sartorias: (handwritten books)
Feel free to pass right on by, since this post is not me looking out at the world so much as me looking at my desk. Specifically having finished a 225 k book, wrapping a series, and setting up the next. This is the last of the ones that has scenes written fifty years ago. Incorporating those into new material has been such a learning experience.

There's also the emotional drain after going some really, really dark places. I wonder if I was able to finish because of profound depression after the disaster of the stolen, manipulated election (in which enough people found reason to vote for Donald Trump, something I cannot understand. I do understand conservatives wanting to put a halt on what they consider too much change too fast, though I don't agree when it comes to certain social freedoms, but I can't understand anyone believing a word out of the mouth of that man, and not seeing that he's a narcissistic liar, a spoiled, petulant emotional sixteen year old who, give power, will be very dangerous. To us, ordinary citizens. Not to the rich, or his kleptocrat allies).

But this entire series is about the struggle against the dark side of human nature, so, well, there it is. Now, of course, to find out if I did what I set out to do, or committed boring, confusing hogwash. Force aside, art, like leadership, lies in the minds of willing participants.

The thing I realized this morning while lying in bed listening to sweet rain outside the open windows, is that this kind of emotional drain is addictive, unlike the emotional drain of disasters and pain. It's always been that way, clear back when I drew out stories in comic book form. The only high that gets higher is when a story writes itself. But those can't be commanded--if they arise at all, they spring fully formed from the murk, a miracle. Learning how to pull stuff out of the murk and shape it, like learning how to revise, is a different kind of high, one I've only been sort of kind of getting a hold on these past twenty years. Peril and pitfall of being visually oriented, maybe. Maybe.

So! On to the next, of which huge chunks exist. I might try piecing it out on Scrivener--I really want to learn to make it work for me. But it's been such a struggle. I want my tools to be instantly usable, and I've been batting at this one off and on for a couple of years.

Owl-eyed

Jun. 10th, 2016 06:48 am
sartorias: (desk)
I was JUST drifting off to sleep again last night when a quake struck. It was only a five, but fives can be precursors, and so I ripped out of bed to find out where it was, etc. Finally fell back to sleep at five for an hour, but that entire hour I was doing pre-writing, which is something that's been happening in, oh, about the last six months or so.

I seldom sleep through the night; hot flashes, noises, the dog jumping up and down, doors shutting--mostly hot flashes, but I long ago learned to live with it since there's nothing to be done except throw off the covers and face the fan that I have blowing on me all night.

But now and then I drop into this state where I pre-write stuff. Weird brains.

Kid Logic

Apr. 17th, 2015 10:34 am
sartorias: (desk)
Yesterday I went up to visit some relatives, and my mom gave me a scrapbook of keepsakes. Now that she's finally retired, she's been going through old family photos and miscellaneous stuff. She's never been much of a packrat, so I was curious to see what she'd saved. A lot of it (most) had to do with ancestors, like a xerox copy of the daily journal my three-greats grandfather kept from 1883-1919 (and then duly kept by his daughter until her death in 1930); as you'd expect from a Lutheran farmer it's terse, rarely more than one line, but kept up every single day for all those years.

There was also me-related stuff, like the printed program of performances I danced in, and some of my letters home from Europe when I went to study, but one had me laughing out loud, and then reassessing events, because I'd never known about it.

I had a great-uncle (recently deceased at 97) who, with my paternal grandmother, were the only two people who went to college in both sides of an enormous family. Most of the elder generation, especially on my mother's side, were done with school by thirteen, at which time they were put to work. So my great-uncle had always had a special status in the family.

Well, I don't recall all the details, probably one of the rare paternal-relations get-togethers, when I was around fourteen. My great-uncle, always a kindly man, must have asked me better questions than the run-of-the-mill adult questions at that time ("What are you studying in school? "Ancient Poisons and Methods of Instant Death" "Mmm-hmm, that's nice, do you have a boyfriend yet?") because I must have said tersely something about writing. And he must have sounded genuinely encouraging, because there's this letter my co-writer on a historical novel (also 14) wrote to him asking for advice about us getting published. I don't know why I didn't write him myself--too anxious, I guess. Anyway, at the bottom of this letter, my friend exhorted him not to tell my parents because they thought our writing was a waste of time.

My great-uncle, unknown to me, had sent this letter to my parents, and in his handwriting at the bottom, he said, "Shame on you parents!"

So now I know why I got a book called Writing to Sell for my birthday that year--a book I devoured with passionate intensity, and which steered me wrong in so very many ways.

Anyway, I was trying to recover the logic train behind our surprising decision to write to him. He was a professor in social work, he didn't write fiction. I don't even know if he read it. But it somehow made sense to us to come up with this plan, and for my co-conspirator (who he never met) to write him out of the blue for advice on publishing what to us at the time was a masterpiece of two years and four drafts of hard work. (Not the least of which was my typing it all up laboriously on an ancient manual typewriter with a ribbon that dated back to WW II.)

I was thinking about that this morning when reading a review excoriating the bad books that kids read. I've said before that I think kids should read what they want, and that they will grow out of a lot of their favorites as time goes on, blah blah, but the subject that engrossed me was kid logic.

The specific review started off by slagging Divergent, and its with plot holes you could drive a truck through, and conversational patterns so overused you can quote ahead not only where it's going, but even how it will be said, and the writer wondered why the teens who adore it do. The gist of the review was that kids are getting more stupid, they used to be smarter in days of yore.

While it's true that educational standards in the US have taken some falls in the past decades (and I fought against them for my twenty years in the teaching trenches) I do think there are some upsides, and that is that I think more kids are reading, because there are more books aimed at all kids of readers. And the educational system no longer insists that there is one way to learn, and everything else is wrong.

As for kid logic, what excites us when young, what seems true and reasonable, can at this end of a lifespan seem like such alien thinking. So very much is new, and immediate: the patterns we see as kids are going to change, and change again.

But I love trying to recover that dazzle and passion, however it came out. (And when I need a laugh, I pull out one of the tattered drafts of that gaspingly bad masterpiece, and snort over a page or two.)
sartorias: (desk)
Yesterday, [livejournal.com profile] rachelmanija and I tootled down in the fresh, rain-scrubbed air to San Diego to Mysterious Galaxy's new digs for a holiday party/booksigning for a bunch of authors. The new layout is the best yet, and the staff of the store have always been terrific, which is why I try to save my hardcover book buying for when I see them either at a con, or I can visit the store.

(On next visit's list, The Just City, and there will be others.) Rachel and I signed a few books, which is always intensely gratifying, because I always dread standing there like a dolt, like I stood against a wall when I was a junior high kid and the parents thought I ought to attend the dances, because that was normal, or the way I end up sitting with my purse book at big parties, because I have the social grace of a rock, and can never figure out how to break into groups and be charming the way my sister can. Every time I nerve myself to try people give me that fixed grin and excuse themselves, sidling away to find somebody more interesting or important to cluster round.

I left the talking to Rachel, who is charming, and we signed books. People bought Stranger for completely different reasons, too. Which makes sense because few have read it, so it's not like they have expectations.

The best thing for me? A guy came up to tell me how very much he loved the Inda books, and got a friend to read them. That made my year.

Also spoke with a couple of the women who are now taking over running ConDor, which James Hays has left in order to do other things. They want programming ideas and seem open to suggestions. And no hint of "well you old people can go to the elephant yard"--very refreshing! I might write up some innovations I think would draw in the younger fannish crowd, because whether they use them or not, I am certain they will get read. And I've done enough programming over the decades to notice patterns.

One track I'll suggest will be the interface between self pub, fanfic, and traditional pub--not trashing any of these three, but looking at what we have now, and what we'd all like to see. And not a panel so much as a roundtable.

Afterward, we were going to walk to 85 Degrees, a famous bakery, but the line to get in was forty people deep, so we walked back, and ventured into the Balboa Bakery directly across the parking lot from Mysterious Galaxy. It was small, but full of not only European pastry but Persian. Rose-water cookies? Saffron cookies? Perfect tiramisu and mocha custard pastries, my fave. It was all delicious. People will flock where someone else has declared a place The New Fashion, but really, how could 85 Degrees have bettered what we got?

Anyway, San Diegans, or visitors to the store, I highly recommend you cross over and have tea and pastry at that bakery while you start in on your reading, if you don't want to stand in a super long line at the other one.
sartorias: (handwritten books)
You dream about Googling a title, and reading the reviews. The reviews mostly sound interesting, and you want to find the book . . .

and wake up and realize that the book doesn't exist.
sartorias: (handwritten books)
The workshop is heading toward the finish line. Yesterday was my main talk, and after that a quick workshop that I run whose format has proved to be very effective as well as well-received.

There is a deep pleasure in talking at length about writing and knowing that it is absolutely appropriate, that I am not taxing the mercy of my auditors, which is too often the case as I live among non-writers, and even many non-readers. (The readers are extra appreciated!)

Afterward a lunch at a seafood place that overlooks the bay. Such a pleasure: a beautiful day, congenial and witty people, delicious food. The conversation was mostly workshop, but as these things will do, ranged through topics of social media, including the latest twitter scandal. I was left out because I don't do twitter. The temptation is never very strong, but when it happens it's at moments like this when everyone else is talking about something I have no access to.

On the other hand, twitter seems to pander to the bread-and-circuses part of human nature: it is never more excited and fast moving than when there is a new juicy scandal. Someone said that the founder of twitter deliberately catered to this part of human nature in designing it.

Even if it wouldn't drive me crazy to invite even more interruptions into my too-often fragmented day, I don't think I could trust myself with something like twitter. I am too likely to fire off something stupid that I will deeply regret an hour later, and there it is, forever bannering my stupidity.

I know twitter can be a good thing in an emergency, spreading the word and connecting people. Maybe I should get it for that, except what's the use of having it if I never look at it? I have Google Plus, but never remember it except three or four times a year. And I force myself to look at Facebook once a month, until the constant shifting at the right-hand side, and the wasteland of burble about games and what people had for lunch and so forth forces me to shut it down in relief.
sartorias: (desk)
"But it really is a cardinal shame that editors are such a time-serving lot. I wish to Hades that some millionaire would endow a magazine for weird and arabesque literature, and have it edited regardless of anything but a genuine standard of literary merit. I have a notion that the results might be surprising--though I don't think it would ever rival the Post, or even the he-male adventure magazines, in circulation.

Of course I may be all wet. On the other hand, an anxiety to please the plebs, and offend as few as possible . . . can result in nothing but crap and mediocrity. I certainly think he could afford to run a few high-class tales, if only to keep up any literary reputation that the mag may have acquired. Connoisseurs, I feel morally certain, are not going to exult over the recent avalanche of tripe."

Clark Ashton Smith, to August Derleth, Sept 28th, 1932.

I never took much to Clark Ashton Smith (too much horror, too few interesting women) but we have this beautifully produced edition of his letters, so I picked it up and opened it randomly to read over breakfast.

Elsewhere he derides James Joyce and Gertrude Stein as horrible writers, while in another letter he predicts that H.P. Lovecraft will be read by generations to come.

It's always interesting to me to see how others define greatness or trash, and of course every writer is a genius if only in his or her own mind. Just recently, on a forum a fan talked about a writer at a con going on at a panel about how desperate the writer was to choose the correct narrator, assuming that his/her agent could get a deal at a prestigious recording company. The fan said that everyone else on that panel was biting their lip, probably wondering if said narrator would refuse to read that cliche-ridden claptrap--they were staring up, or down, or away, as [X] went on and on about the importance of elegant accents.

I couldn't help thinking of that this morning, as someone responded to my post of yesterday with an interesting bit about Caxton choosing the right dialect to print Chaucer. Language is such a marvelous, ever-changing river. No one ever sees quite the same flow of waters. Even if standing side by side.
sartorias: (desk)
On one of my several e-mail reading lists, I was surprised a week or so ago to discover a reader ranting madly about how creeped out she was to find an author "liking" her review of her historical romance. To her, this felt stalkerish, almost as bad as authors who give their own books five star reviews. Imagine, someone who dares to go around liking only the five star reviews of their book--she wanted to take down all her reviews, she felt the author was peering over her shoulder, yadda yadda.

I toyed for a couple days with responding with something like "Imagine authors acting like human beings!" then decided to see what the fallout was, if any. Aside from such obvious ones as ranting madly at readers who write bad reviews, which is just basic courtesy, I was thinking that there really aren't any Rules of Etiquette for writers.

Until relatively recently, writers wrote, and accepted that their books went into a black hole, except maybe for reviews in a few professional review magazines, newspapers if you were lucky. You knew success by how much you made in royalties. You didn't engage with readers. No, that isn't quite true--during the eighteenth century England's newspapers contained boisterously vociferous engagement between writers (and playwrights and the more famous actors) and reviewers, to the high entertainment of subscribers. But the more decorous nineteenth century saw that dying down.

So anyway, I didn't respond at all, and the flurry died down after a day or two, but it made me watch for various interaction streams. Some writers vigorously engage, others hold back. I remembered an author saying at LosCon's fan fiction panel that she reads all the fan fiction written about her universe, she just never comments. Other authors said they couldn't bear the idea of fan fiction (one favored hurling lawyers at the writers, others ignoring it); but in the fan fiction world, engagement between writers and readers is pretty much standard. However grudgewanking and other trollish behavior is vigorously stamped on by community action.

It makes me wonder if forums are evolving where writers of published books and stories can and do interact with readers.
sartorias: (Fan)
Actual cat vacuuming posted at splodefromcute
sartorias: (desk)
I’ve seen some fascinating iterations of this meme going around, but I really like process discussions. Not everybody is interested in process, or in talking about the thing, when they might like the thing itself. Of course there are some writers who are so charismatic in person or through their clever prose that they make anything interesting.

Then there are visual writers like me who may reach an audience or may not, but in talking about their stories . . . well, I think it was Lord Chesterfield who said, if someone asks you how you are, resist the impulse to go into details about the state of your bowels. Even though your bowels are of vital fascination to you, you cannot be sure that that holds the same for your company.

I’m like an addict, I know it’s bad to blat because if I uncork, I don’t stop until my polite auditor is thinking of reaching for a spork to use as a deadly weapon. So, like you do to phatic questions—(“How are you?” “Great, and yourself?”) I’ve tried to train myself to give the response that most really want to hear when they say “So what are you writing now?” Because they are being polite—acknowledging that yes, they know I am a writer, though they have never ventured beyond that (or maybe did and fell asleep).

I say, “Oh, this and that.” And if they nod in relief and move on to a more interesting topic like the weather, I can congratulate myself on having gotten that far in a social interaction without verbally tripping over the furniture and falling face first into the three-tiered cake.

But if they ask more than one question, I’ve been trying to learn to Keep It Short.

So, I was first tagged by someone who then didn’t have time to do it, but then along came [livejournal.com profile] superversive with the challenge after his entry here.

And I did it, and here’s me trying to keep it short.

What is the working title of your next book?

A Sword Named Truth

2) Where did the idea come from for the book?

I wanted to know what happened after The Great Celebration after the good guys won. Or thought they won.

3) What genre does your book fall under?

Fantasy

4) What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Haven’t auditioned any.

5) What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

The beginning of the ‘glorious new era’ is not what anybody thought it would be.

6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

DAW book

7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

One of those eye glazers. Just say forty years, and leave it at that.

8) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Um, others of my books . . . sort of?

9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?

See question two.

10) What else about the book might pique the reader's interest?

That depends on the reader. For anyone who read (and liked) A Stranger to Command, this is what was happening alongside it, and immediately after.

As for tagging others, I went to a range of people who I don't usually see posting on the subject, among them being [livejournal.com profile] dancinghorse, [livejournal.com profile] barry_king, [livejournal.com profile] madrobins, and newcomer whose first book (talked about here) is a wower, [livejournal.com profile] blairmacg.
sartorias: (desk)
At [livejournal.com profile] bittercon there's a heads-up on Worldcon programming. With the idea of the three of us who aren't going holding a pity-party Bittercon, I took a look.

Lots of variety, some new, some old. One caught my eye--I don't think I've seen it before, tucked away early on Sunday morning at nine a.m.:

Perseverance
Writing for the long haul. Learning to cope with the years of rejection and self doubt that usually precede eventual publication and mastery.


I was thinking that this panel might be a good one for any writer who is doing the long haul, or feeling the weight of that haul. But then, as always, the personal shapes perception of a general topic: a few weeks back, I missed an event due partly to a succession of house guests all summer, but partly to a crash deadline.

A connection of the family made a remark that may or may not have been intended to get back to me, but in any case was duly repeated, along the lines of, "Is she still scribbling those books? Why? At her age, hasn't she got the clue she's never going to be famous?"

There are so many answers to be made, though when someone communicates third-hand, basically sending hostility vibes, it is clear to me they don't really want a response. But it was useful for talking over with a couple writing friends, especially those who deal with the two a.m. battles with self-doubt and disappointment.

And there can be so many causes of those lonely nighttime wrestling matches: the new writer who hasn't sold. The new writer who's sold, but to a tiny press that doesn't do much for the book, and the book languishes. The new writer who's sold to a big six, but whose book is buried in the list in favor of other books that get boffo publicity, and the book languishes. The new writer who gets a huge advance and the boffo publicity that goes with it--and the next book is turned down because, yes, it sold, but not well enough for the money that was put into it, so the publishers have already moved on to the Newer Young Thing.

Mid-career: flagging sales. Dropped by publisher, dropped by agent, dropped by readers.

Self-publishers: tremendous hard work goes into a book that the writer is sure sings better than anything New York publishes . . . but the readers are indifferent.

Why do we keep doing it?

The first impulse might be to kvetch and moan--New York has no taste--readers have no taste--other writers turn in crappy books, but my work of genius is ignored--literary standards have dropped, and my artistic prose is no longer appreciated--all over the net one can find versions of these cries from the heart, as well as in private conversations. And what can one say? Yes, the world is filled with trash, but the artist stays true to her vision is probably the most bracing.

Another conversational axis goes a level deeper. My own theory is that the impulse to write is very close to the impulse that makes readers. Not the same, but akin. I was thinking about it when reading Mark Turner (spouse of Megan Whalen Turner)'s The Literary Mind.

Here's a quite that I think works for readers as well as writers: Narrative imagining--story--is the fundamental instrument of thought. Rational capacities depend upon it. It is our chief means of looking into the future, of predicting, of planning, and of explaining. It is a literary capacity indispensable to human cognition generally. This is the first way in which the mind is essentially literary.

There's lots of cool theory about cognition out there, as well as dips into the pleasure of reading--like this one by Lisa Zunshine.

But theories aside, I think that many of us instinctively work out the world through story forms, as well as enjoy vicarious experience, and then there is the joy of connection when a stranger reads something, and reaches back to tell you that your book had meaning for them. I think it's the same joy that any craftsperson or artist, or laborer of any kind, gets when someone appreciates the work they put into a thing. This kind of human connection is important, it's vital, even if many of us will measure those moments in onesies and twosies instead of millions.
sartorias: (desk)
At [livejournal.com profile] bittercon there's a heads-up on Worldcon programming. With the idea of the three of us who aren't going holding a pity-party Bittercon, I took a look.

Lots of variety, some new, some old. One caught my eye--I don't think I've seen it before, tucked away early on Sunday morning at nine a.m.:

Perseverance
Writing for the long haul. Learning to cope with the years of rejection and self doubt that usually precede eventual publication and mastery.


I was thinking that this panel might be a good one for any writer who is doing the long haul, or feeling the weight of that haul. But then, as always, the personal shapes perception of a general topic: a few weeks back, I missed an event due partly to a succession of house guests all summer, but partly to a crash deadline.

A connection of the family made a remark that may or may not have been intended to get back to me, but in any case was duly repeated, along the lines of, "Is she still scribbling those books? Why? At her age, hasn't she got the clue she's never going to be famous?"

There are so many answers to be made, though when someone communicates third-hand, basically sending hostility vibes, it is clear to me they don't really want a response. But it was useful for talking over with a couple writing friends, especially those who deal with the two a.m. battles with self-doubt and disappointment.

And there can be so many causes of those lonely nighttime wrestling matches: the new writer who hasn't sold. The new writer who's sold, but to a tiny press that doesn't do much for the book, and the book languishes. The new writer who's sold to a big six, but whose book is buried in the list in favor of other books that get boffo publicity, and the book languishes. The new writer who gets a huge advance and the boffo publicity that goes with it--and the next book is turned down because, yes, it sold, but not well enough for the money that was put into it, so the publishers have already moved on to the Newer Young Thing.

Mid-career: flagging sales. Dropped by publisher, dropped by agent, dropped by readers.

Self-publishers: tremendous hard work goes into a book that the writer is sure sings better than anything New York publishes . . . but the readers are indifferent.

Why do we keep doing it?

The first impulse might be to kvetch and moan--New York has no taste--readers have no taste--other writers turn in crappy books, but my work of genius is ignored--literary standards have dropped, and my artistic prose is no longer appreciated--all over the net one can find versions of these cries from the heart, as well as in private conversations. And what can one say? Yes, the world is filled with trash, but the artist stays true to her vision is probably the most bracing.

Another conversational axis goes a level deeper. My own theory is that the impulse to write is very close to the impulse that makes readers. Not the same, but akin. I was thinking about it when reading Mark Turner (spouse of Megan Whalen Turner)'s The Literary Mind.

Here's a quite that I think works for readers as well as writers: Narrative imagining--story--is the fundamental instrument of thought. Rational capacities depend upon it. It is our chief means of looking into the future, of predicting, of planning, and of explaining. It is a literary capacity indispensable to human cognition generally. This is the first way in which the mind is essentially literary.

There's lots of cool theory about cognition out there, as well as dips into the pleasure of reading--like this one by Lisa Zunshine.

But theories aside, I think that many of us instinctively work out the world through story forms, as well as enjoy vicarious experience, and then there is the joy of connection when a stranger reads something, and reaches back to tell you that your book had meaning for them. I think it's the same joy that any craftsperson or artist, or laborer of any kind, gets when someone appreciates the work they put into a thing. This kind of human connection is important, it's vital, even if many of us will measure those moments in onesies and twosies instead of millions.
sartorias: (banshee twostep)
Amazon Reviews can sometimes be funny when someone fulminates a one star wonder for some hapless book or film or product, but I never knew people would use Amazon reviews as a creative outlet. Be ware, those of you who don't like references to men's naughty bits. (I have never seen so many synonyms.) Because my sense of humor never graduated junior high, I nearly laughed myself off my chair.
sartorias: (banshee twostep)
Amazon Reviews can sometimes be funny when someone fulminates a one star wonder for some hapless book or film or product, but I never knew people would use Amazon reviews as a creative outlet. Be ware, those of you who don't like references to men's naughty bits. (I have never seen so many synonyms.) Because my sense of humor never graduated junior high, I nearly laughed myself off my chair.
sartorias: (Default)
I played with dolls until I was twelve, at which time the 'rents began to think it was a tad weird, and the dolls had vanished when I came home from summer camp. I didn't see until years later that I was working out elaborate novel plots with those long games that involved our entire bedroom. (All the cardboard castles and stuff I also laboriously made with tape also kept disappearing--that being clutter to all eyes but mine.)

Anyway, some thoughts on play and art.
sartorias: (Default)
I played with dolls until I was twelve, at which time the 'rents began to think it was a tad weird, and the dolls had vanished when I came home from summer camp. I didn't see until years later that I was working out elaborate novel plots with those long games that involved our entire bedroom. (All the cardboard castles and stuff I also laboriously made with tape also kept disappearing--that being clutter to all eyes but mine.)

Anyway, some thoughts on play and art.
sartorias: (Default)
After following (in fits and starts) some of the secondary discussions after the Christopher Priest shortlist kafuffle, I had to add a few thoughts.

Hoping that this week I can emerge from the bunker!
sartorias: (Default)
After following (in fits and starts) some of the secondary discussions after the Christopher Priest shortlist kafuffle, I had to add a few thoughts.

Hoping that this week I can emerge from the bunker!

Book Day!

Apr. 3rd, 2012 06:07 am
sartorias: (Sartorias-deles)
Today Banner of the Damned is out.( Kindle) It's a stand-alone, poised between two series, approximately 400 years after one and before the next.

Things I kept thinking about besides the usual (families, permutations of love, the cost of power, human instinct including the torquing of the psyche when survival instinct is forced forward): narrators, truth, reliable and unreliable. Relationships. Besides adventure and magic and stuff.


Book Day!

Apr. 3rd, 2012 06:07 am
sartorias: (Sartorias-deles)
Today Banner of the Damned is out.( Kindle) It's a stand-alone, poised between two series, approximately 400 years after one and before the next.

Things I kept thinking about besides the usual (families, permutations of love, the cost of power, human instinct including the torquing of the psyche when survival instinct is forced forward): narrators, truth, reliable and unreliable. Relationships. Besides adventure and magic and stuff.


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