are, to get so excited over people who never existed in this world, and situations that could never happen. Yet I shiver with secret glee as I motor about on mundane errands for other people. And getting back to my desk, despite the murderous heat and the air full of ash, makes me sigh with pleasure and anticipation.

I have no idea if any of it will make it to the magic bridge between me and the reader. But oh, after pretty close to a year of hard work on this project (and many years of work on the project overall), I am seeing my way to the end. And there are very few joys greater.

Nobody has to comment about my project--probably 95% of those cruising by who's read this far have no idea what I'm talking about. But if you'd like to share a nifty payoff moment, here's the place. I'll cheer for you.

*the famous and caressed wouldn't read here anyway

Geek Glee

Oct. 15th, 2008 09:11 am
sartorias: (Default)
"At this rate, I shall not pity the writers of history any longer. If people like to read their books, it is all very well, but to be at so much trouble filling great volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be labouring only for the torment of little boys and girls, always struck me as a hard fate."

--Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

"Geez, you're writing another book? Why? There's already too many books in the world--can't people just read the old ones?"

--A Smith Relative, mid 1980s

Few of us get much respect for our daily labors, but I figured non-famous and caressed writers* who stop by here might get an empathetic thrill when I mention the intense joy--the very intense joy--of of finding the threads connecting up at last, after months and months of overlapping rewrites.

What creatures we are, to get so excited over people who never existed in this world, and situations that could never happen. Yet I shiver with secret glee as I motor about on mundane errands for other people. And getting back to my desk, despite the murderous heat and the air full of ash, makes me sigh with pleasure and anticipation.

I have no idea if any of it will make it to the magic bridge between me and the reader. But oh, after pretty close to a year of hard work on this project (and many years of work on the project overall), I am seeing my way to the end. And there are very few joys greater.

Nobody has to comment about my project--probably 95% of those cruising by who's read this far have no idea what I'm talking about. But if you'd like to share a nifty payoff moment, here's the place. I'll cheer for you.

*the famous and caressed wouldn't read here anyway
sartorias: (Default)
Truth, lies, pies and what the kids think of what I do.

My head is full of lyre-backed chairs and the glint of sun far, far in the north as a drakan prow surges, cracking ice, and on the problems of point-of-view and why can't I find a decent synonym for 'trouble' that means what I need it to mean? and no, no, not that character, no, go away images, I want that one to--

"Mom?"

live, no maybe the images will change if I wait, and anyway I need to research early mattresses so that, oh yeah, but first remember to go back through to clarify that yin-thread about the song with the inverted fifth and its yang about how rumor metastasizes--

"Mom! Drive me to Brian's house!"

"Oh. Okay. Sorry. My brain was--"

"Your brain is always--" Hand gesture to match mine. "When are you ever going to make any money, so we can fix the door, and get a real couch?"

"Sorry, kiddo, I'm trying hard as I can." Open door, start car, sit at super long red light and oh, see, there are the lights hissing across the sky, reflections on the rain wet sails...

"Mom, what's for dinner?"

"How about if I make tacos? Nothing that heats up the kitchen too bad."

Biscuits! If they're making pan-biscuits over the campfire when the...
sartorias: (Default)
Truth, lies, pies and what the kids think of what I do.

My head is full of lyre-backed chairs and the glint of sun far, far in the north as a drakan prow surges, cracking ice, and on the problems of point-of-view and why can't I find a decent synonym for 'trouble' that means what I need it to mean? and no, no, not that character, no, go away images, I want that one to--

"Mom?"

live, no maybe the images will change if I wait, and anyway I need to research early mattresses so that, oh yeah, but first remember to go back through to clarify that yin-thread about the song with the inverted fifth and its yang about how rumor metastasizes--

"Mom! Drive me to Brian's house!"

"Oh. Okay. Sorry. My brain was--"

"Your brain is always--" Hand gesture to match mine. "When are you ever going to make any money, so we can fix the door, and get a real couch?"

"Sorry, kiddo, I'm trying hard as I can." Open door, start car, sit at super long red light and oh, see, there are the lights hissing across the sky, reflections on the rain wet sails...

"Mom, what's for dinner?"

"How about if I make tacos? Nothing that heats up the kitchen too bad."

Biscuits! If they're making pan-biscuits over the campfire when the...

Rewrites

Sep. 24th, 2008 06:54 am
sartorias: (desk)
I'm a visual writer, so my battle is never about seeing the story. I don't just see it, I live it--and the act of writing makes time move in the storyverse. After 49 years of doing this (I started at 8) that part is pretty much habit. It goes fast, once I see the shape of things. But after I discovered that my drafts functioned as code words* for the visions--a threadbare phrase sufficed to evoke a riot of color woven in complicated patterns--I never felt there was any use in bragging about how much wordage I did every day. Why, when most of it is a swarm of half-watted lightning bugs all struggling to be lightning? And failing?

So I had to learn to rewrite. I began another habit: let things sit for a year or two, or more, long enough to tamp down the images, but when a writer is on contract, there isn't that luxury. And as I get older, and peers begin dropping around me, and the generation before me is steadily vanishing--I won't mention how many memorials I've been to, or sent cards for, just in the past four months--one begins to realize that one doesn't have that nice long road ahead in which to attain mastery. I'm stuck with what I've got--not that I won't keep trying.

Okay, so what have I got? I pondered this in the middle of the night, while I lay there with the fan blowing on me, waiting to cool down enough to sleep. I am nearing the end of a long story that has been cut into four parts, and the first three have been published. So I can't go back and do a Prufrock, "No that is not what I meant at all." It's there, with all the confusions that were clear in my head, and the dramatic tensions in small things that were just boring to some readers.

Instead of getting it all down complete, I've been rewriting and rewriting furiously on this last segment, trying all kinds of tricks to 'see' the words I'm putting down. So anyway, I'm lying in bed, thinking of writing as buying a house. I can see the shape of the house, but nothing of what's in it. The writing is akin to getting inside and scrubbing and polishing and taking saw, hammer, and nails to the wooden beams, the stairs, the rooms, the furnishings until I look about me and think, hey, lookin' good.

But then I invite someone else in. This would be my trusty beta, who just began, blessings be upon the person's head. And those first five chapters come back....and I look about the house again, let's say that the first five chaps are the kitchen, and through these other eyes I discover that what I thought was a smooth wall actually hides a door, so I have to peel back the paneling I worked so hard on, and yep, there's this door to another room. Do I need the room, or should I rebuild the wall to be flat? I look over yonder, and ugh, how could I have forgotten to scrape the fly specks off that window? And wow, I didn't see all the cobwebs right overhead, I was so busy cleaning the grouting between the tiles. So I go right back at it, because no matter how much I liked what I saw, someone else's eyes see differently.

Now, sometimes a beta wants a crimson couch instead of a black velvet divan in the living room, or thinks that changing the curtains for blinds will fix the entire house. That kind of thing, you just have to try to see it that way, and may decide that the velvet divan does look better, but curtains are there for a purpose, blinds would only catch dust, and you hate those bars of light on the floor when the sun is low. But for those cobby corners, the flyspecks you got so used to you don't seen, and especially for the hidden rooms and the trapdoors, oh, it's so good to have those other eyes.

*a very, very painful discovery

Rewrites

Sep. 24th, 2008 06:54 am
sartorias: (desk)
I'm a visual writer, so my battle is never about seeing the story. I don't just see it, I live it--and the act of writing makes time move in the storyverse. After 49 years of doing this (I started at 8) that part is pretty much habit. It goes fast, once I see the shape of things. But after I discovered that my drafts functioned as code words* for the visions--a threadbare phrase sufficed to evoke a riot of color woven in complicated patterns--I never felt there was any use in bragging about how much wordage I did every day. Why, when most of it is a swarm of half-watted lightning bugs all struggling to be lightning? And failing?

So I had to learn to rewrite. I began another habit: let things sit for a year or two, or more, long enough to tamp down the images, but when a writer is on contract, there isn't that luxury. And as I get older, and peers begin dropping around me, and the generation before me is steadily vanishing--I won't mention how many memorials I've been to, or sent cards for, just in the past four months--one begins to realize that one doesn't have that nice long road ahead in which to attain mastery. I'm stuck with what I've got--not that I won't keep trying.

Okay, so what have I got? I pondered this in the middle of the night, while I lay there with the fan blowing on me, waiting to cool down enough to sleep. I am nearing the end of a long story that has been cut into four parts, and the first three have been published. So I can't go back and do a Prufrock, "No that is not what I meant at all." It's there, with all the confusions that were clear in my head, and the dramatic tensions in small things that were just boring to some readers.

Instead of getting it all down complete, I've been rewriting and rewriting furiously on this last segment, trying all kinds of tricks to 'see' the words I'm putting down. So anyway, I'm lying in bed, thinking of writing as buying a house. I can see the shape of the house, but nothing of what's in it. The writing is akin to getting inside and scrubbing and polishing and taking saw, hammer, and nails to the wooden beams, the stairs, the rooms, the furnishings until I look about me and think, hey, lookin' good.

But then I invite someone else in. This would be my trusty beta, who just began, blessings be upon the person's head. And those first five chapters come back....and I look about the house again, let's say that the first five chaps are the kitchen, and through these other eyes I discover that what I thought was a smooth wall actually hides a door, so I have to peel back the paneling I worked so hard on, and yep, there's this door to another room. Do I need the room, or should I rebuild the wall to be flat? I look over yonder, and ugh, how could I have forgotten to scrape the fly specks off that window? And wow, I didn't see all the cobwebs right overhead, I was so busy cleaning the grouting between the tiles. So I go right back at it, because no matter how much I liked what I saw, someone else's eyes see differently.

Now, sometimes a beta wants a crimson couch instead of a black velvet divan in the living room, or thinks that changing the curtains for blinds will fix the entire house. That kind of thing, you just have to try to see it that way, and may decide that the velvet divan does look better, but curtains are there for a purpose, blinds would only catch dust, and you hate those bars of light on the floor when the sun is low. But for those cobby corners, the flyspecks you got so used to you don't seen, and especially for the hidden rooms and the trapdoors, oh, it's so good to have those other eyes.

*a very, very painful discovery
sartorias: (Default)
[livejournal.com profile] jimhines has a rant today about e-pubs, self-publicizing, tie-ins, and how people will read your carefully written words, see what they want to see, and slang you for it. (He didn't say that, I read his carefully chosen words and came to my own conclusion.)

Given all the changes of the past several years, is there anyone out there who really regards e-published or small-press or self-published writers as not being real writers?

I think the biggest complaint I see about small press and self-pub is "There's a good idea here, but wow, this really could have used a professional edit and rewrite." To which I'll often agree, but you know, there are some books published by the big guys that cause the same reaction. Half a year ago I mentioned a book by a new author, so no mention of title here, that I thought suffered because of the many grammatical errors in just the first forty pages, not to mention some other stuff that I think an editor who was paying attention would have flagged. And there are many of us who wish, at gut-griping two-a.m. lie-awakes, we'd workshopped a piece more, gotten another chance at it, gotten more proofing, etc.

Then, good books get published but zero publicity, so they're on the shelves two weeks. This is 'better' than a small press that takes a table at every con, and whose writers and publishers do a lot of hand sales? Of course, I don't know the numbers on any of this stuff, so maybe I'm missing a clue here. Wouldn't be the first time.

Maybe there's more prestige in passing the gatekeepers in order to have that book out by a traditional publisher. To that, I think of the editor I overheard at my very first con as a so-called pro (sold one short story) chilling me right to the marrow when I was in a bedroom annex of the overcrowded SFWA suite, it was late, the fumes of alcohol in the air could give you a buzz even if you were drinking water, and he said to a Big Name Writer who had just slanged a new book, "Yeah, I know it's crap, but it'll sell. And then we can buy more of [Award Winner]."

Ever since then, that voice has whispered inside my head, Yeah, I know it's crap--never mind the people who say outright they hate one's work. Somewhere, someone who's supposed to be on your side is saying about what you love doing, "Yeah, I know it's crap, but..." behind your back.

It seems to me that the bottom line is (and that includes fanfic, which is put up for free) the finding of one's audience. After that, of course, is the endless climb toward improvement--toward trying to get the word out in some way--trying to stay in print--stay on the shelves--get a better cover--get linked by a popular site that reaches more readers--lalalala.

But really, it seems to me that if people are reading your work, you're real. If this isn't true, I'd like to learn why.
sartorias: (Default)
[livejournal.com profile] jimhines has a rant today about e-pubs, self-publicizing, tie-ins, and how people will read your carefully written words, see what they want to see, and slang you for it. (He didn't say that, I read his carefully chosen words and came to my own conclusion.)

Given all the changes of the past several years, is there anyone out there who really regards e-published or small-press or self-published writers as not being real writers?

I think the biggest complaint I see about small press and self-pub is "There's a good idea here, but wow, this really could have used a professional edit and rewrite." To which I'll often agree, but you know, there are some books published by the big guys that cause the same reaction. Half a year ago I mentioned a book by a new author, so no mention of title here, that I thought suffered because of the many grammatical errors in just the first forty pages, not to mention some other stuff that I think an editor who was paying attention would have flagged. And there are many of us who wish, at gut-griping two-a.m. lie-awakes, we'd workshopped a piece more, gotten another chance at it, gotten more proofing, etc.

Then, good books get published but zero publicity, so they're on the shelves two weeks. This is 'better' than a small press that takes a table at every con, and whose writers and publishers do a lot of hand sales? Of course, I don't know the numbers on any of this stuff, so maybe I'm missing a clue here. Wouldn't be the first time.

Maybe there's more prestige in passing the gatekeepers in order to have that book out by a traditional publisher. To that, I think of the editor I overheard at my very first con as a so-called pro (sold one short story) chilling me right to the marrow when I was in a bedroom annex of the overcrowded SFWA suite, it was late, the fumes of alcohol in the air could give you a buzz even if you were drinking water, and he said to a Big Name Writer who had just slanged a new book, "Yeah, I know it's crap, but it'll sell. And then we can buy more of [Award Winner]."

Ever since then, that voice has whispered inside my head, Yeah, I know it's crap--never mind the people who say outright they hate one's work. Somewhere, someone who's supposed to be on your side is saying about what you love doing, "Yeah, I know it's crap, but..." behind your back.

It seems to me that the bottom line is (and that includes fanfic, which is put up for free) the finding of one's audience. After that, of course, is the endless climb toward improvement--toward trying to get the word out in some way--trying to stay in print--stay on the shelves--get a better cover--get linked by a popular site that reaches more readers--lalalala.

But really, it seems to me that if people are reading your work, you're real. If this isn't true, I'd like to learn why.

My Stuff

Jul. 25th, 2008 07:37 am
sartorias: (Sartorias-deles)
Last post like this for a long while. Honest!
Read more... )

My Stuff

Jul. 25th, 2008 07:37 am
sartorias: (Sartorias-deles)
Last post like this for a long while. Honest!
Read more... )

Guest Blog

Jul. 3rd, 2008 06:25 am
sartorias: (Default)
My fellow DAw author [livejournal.com profile] jpsorrow invited me to his blog to do a riff. His posts explore aspects of writing, especially writing long, and many of his readers are fellow "fat fantasy writers." So I thought, rather than gas interminably about my own stuff, I'd open a question about being a fat fantasy writer--why, what it means to one, etc. Please go over, if you've any interest, and jump into the discussion: you don't have to be a writer. Talking about why you read it is welcome, especially if you like the works of the people who gather there.

Guest Blog

Jul. 3rd, 2008 06:25 am
sartorias: (Default)
My fellow DAw author [livejournal.com profile] jpsorrow invited me to his blog to do a riff. His posts explore aspects of writing, especially writing long, and many of his readers are fellow "fat fantasy writers." So I thought, rather than gas interminably about my own stuff, I'd open a question about being a fat fantasy writer--why, what it means to one, etc. Please go over, if you've any interest, and jump into the discussion: you don't have to be a writer. Talking about why you read it is welcome, especially if you like the works of the people who gather there.
sartorias: (Default)
I've heard it said that for some of us, the sense of 'competence' recedes like a mirage. I am so glad I am not the only one.

When I was nineteen, after several years of sending things out (and even a couple of near misses), I vowed that I would consider myself a good writer when I could reread a favorite, then something of mine, and not feel the urge to regurge.

By my mid-thirties, I thought, I have to start sending things out again or I never will, and just keep trying . . . . and I’m still trying.

There are so many things to learn, from the most superficial--grammar, mechanics from plot to pagination--to more deceptively complex ideas--sentence scaffolding and POV and transitions--that can elude visual writers in particular. It's ironic that the very same creative mode that has always made writing so intense a pleasure (the intensely visual mode) has been my worst enemy, because words function as semiotics for me, that is, image triggers. I try to hear the sound and rhythm of words, as poets are said to do, and sometimes I can, but before I know it I slip back into image, and sometimes a very light form of synesthesia—the words trigger sensory flavor burst, or whiffs of remembered scent.

That’s super cool when I read, but it’s not so hot at the writer end of the process, because the most banal, even repeated words, the tiredest phrases, trigger images just as powerfully as do elegant words and phrases . . . for me. But not for the rest of the readership.

My first drafts feel vivid when I write them, and if I reread them too soon, the words trigger the memories and I don’t see what I actually wrote. So I have to let drafts sit quite a while, and then I need to employ all kinds of tricks to try to see the text without them triggering images. The first time this happened, after I’d gone back to a draft I’d remembered as scintillating with brilliance, I was appalled that the Suck Fairy had sneaked in and erased most of my gorgeous description, and the meager remainder was banal and egregious cliché.

It's exceedingly difficult to fight the image-signals and evaluate the words I wrote down the way another type of brain would see or hear them. I really don't think visual writers process words the same way the audial writers--the ones who don't get images, but build story through words--do. We think we 'hear' the prose, but we end up with five repetitions of the same word in four sentences, or cloddish phrasing, or clichés sneaking in to lard up what we had thought so tight.

I cherish the writers who write beautiful prose and images, like John Crowley and Greer Gilman. The sound of their prose is a different pleasure than the images they evoke, and to keep that sound before me, I like hearing them read out loud, because the rhythm of the spoken words complements the image show. Then there are some writers whose words are lauded as poetic, but the images jumble and flicker dully or contradictorily.

Sometimes I think it would be fun to have a workshop for visual writers only, where we work on retraining our brains: we have a head full of cinematic lightning, but we don't want to be channeling it through lightning-bug wordage.
sartorias: (Default)
I've heard it said that for some of us, the sense of 'competence' recedes like a mirage. I am so glad I am not the only one.

When I was nineteen, after several years of sending things out (and even a couple of near misses), I vowed that I would consider myself a good writer when I could reread a favorite, then something of mine, and not feel the urge to regurge.

By my mid-thirties, I thought, I have to start sending things out again or I never will, and just keep trying . . . . and I’m still trying.

There are so many things to learn, from the most superficial--grammar, mechanics from plot to pagination--to more deceptively complex ideas--sentence scaffolding and POV and transitions--that can elude visual writers in particular. It's ironic that the very same creative mode that has always made writing so intense a pleasure (the intensely visual mode) has been my worst enemy, because words function as semiotics for me, that is, image triggers. I try to hear the sound and rhythm of words, as poets are said to do, and sometimes I can, but before I know it I slip back into image, and sometimes a very light form of synesthesia—the words trigger sensory flavor burst, or whiffs of remembered scent.

That’s super cool when I read, but it’s not so hot at the writer end of the process, because the most banal, even repeated words, the tiredest phrases, trigger images just as powerfully as do elegant words and phrases . . . for me. But not for the rest of the readership.

My first drafts feel vivid when I write them, and if I reread them too soon, the words trigger the memories and I don’t see what I actually wrote. So I have to let drafts sit quite a while, and then I need to employ all kinds of tricks to try to see the text without them triggering images. The first time this happened, after I’d gone back to a draft I’d remembered as scintillating with brilliance, I was appalled that the Suck Fairy had sneaked in and erased most of my gorgeous description, and the meager remainder was banal and egregious cliché.

It's exceedingly difficult to fight the image-signals and evaluate the words I wrote down the way another type of brain would see or hear them. I really don't think visual writers process words the same way the audial writers--the ones who don't get images, but build story through words--do. We think we 'hear' the prose, but we end up with five repetitions of the same word in four sentences, or cloddish phrasing, or clichés sneaking in to lard up what we had thought so tight.

I cherish the writers who write beautiful prose and images, like John Crowley and Greer Gilman. The sound of their prose is a different pleasure than the images they evoke, and to keep that sound before me, I like hearing them read out loud, because the rhythm of the spoken words complements the image show. Then there are some writers whose words are lauded as poetic, but the images jumble and flicker dully or contradictorily.

Sometimes I think it would be fun to have a workshop for visual writers only, where we work on retraining our brains: we have a head full of cinematic lightning, but we don't want to be channeling it through lightning-bug wordage.

Book News

Mar. 11th, 2008 07:07 am
sartorias: (Rhis)
My latest book is A Posse of princesses which is set in Wren's world--the world I made up in high school, a kind of "S-d Lite" suitable for publishers and those overseeing 'proper' tropes in YA. That was an issue when I first began writing and sending stuff out. Isn't now, of course.

Posse grabbed me a couple years ago when I had a classroom full of reading girls in junior high. They all wanted to read about romance. No, craved it, really, but several of them, especially girls new to this country from more protective environments elsewhere, hit pretty hard against some of the newer YA tropes which are just perfect for a more sophisticated reader, and for high school and above. I wondered if I could write a romantic fantasy that didn't have sexual content, but still stayed true to ideas about love, attraction, friendship, etc. that curious kids could grasp.

Then, I wanted to play with some of the assumed tropes. What if you're not a "chosen one"--that is, you've got innate talent, but you haven't worked at it. And the Great Whangdoodle is in your hands--but you don't change the world or become queen of the universe? Can life still be good?

Well, I had a lot of fun writing it, though the girls who sparked the idea are now high schoolers, and those I stay in contact with are reading Holly Black and Cassandra Clare and Maureen Johnson on my recco.

The blurb for the book is on the website link above. I don't know how it reads, of course--it's just out and no reviews. I hope it entertains!

Here's why I wanted to post: my publisher is the new kid on the block. She's a one woman publishing company, with all kinds of great ideas and projects. Take a look at her catalog. So the big guns in the distribution world haven't noticed her yet. She, and I, depend on word of mouth to get the books out. If you like any of them, just let people know! (And if not, well, let people know anyway, of course, as censorship is bad.)

Book News

Mar. 11th, 2008 07:07 am
sartorias: (Rhis)
My latest book is A Posse of princesses which is set in Wren's world--the world I made up in high school, a kind of "S-d Lite" suitable for publishers and those overseeing 'proper' tropes in YA. That was an issue when I first began writing and sending stuff out. Isn't now, of course.

Posse grabbed me a couple years ago when I had a classroom full of reading girls in junior high. They all wanted to read about romance. No, craved it, really, but several of them, especially girls new to this country from more protective environments elsewhere, hit pretty hard against some of the newer YA tropes which are just perfect for a more sophisticated reader, and for high school and above. I wondered if I could write a romantic fantasy that didn't have sexual content, but still stayed true to ideas about love, attraction, friendship, etc. that curious kids could grasp.

Then, I wanted to play with some of the assumed tropes. What if you're not a "chosen one"--that is, you've got innate talent, but you haven't worked at it. And the Great Whangdoodle is in your hands--but you don't change the world or become queen of the universe? Can life still be good?

Well, I had a lot of fun writing it, though the girls who sparked the idea are now high schoolers, and those I stay in contact with are reading Holly Black and Cassandra Clare and Maureen Johnson on my recco.

The blurb for the book is on the website link above. I don't know how it reads, of course--it's just out and no reviews. I hope it entertains!

Here's why I wanted to post: my publisher is the new kid on the block. She's a one woman publishing company, with all kinds of great ideas and projects. Take a look at her catalog. So the big guns in the distribution world haven't noticed her yet. She, and I, depend on word of mouth to get the books out. If you like any of them, just let people know! (And if not, well, let people know anyway, of course, as censorship is bad.)
sartorias: (Default)
Today my book Inda comes out.
sartorias: (Default)
Today my book Inda comes out.

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