On January 4th, 2010, Inkquisitive asked, "...do you have any help for those of us who seem to live in Dialogue Land? I know you have touched on this a little before, but do you have any suggestions on how to convert a conversation-heavy scene into more action? My book is starting to look like a play (which I do not want) with bits of narrative strewn among a majority of conversation. Thanks.
Here are some suggestions for getting from Dialogue Land into Action Land.
Suppose your main character’s objective is to restore a friendship. In real life and fiction that’s usually achieved with words, but this time your job is to get there with minimal dialogue. Consider how your main character, James, can win back Hanna’s trust with few words, and not a letter either. You don’t have to retreat into wordlessness, however. James can be thinking like crazy. In addition to thinking, what can he do?
Or, write a story with a main character who is not a talker. She may not even be much of a verbal thinker. She expresses herself by action. Make her mad at someone. How does she deal with her anger without talking or screaming or explaining her feelings? Bring in more characters and stick mainly to action.
Silence can pack a huge emotional wallop. In life and in fiction when one person stops talking to another, you have explosive tension. Friends doing something together without a word - walking in the woods, cooking, sitting by a fire - can convey companionship and peace. Setting can help, and so can body language. Two people slumped in chairs in a hospital lounge suggest grief or hopelessness.
Think of a retreat in which the participants have vowed silence. In spite of the silence, however, relationships are formed, feelings conveyed. Try writing about a main character at a silent weekend retreat. Make her want something that is counter to the intentions of the retreat. How does she go about getting what she wants? One way to approach this might be through humor.
Maybe this can’t be done entirely without words, but what fun it would be to write - or read - a mystery set in a place of silence.
When you find yourself locked in dialogue, think of it as being stuck on the phone. Your cousin has called. You love him, but he’s a chatterbox, and after a while you remember that you’ve eaten nothing for eight hours or a light bulb needs changing or you promised to mow the lawn, so you look for a friendly, unhurtful way to get off the phone. Try the same technique in Dialogue Land. Think of a reason for one of your characters to end the conversation. Break everybody up and move the story to a different location. Make the next scene a solo one. Your main character is alone. He has no one to talk to. What does he do?
Radical cutting also may help. Do all these words need to be said? Can some just be eliminated? Suppose your characters are talking about an event that they all witnessed. Try showing the event. Your characters can have thoughts about it, but let the action unfold as it happens. If one of the characters missed the occurrence, you can just say in narration that he was told.
I have not done this recently, but it might be a good idea: Watch an old silent movie. In silent movies there were occasional speech lines shown on the screen, but almost everything was accomplished without them. Observe how it was done.
Look through picture books. Granted, these are simple stories, but they might be useful anyway. See what the images convey, because you can write in images. You can write about facial expressions and reduce the necessity of having someone say what he’s feeling.
Often the motivation for dialogue is to develop character, and dialogue is wonderful for that, but think how your characters can reveal themselves without words. We learn a lot about Kirby if he combs his hair in a mirror while Kathleen weeps on the sofa a yard away.
I’ve saved the most obvious for last, because it is obvious. Write an action story: a chase, an escape, a natural disaster. These can be dialogue heavy too, but don’t let yours be. When your characters start getting chatty, make the roof cave in or the bad guys show up. Tie your characters up with tape across their mouths.
Prompts are scattered through this post. Here they are, collected:
• Restore a friendship in a scene. No more than ten words may be spoken.
• Write a story about a main character who isn’t a talker and isn’t a verbal thinker either. You may want to get her mad at someone. Or do something else with her.
• Set a story at a silent retreat. Your main character wants something and it isn’t silence or spiritual growth. What happens?
• Watch a silent movie (I love Buster Keaton) or read a bunch of picture books. Use one of them as the basis of a story with little dialogue.
• Write an action story about a chase or an escape or a natural disaster. Or all three! When any of your characters speak, don’t let the speech go beyond a single line.
Have fun and save what you write.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Keeping On Keeping On
On December 28, 2009 the Tenth Muse posted this comment: When I write, I have two issues with finishing. My first is that I almost write the story up in my head, and when I attempt to put it to paper, it feels tedious and I usually leave it unwritten. My next is most likely born from the first. :) It's that, after I've written the whole thing down or put it together inside my head, I realize I also want to do something else with the story. Then the new idea begins to take over, and I start second guessing my original ideas. And then I feel extremely lost!
Some authors (not I) won’t talk about their works in progress because talking saps their urge to write. They believe that they use the same process to talk and to write. When they return to the writing, they feel they’ve already done it, and they’re not interested in repeating themselves, so then they’re stuck. Tenth Muse, it sounds as if you may run into the same difficulty just by thinking about your story. Fascinating.
Of course you have to think. I believe detail may be the problem, not thought. I can talk about the books I’m in the middle of because I never achieve the level of detail in a conversation that I need when I’m bringing a scene to life on a page. Tenth Muse, I’m working only from your question, so I may be miles off base, but I wonder if, when you get to the writing, you’re telling a story rather than showing it to a reader.
Here is a true tale from my family history, which, alas, doesn’t show my relatives in an exemplary light: My great aunt, whom I no longer remember and whose name I don’t know, was plump plus, and so was my grandmother. Both were relatively poor, very economical, and not very ethical. They lived in New York City, where I grew up. In those long-ago days a subway ride cost a nickel, and they didn’t want to pay two nickels when one would do. So they put a single nickel in the slot and squeezed into the turnstile together. And got stuck, and a policeman had to come to get them out.
This anecdote caused hilarity at family gatherings whenever it was trotted out. It’s a good story, but how much better it would be if it were fleshed out by a fiction writer. For example, what if the sisters were in the middle of an argument when they got stuck, or one blamed the other for their predicament. Was it winter or summer? Were they working their way out of winter coats when the cop arrived? Did one of them need to go to the bathroom? Suppose they had purchases that they’d slid under the turnstile ahead of them, which someone now could steal - or did steal, costing a whole dollar, rather than a nickel. The story can become funnier or more serious. Suppose this were the 1930s, the Depression, and the purchases were a week’s food.
A story in the writer’s head or transcribed from the writer’s head isn’t likely to be fully realized. We haven’t grappled with what’s happening inside the story. In the family yarn above, as I thought of possibilities, new possibilities suggested themselves. If I wrote it as a real story, I’d start by thinking about what each character was like, their relationship, circumstances, where they were coming from and going to. As soon as I had them talking to each other, the narrative would start to go down a certain path. More ideas would come, but some ideas would become impossible because of what went before. I might turn into a dead end and have to delete back to the beginning of the dead end.
Tenth Muse (and everyone else), coming up with new and divergent ideas sounds positive. Suppose I thought the story would end up in my aunt’s fifth floor walk-up apartment, but then it seemed better to end with my aunt on a date with the arresting officer. We can explore those ideas. The key is to explore them through detail, using narrative and dialogue. If you slow your story down for detail the tedium may go away or at least diminish. Oddly enough, slowing down is likely to pick up the pace for the reader, who will get involved with the characters you are revealing.
As for feeling lost, that may be the sensation I hate most when I’m writing and the one I experience the most often. You and I need to develop a tolerance for it. For me, finding a story is like picking my way through a jungle. I know that on the other side of the vegetation is a parking lot and a van with The End painted on the side, but the only trail markers are occasional notches in the stems of a species of meat-eating plant.
To continue through the jungle - rather than standing still and howling, or jumping on the first helicopter out - is hard. It may help if you get interested in the details: the fauna and flora around you, the bird whose cry sounds amazingly like popcorn popping, or the flower with petals the color of a sunset. You’re still lost, but you’re entertaining yourself as you inch along.
This week’s prompt: Take a family story, or take my family story (please!), and retell it with details, probably invented details. Don’t think that you have to stick to the real events. Use the ones that appeal to you and toss the rest. You can rewrite history and send the anecdote in a new direction. You can be funny or serious. Teach the reader about your Uncle Matthew and Cousin Isabel. Let him see the old-fashioned kitchen with the iron sink and the water that comes out in spurts, smell the bread baking or the cabbage boiling, hear the loud voices or the whispers. Have fun, and save what you wrote!
Some authors (not I) won’t talk about their works in progress because talking saps their urge to write. They believe that they use the same process to talk and to write. When they return to the writing, they feel they’ve already done it, and they’re not interested in repeating themselves, so then they’re stuck. Tenth Muse, it sounds as if you may run into the same difficulty just by thinking about your story. Fascinating.
Of course you have to think. I believe detail may be the problem, not thought. I can talk about the books I’m in the middle of because I never achieve the level of detail in a conversation that I need when I’m bringing a scene to life on a page. Tenth Muse, I’m working only from your question, so I may be miles off base, but I wonder if, when you get to the writing, you’re telling a story rather than showing it to a reader.
Here is a true tale from my family history, which, alas, doesn’t show my relatives in an exemplary light: My great aunt, whom I no longer remember and whose name I don’t know, was plump plus, and so was my grandmother. Both were relatively poor, very economical, and not very ethical. They lived in New York City, where I grew up. In those long-ago days a subway ride cost a nickel, and they didn’t want to pay two nickels when one would do. So they put a single nickel in the slot and squeezed into the turnstile together. And got stuck, and a policeman had to come to get them out.
This anecdote caused hilarity at family gatherings whenever it was trotted out. It’s a good story, but how much better it would be if it were fleshed out by a fiction writer. For example, what if the sisters were in the middle of an argument when they got stuck, or one blamed the other for their predicament. Was it winter or summer? Were they working their way out of winter coats when the cop arrived? Did one of them need to go to the bathroom? Suppose they had purchases that they’d slid under the turnstile ahead of them, which someone now could steal - or did steal, costing a whole dollar, rather than a nickel. The story can become funnier or more serious. Suppose this were the 1930s, the Depression, and the purchases were a week’s food.
A story in the writer’s head or transcribed from the writer’s head isn’t likely to be fully realized. We haven’t grappled with what’s happening inside the story. In the family yarn above, as I thought of possibilities, new possibilities suggested themselves. If I wrote it as a real story, I’d start by thinking about what each character was like, their relationship, circumstances, where they were coming from and going to. As soon as I had them talking to each other, the narrative would start to go down a certain path. More ideas would come, but some ideas would become impossible because of what went before. I might turn into a dead end and have to delete back to the beginning of the dead end.
Tenth Muse (and everyone else), coming up with new and divergent ideas sounds positive. Suppose I thought the story would end up in my aunt’s fifth floor walk-up apartment, but then it seemed better to end with my aunt on a date with the arresting officer. We can explore those ideas. The key is to explore them through detail, using narrative and dialogue. If you slow your story down for detail the tedium may go away or at least diminish. Oddly enough, slowing down is likely to pick up the pace for the reader, who will get involved with the characters you are revealing.
As for feeling lost, that may be the sensation I hate most when I’m writing and the one I experience the most often. You and I need to develop a tolerance for it. For me, finding a story is like picking my way through a jungle. I know that on the other side of the vegetation is a parking lot and a van with The End painted on the side, but the only trail markers are occasional notches in the stems of a species of meat-eating plant.
To continue through the jungle - rather than standing still and howling, or jumping on the first helicopter out - is hard. It may help if you get interested in the details: the fauna and flora around you, the bird whose cry sounds amazingly like popcorn popping, or the flower with petals the color of a sunset. You’re still lost, but you’re entertaining yourself as you inch along.
This week’s prompt: Take a family story, or take my family story (please!), and retell it with details, probably invented details. Don’t think that you have to stick to the real events. Use the ones that appeal to you and toss the rest. You can rewrite history and send the anecdote in a new direction. You can be funny or serious. Teach the reader about your Uncle Matthew and Cousin Isabel. Let him see the old-fashioned kitchen with the iron sink and the water that comes out in spurts, smell the bread baking or the cabbage boiling, hear the loud voices or the whispers. Have fun, and save what you wrote!
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
The Challenge of Length
On 12/23/09, Asma posted this comment: I was actually referring to the process of beginning to write, after an idea has formed in your mind. I have attempted your advice to start in the middle, but usually I don't know where to go from there or where I've come from. If I try to begin at the beginning, I usually don't know where to start, get bored, or become obsessed with perfection. I usually don't have this problem with short stories (my reference to length) as the entire plot is so short as to have fully materialized in my mind, and all I have to do is write it down. Longer pieces are my real difficulty.
This is excellent timing, because I’m poised to start on a new book. For me, writing a beginning is the end of the phase that I hate most, which is shaping in my mind and in notes enough of a story to get going with. A non-writer friend was surprised that this stage wasn’t fun, more fun than anything else - fooling around, trying one plot notion after another, being creative. Instead, I feel like I’m in a big empty house with no windows, and I whirl from room to room, facing only blank walls.
Eventually, an idea glows out of a white wall, and I write it down. With maddening slowness, more ideas emerge. I’ve called them forth, of course, but it doesn’t feel as if I’ve done anything. It feels more like all the ideas in the world are off at a party, and occasionally one of them hears my plaintive voice from a hundred miles away, and it condescends to visit me.
Here’s how I’m getting started, in generalities: I want to write another mystery with some of the same characters from the last one, and I want to associate it with a fairy tale. So I reread a bunch of fairy tales and wrote notes about what I might do with some of them. With each I reached a point of stuckness and couldn’t go any further in my imagination.
Finally I found a tale that fits the setting I have in mind and decided to write a mystery sequel. By now I’ve written eight pages of notes, and I still don’t know who the villain will be and how the story will work itself out. It’s not bad not to know who’s evil in a mystery, because I won’t telegraph the answer to the reader. Still, I like to have a dim idea of an ending to aim toward.
Then I thought of a larger problem that I can wrap the tale in, and I know, more or less, how the larger problem should end, so I’m ready to begin, even though most of the story is a muddle.
I lost my way writing both Fairest and The Two Princesses of Bamarre, and I wandered in notes and wrong directions for months or more before I found the story. This was very painful. I don’t want it to happen again, but it may, and it may on this next book, and if it does I will be miserable, probably for a long time. So far in my writing career I haven’t gone astray enough to abandon a book before finishing it, but even that could happen.
This kind of misery is the lot of many writers. We try beginning after beginning. We start in the middle and then slowly figure out what went before. We get bored (I do). We get trapped trying to make a little piece perfect. Then we slog on.
The most important quality for a writer to cultivate is patience. A long piece of fiction is the work of months at the very least. Sometimes a ten-page scene will take a ridiculous time to straighten itself out. We put up with this because we belong to the insane writing branch of humanity.
The second most important quality is kindness to self. Poor me (for example), suppose I need to write at least a page today, but nothing is happening. Maybe I’ll feel better if I stare out the window or take a shower. Poor me, I am so dumb that I made a mistake in Chapter Three that makes Chapters Four, Five, and Six impossible. But I forgive myself, because otherwise I will have to leap out of my skin.
The third quality is doggedness. I am going to finish this expletive-deleted story no matter what.
Specifically about story shape - I like compact ideas as the basis for long novels. Simple plots don’t have to turn into short stories; they can become big books. Robin McKinley wrote the novel Beauty and Donna Jo Napoli wrote the novel Beast, both based on the fairy tale “Beauty and the Beast,” which is only fifteen pages long in the version I own.
I love to work with an uncomplicated tale, because then I can embroider and heap on details and twists. My The Princess Test comes from “The Princess and the Pea,” which is one of the shortest of fairy tales. I thought, Well, who could possibly feel a pea under all those mattresses? And what was she doing, soaking wet at the castle door? Why did the king and queen invent a pea-mattress test as proof of princess-ness? How many other crazy tests can I add? Answering these questions produced many pages of story.
So here’s a prompt. Take a rudimentary story, like Rumpelstiltskin, or a nursery rhyme like this one:
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating her curds and whey;
Along came a spider,
Who sat down beside her
And frightened Miss Muffet away.
and write about it. If these don’t interest you, pick your own. I’m not saying you should write a novel, although it would be cool if you did. Just write about how you might add depth to the stories and complicate them. Take Miss Muffet for example. The spider sits next to her. Is it the same size she is? Is the rhyme about an invasion of giant spiders? Aaa!
Have fun and save what you write!
This is excellent timing, because I’m poised to start on a new book. For me, writing a beginning is the end of the phase that I hate most, which is shaping in my mind and in notes enough of a story to get going with. A non-writer friend was surprised that this stage wasn’t fun, more fun than anything else - fooling around, trying one plot notion after another, being creative. Instead, I feel like I’m in a big empty house with no windows, and I whirl from room to room, facing only blank walls.
Eventually, an idea glows out of a white wall, and I write it down. With maddening slowness, more ideas emerge. I’ve called them forth, of course, but it doesn’t feel as if I’ve done anything. It feels more like all the ideas in the world are off at a party, and occasionally one of them hears my plaintive voice from a hundred miles away, and it condescends to visit me.
Here’s how I’m getting started, in generalities: I want to write another mystery with some of the same characters from the last one, and I want to associate it with a fairy tale. So I reread a bunch of fairy tales and wrote notes about what I might do with some of them. With each I reached a point of stuckness and couldn’t go any further in my imagination.
Finally I found a tale that fits the setting I have in mind and decided to write a mystery sequel. By now I’ve written eight pages of notes, and I still don’t know who the villain will be and how the story will work itself out. It’s not bad not to know who’s evil in a mystery, because I won’t telegraph the answer to the reader. Still, I like to have a dim idea of an ending to aim toward.
Then I thought of a larger problem that I can wrap the tale in, and I know, more or less, how the larger problem should end, so I’m ready to begin, even though most of the story is a muddle.
I lost my way writing both Fairest and The Two Princesses of Bamarre, and I wandered in notes and wrong directions for months or more before I found the story. This was very painful. I don’t want it to happen again, but it may, and it may on this next book, and if it does I will be miserable, probably for a long time. So far in my writing career I haven’t gone astray enough to abandon a book before finishing it, but even that could happen.
This kind of misery is the lot of many writers. We try beginning after beginning. We start in the middle and then slowly figure out what went before. We get bored (I do). We get trapped trying to make a little piece perfect. Then we slog on.
The most important quality for a writer to cultivate is patience. A long piece of fiction is the work of months at the very least. Sometimes a ten-page scene will take a ridiculous time to straighten itself out. We put up with this because we belong to the insane writing branch of humanity.
The second most important quality is kindness to self. Poor me (for example), suppose I need to write at least a page today, but nothing is happening. Maybe I’ll feel better if I stare out the window or take a shower. Poor me, I am so dumb that I made a mistake in Chapter Three that makes Chapters Four, Five, and Six impossible. But I forgive myself, because otherwise I will have to leap out of my skin.
The third quality is doggedness. I am going to finish this expletive-deleted story no matter what.
Specifically about story shape - I like compact ideas as the basis for long novels. Simple plots don’t have to turn into short stories; they can become big books. Robin McKinley wrote the novel Beauty and Donna Jo Napoli wrote the novel Beast, both based on the fairy tale “Beauty and the Beast,” which is only fifteen pages long in the version I own.
I love to work with an uncomplicated tale, because then I can embroider and heap on details and twists. My The Princess Test comes from “The Princess and the Pea,” which is one of the shortest of fairy tales. I thought, Well, who could possibly feel a pea under all those mattresses? And what was she doing, soaking wet at the castle door? Why did the king and queen invent a pea-mattress test as proof of princess-ness? How many other crazy tests can I add? Answering these questions produced many pages of story.
So here’s a prompt. Take a rudimentary story, like Rumpelstiltskin, or a nursery rhyme like this one:
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating her curds and whey;
Along came a spider,
Who sat down beside her
And frightened Miss Muffet away.
and write about it. If these don’t interest you, pick your own. I’m not saying you should write a novel, although it would be cool if you did. Just write about how you might add depth to the stories and complicate them. Take Miss Muffet for example. The spider sits next to her. Is it the same size she is? Is the rhyme about an invasion of giant spiders? Aaa!
Have fun and save what you write!
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
The Mystery Puzzle
Before I start, I want to point out a new link on the page, right below the two websites, which will take you to an interview with me. I hope you’ll check it out - and then come back.
This week I’m combining two questions. On December 11, 2009 Amanda posted this comment: I'm thinking about writing a mystery novel but I've never written a mystery before. Do you have any tips on how to write one?
And on December 23, 2009 Curious Mind wrote: I like a bit of mystery in my writing, but cannot seem to hold back information very well, and there is no suspense. Any suggestions?
Taking the second question first, a lot can be fixed in revision, so putting everything in is fine in the first draft. Sometimes I include information simply because I need to know it, and I’m discovering it on the page. When the story is written, or when I’m far enough along to tell what’s necessary and what’s not, I prune.
Heaps of background can bog a story down, without a doubt, but suspense and withholding information aren’t necessarily the same. Sometimes the more the reader knows about a problem the more worried he will be. Giant spiders in the house are scary, but giant spiders who can find their way through a maze faster than a rat are scarier. Throw in a main character who is deathly allergic to spider bites, and the reader should be wringing her hands in fright. I don’t want to keep this information to myself, and I particularly don’t want to whip it out at the last minute. The reader should have time to stew in fear.
Lawrence Block writes a mystery series about a crime-solving thief, Bernie Rhodenbarr. I don’t like Block’s technique of skipping over details that help Bernie solve the crime and then letting the reader in on them later when the truth comes out. Unfair! I yell at my book - and continue reading, because the story is too much fun to put down.
Amanda, I have written only one mystery, so I’m no expert. Right now, I’m writing notes and exploring what may be my second. I’m feeling at sea, the way I usually feel at this stage of any book. I don’t even know what the mystery will be yet. I have an idea who some of my main characters will be, but I don’t know which are good and which are evil. At least two will have secret identities, but I don’t know which character will attach to which secret identity.
Some mystery writers have it all plotted out before they start. I’m sure they’re initially confused - or I hope they are - but they wait for certainty and an outline before they begin the narrative. Others just plunge in. I’m in the middle but closer to the plungers. Still, I need more of a direction than I have so far.
Ambiguity about who’s bad and who’s good can work in your favor and mine in a mystery. A character can act with kindness and then turn around and do something terrible, leaving the reader mixed up. You can maintain the uncertainty and push the character to finally reveal himself - and then you can cover up the revelation so your reader doesn’t even notice it. For example, suppose something very valuable goes missing and your villain is a thief. Suppose also that the owner of the object has just moved and the movers put boxes everywhere, kitchen boxes in the den, bedroom boxes in the kitchen. Throw in that the owner is super forgetful and could have put the precious thing in any box or have left it behind in the old house in a dark corner of a closet. To make matters worse, the owner has a new puppy who’s prone to eat almost anything. By now there’s enough dust in the reader’s eye to conceal a league of thieves.
At the heart of a mystery is a who question, of course. Who committed the crime? The crime can be anything from murder to a stolen cupcake to a betrayed friendship. In the mystery I just finished, A Mansioner’s Tale (tentative title), the crime that starts the mystery off, the theft of a dog, isn’t the main crime. The first is a precursor to the second, but Lodie, my main character, doesn’t realize that.
Underlying the who question is the why question. Why was the crime committed? What was the motive? It’s probably possible to find out who without ever learning why. I bet this happens often in actual crimes, and I suspect it’s frustrating for a jury. Still, I think a successful whodunit might be written without ever answering the why question.
In most cases, however, the why question is answered. In the mystery I just finished, the victim is hated by many. There are legions of suspects, and the reader doesn’t know whom to trust. But you could go the other way. The deceased could be beloved by everyone. Who would hit such a saint over the head?
You can pile on puzzles and possible clues. In A Mansioner’s Tale several characters wear rings and bracelets made of twine. Lodie wonders if the wearers belong to a secret society that has it in for the victim. A character who presents herself as poor is seen haggling with a jeweler over an expensive bracelet. A honey-tongued man speaks harshly. A gate is left open. An ox is mauled.
It’s fun to confuse the reader. Going back to Curious Mind’s question, extra information can add to the confusion. Your main character can hear gossip about someone that may be entirely false. Or the gossip can be contradictory. Or the intelligence can be true, but the source can be a known liar.
You can fool around with all the elements, not just who and why but also how, as well as opportunity, alibi, ability (a small woman overpowering a big man, for example).
Even in stories that aren’t primarily mysteries, there are likely to be puzzles. Somebody dislikes the main character, and he wonders why. He gets straight As on all his Chemistry tests, yet the teacher gives him a C on his report card. His sister keeps coming home late from school. His mother has begun to sew although she used to hate domesticity in any form.
For a little more on this subject, you may want to revisit my post of May 27, 2009 called Mystery Mystery when I wrote about another aspect of mysteries.
Here’s a prompt: Think of someone you know but not very well. Invent a secret for this person, one that goes with your idea of her. It can be a dark secret or not. Turn her into a character. If she were going to commit a crime, what would it be?
Now do the same for four more people. If you are inspired, write a mystery story involving one or more of them. Have fun, and save what you write!
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