I see it time and time again, but it’s with my peers too. And some, especially lately on social media, seem to expend an awful lot of energy on comparing themselves to others, and then acting atrociously as a result. But I don’t think they realize that it stems from comparison, because it takes form in reverse. It’s a passive aggressive sort of thing. I see it in some poetry. I see it in some commenting. What exactly am I talking about? I’m talking about people who don’t even realize they are comparing themselves to others, because they mask it as a sort of diatribe of superiority against contemporary writers and poets. They “bash” others in their quest to feel better about themselves, which begs the question: Why? Why expend so much energy on creating a negative environment that says: I’m better than you. I’m a better wordsmith. You don’t do this like I do therefore, you’re mediocre, and so on. Isn’t that a form of comparison? I don’t think it has a damn thing to do with them truly thinking they are superior. No. I think it’s actually the opposite. It’s a comparison, maybe even subconscious, that is actually making them feel inadequate, it’s their only refuge. Whether it be to ask: Why is THAT book or THAT poetry doing better than mine? Why is that post or that poem getting so many likes? It is a COMPARISON. It is a comparison of what YOU are doing against what OTHERS are doing or what is happening for them and not you. And bashing others or their work is really just a loud coping mechanism. Guess what? I’m on to you. Maybe you disagree with me, and I’d love to hear it! But my motto in my life right now is: DO YOU. I’ll do me. And if we meet in the middle to shake hands, wonderful. If we don’t? Go pound sand and keep digging your own grave. Working WITH people not AGAINST people is the only way to grow. Lifting people while staying grounded is what a community of writers or learners is. Without roots, nothing lasts. Without roots, everything gets easily plucked away in the wind and dies. So I say: Stop insulting other people. because you aren’t where you think you should be. Compare yourself to where you were yesterday and drink in the sun and water to grow. And if there isn’t any sun or water where you are, find another place. Then water those around you too. And watch just what happens to a rose and the whole rose bush when you do. Look back, yes, but only to compare yourself to the you YOU were before it bloomed and now. And smile with joy.
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We all have flaws, perceived or otherwise, that have plagued us since youth. Or at least we just simply always remember worrying about them. I’m not smart enough. Or my legs aren’t long enough or I’m too introverted. Whatever it may be, it is something that probably weighs us down. Where did it come from? Did you wake up one morning and simply think it or feel it? Or most likely, did it stem from something someone said once. Maybe we remember EXACTLY when it started, the exact moment someone said something that stuck with us. Or maybe we’ve blocked it out, and just somehow think it’s some universal, unconnected truth that just is, as if it’s a fact. I’ve written about my legs before. I can remember an exact moment in a car when I was about 13. I was squished in with a few friends coming back from the movies, my brother driving us. It was summer and hot and we all had shorts on and windows down. I looked to the left to one of my best friends, her leg pressed against mine, and I had two thoughts, thoughts that always seem to pop into my mind, like it was yesterday. One was that her leg was so much skinnier than mine. I couldn’t stop looking at it. The second was how tan hers was next to mine. I felt pasty and unattractive and what probably really makes this memory stick is that my brother commented on it. That my legs were too big for us to pile in the back and all fit. He never said fat. They weren’t. They were just—bigger. Muscular. And too short. Always too short.
And it makes me wonder: Does everyone feel that? Do even the most happy, the one most smiling, the one who seems to have it all, feel those things too? I never thought about it much until I was older, until I actually spoke to my brother about such things, him aghast that such a small comment that, to him, meant nothing but a silly joke, could leave such a lasting impression on my psyche. Because to him, it was such a non-issue; to him, in some strange way, he was complimenting me on my hard work.
I think the things that stick with us the longest or the most come from people we love or trust who let us down. I often wonder, had a stranger said that if I would have given it two thoughts. Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s the people closest to us that can hurt us the most. In love. In friendship. Anyone we let in. And maybe that’s why it’s easier to keep people at a distance. The rocks of words can’t hit as hard far away. But up close, they can leave scars. LAST NIGHT...was the first time in months I didn’t sleep with the AC on. The rain was performing in the night air and demanded to be noticed. With the overhead fan on and the sound of the rain and wind, I opened my window and fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke, the rain had stopped its show, and I lay there, very early—another thing I hadn’t done in months—and just reflected. Reflected on the day ahead. The week ahead. The semester ahead. My plans of travel and the long weekend. And a certain breeze not only passed through my window but through my body. It felt like breath.
I’m not a morning person. I like the nights. I like staying up late when the cars stop roaring and the stars come out. I like to sit with a good TV series and then climb up to bed to meet my latest book characters and forget who I am for a little while, let the responsibilities of life fade into the background of “that can wait,” before I take my ride with Morpheus, where dreams are unencumbered by expectation, and where I have no control of what happens there. It feels like freedom, even if only for that one second before I slip and enter the world I won’t likely remember but know anything is possible. I’d forgotten how wonderful the morning is. How quiet it is then too, before the bustle starts and the stress kicks in and the noise takes over. It’s a perfect time to write. To meditate. And spend time in the moment. And in this moment, I saw the trees, still wet from the night’s spectacle, but the leaves blowing gently against each other in harmony, a couple of big oaks seemingly in love. Within the leaves I stared, and like that old Magic Eye book or when I stare for long periods of time at the clouds, I saw a kiss in those leaves, a face I wanted to capture—a side profile of eyes, a nose, hair blowing back, and lips, lips kissing the leaves next to it. I thought to myself, I’m just seeing things, and yet, still, I wanted to get my phone and snap a picture to prove it to you, to see if you saw it too, to show you how real it was, the trees in an embrace, kissing one another. But I stopped myself. This was my moment, what I felt and saw and knew was real. And I realized, it didn’t matter who believed me or who might have seen it too or who thought I was foolish. It was my waking dream, whether fabricated or not: Those leaves loved each other. And I realized: Isn’t that all any of us want? To be kissed? In the morning when no one else knows, when the only thing that matters is that we know we were kissed, that we know: We are loved. And that’s what being alive feels like, the gift of morning. And I'm happy for it. Saying goodbye to someone or something you love is never easy. But it happens all the time in life. It doesn’t mean the love is gone. It just means it has changed or morphed or outgrown a heart’s size for myriad reasons. And for now, I am saying goodbye to something I love. It is with a heavy heart that I am closing The Nu Romantics’ Facebook group. It doesn’t mean The Nu Romantics are completely disappearing. Not now. Maybe not ever. But there are reasons why I no longer could put all my time into supporting a group at the expense of myself. It sounds selfish saying that out loud, but if there’s one thing I’ve been taught from writing—writing of ANY kind-- is that when we stop being honest, we have nothing to say that’s meaningful. I put my heart and soul into creating a group for writers and readers to come to explore and grow in a safe place. It was a place I got to fulfill so many of my creative urges. For anyone who knows me, they’ll tell you, my mind rarely shuts down. There is a creative side to me that’s almost a monster, gnawing at me, sometimes so voraciously, I completely lose myself. I’m constantly stopping to takes notes of ideas, writing, creating…and sadly, second guessing. I think a lot of us are like that. I’m not the exception. Without getting into too many details, I don’t think people realize the extent of work that goes into making a really successful group, and I’m not a half-assed person, about anything, a curse and a blessing. Some do realize it. Some joined us on the administration staff, only to realize how much work and dedication was required. At the expense of my own work and projects, I continuously put NuR first. Trying new things. Inventing new posts to engage people in an almost 1000-person group by its end. But I found when it came time for reciprocation, it just wasn’t there in the way I always dreamed. We, and our incredibly industrious PAs, were sharing and making graphics for people across all social platforms and commenting and encouraging people’s writing daily. We published two anthologies with no monetary compensation up front—collecting, editing, creating covers, editing, making graphics, editing (have I said editing?), and promoting and promoting and promoting. But The NuR family often remained silent during these times and the support only seemed to consist of a handful of people who really seemed to care or support those endeavors or understand the time and effort that goes into such things. To those people who were always there supporting the people in the group, and there are many, you are always a part of me and my growth and everyone else. And I thank you. You have marked me in the best possible way for life. That may sound bitter. It’s not. Please don’t take it that way. It’s a reality. NO ONE HAS MORE THAN 24 hours a day, that includes me and other admins. It’s not that people didn’t want to support (at least I hope so), it’s that none of us has that kind of time. We have lives. We have friends. We have families. We have lovers. We have full-time jobs. We write full-time too. A third full-time job? How? And yet, we admins were often expected to find time to support everyone all the time and when we didn’t, our inboxes would sometimes let us know.
So after months of debating and fighting with myself, it was time to take a break. I want to be creative. I want time to write. I want to support others. I, too, want support. And so starts a new chapter of how to balance the idea of success with that of support, especially when I have new releases or takeovers, how to balance creativity and time, and how to balance expectations with reality. The state of affairs in the world right now, especially in the US, won’t allow me to live on some cloud in the sky anymore. There is shit to be done. Work to do. And until someone devises a way to make more than 24-hours in a day, the reallocation of priorities is mandatory. Goodbye isn’t a word. It’s a feeling. And sometimes, goodbye feels right, but it’s never without sadness. I haven’t written a blog post in a long time! Writing a novel, editing the crap out of it, and publishing it is exhausting. And truth be told? I don’t know when/if I’ll be doing it again. I decided this summer I’m going to do what I love for the sheer joy of it, not to try to sell things. I’m going to write and read…and yes, even PAINT. And I’m not an artist that way, not at all. The few classes I’ve taken at the MFA have gone virtual for now, and I’m not doing that. But I discovered someone old to many but very new to me. Mr. Bob Ross. Now I know. I KNOW, “real” artists say he’s no good. No depth in his paintings. No real meaning or artistic value, except maybe in his sky or clouds. But you know what? I’m throwing my middle finger up at those people. The same things are often said about certain styles of poetry or erotic writing. There are all levels of all things, and Bob Ross did something magical. He painted for the sheer joy of it. He shared simple techniques and color combinations and brush strokes for the everyday man who never in his wildest dreams thought of painting. Just watching and listening to him is a meditation. I can feel my heartbeat slow, my breathing deepen, and watch the world disappear into this 30-minute blissful surrender. Writing these blogs make me feel the same way. It’s a mental therapy of sorts. Whether anyone reads them or not makes little difference to me. His style, though poo-poo’d generally speaking, puts one right into the landscape, takes the watcher along his journey into the mountains or oceans or trails or high into the sky or trees or deep into the brooks. And it’s no wonder his voice has become synonymous with the phenomenon known as ASMR (autonomous sensory meridian response).( You can learn more ASMR by clicking this link if you’re unfamiliar.) I find myself lost in his voice as he makes “happy” trees and tells us it’s our paintings and to do whatever we want with them… The saddest part, for me was learning how young Bob Ross died, and further, that he didn’t make one damn dime off his paintings. Now? They go for 8,000 to 10,000 US dollars at auction houses. Not too bad for such a shitty painter, huh? Of course the art elite will say it’s because of his celebrity not his talent. I say? Thank you, Bob Ross. You’ve inspired me to try your technique. You’ve inspired me to buy some supplies, sit out in the sun this summer, and just…paint. Not for accolades. Not for money. Not to impress people with statements. But for pure joy.
When I write—my poetry in particular—if I inspire one person to try free-verse poetry, which I’ve been told I have successfully done--then that is enough for me. I don’t need to sell it. There is something to be said for doing the things we love just because…they bring us some semblance of joy, or release, or surrender in the magic of the imagination. Do what makes your soul buoyant. Whether pen or paintbrush, tune out the static chatter of naysayers, and remember: “We don’t make mistakes, just happy little accidents.” ~Bob Ross “He who is not contented with what he has, would not be contented with what he would like to have.” ~ Socrates Do you agree with this quote? Is this true for everyone? Is it human nature to never truly be satisfied? I wonder…are we always looking for…more? In one of my classes the other day, a student bragged that she can get all her music at such and such a place for $5, that she needn’t buy the music, that the entire album could be gotten for this cost. She bragged of the money she was saving, and I asked her: “But what of the artist who created it? Shouldn’t they be compensated for the amount of work they put into it? For their art?” And she looked at me like I was crazy. “Who cares,” she said with a roll of her eyes. Ironically, in another conversation I overheard, a physics teacher discussed jobs vs. careers with one of his students, saying that many of the “great” scientists had “jobs” to pay the bills but did things in the arts, the things they loved, on the side to be fulfilled and happy. Are, then, the arts and so forth, something that should be given away for free? Would we all be better off with “jobs,” contributing to society in a well-oiled kinda of way, the arts and music and writing be left to everyone to share with one another more freely? Would we all be happier this way? Of course, this is a more socialist way of thinking, but is money the only validation in life to success or happiness? Or is that only a capitalist's way of thinking?
And it got me thinking too, about selling books, the amount of time and effort that goes into it. Would I, personally, be happier taking all my books off the market, and simply sharing it freely, without the strain or stress of sales? Certainly, there are many writers who make a living off their writing, but the vast majority of us do not. I make, in a year, about what I can make teaching a couple courses. Should, then, the arts be something that is just freely given for the pure beauty of it? I’ve been at this racket for five years now, and some days, I really don’t know if it’s worth it. I’m fortunate that my “job” and my “career” of teaching lend itself to my creative side daily. But I’ve finally accepted that I’m a writer, that I am a poet. It’s a part of me, for better or worse. I do write for the pure joy…so why sell it then? And so, I look inward and ask myself what I asked you all above. With each small step to success, does it only make me want more? Does money, as a motivator, only lead to dissatisfaction? I suppose I’ll have to let you know when I’m famous beyond Papua New Guinea (inside joke—but those of you who have been following me for a while, may understand). For now, I try to find contentment with what I have. I have written ad nauseam about intuition and my love/hate relationship with it. I like to think it’s not my intuition that rules my actions or thoughts but my background in research. If I follow the crumbs, they lead to the bread from whence it came. But what is it that started you on the trail in the first place? What makes the crumbs so readily available to me or you or anyone else? Why are we looking for them? For more times than not, they’re not there without our pursuit. Sometimes we call it a hunch. But again, those “hunches” come from previous experiences we’ve had, right? And oftentimes, it’s the people who burn us or betray us or let us down that stick. For all the love we may have or had, all the loyal friendships, all the good reaped upon us always seems to be overshadowed by the bad. That one experience of broken trust, for instance, is the one experience that makes us cautious, tip-toe into another relationship, slow down our chance at trust. And if it happens more than once? Well, it’s easier to think anything good will soon turn sour. Given the right amount of time, most people disappoint us. I don’t like thinking this way. But call it what you will—a hunch, past experiences, intuition, common sense—if we ignore the crumbs, we’ll fooling ourselves. How many times have all the signs added up and we’ve tried to explain them away, not daring or wanting to believe them? Going to that extreme isn’t good. That is a live-with-your-head-in-the-sand kind of existence. No one wants to live the buffoon. But what if you’re the opposite? What if your lack of trust is so strong, you often go searching for the crumbs, crumbs that may not even be there? A sort of paranoia? Again, an extreme. Both lead to a sense of out-of-control mania, even obsession. Blind trust vs. no trust? Both, in my opinion, are bad. And many of us fall into one camp or the other. The thing is, when you don’t trust, and you start looking, and you start to see something, then what? What if a friend sees it for you? Or vice versa, you see it for a friend? What then? Communicate? Go straight to the person? Ask them? Well, sure, you could…except if you’re this kind of person, you won’t trust their answer anyway, and search will continue, the pursuit ever stronger. And sometimes (okay, who am I kidding—OFTENTIMES), I’ve found myself to be this kind of person. I follow. I research. And when and if I find the conclusive evidence, then I communicate. Or perhaps you may call it confront. I wait. Then watch them lie. Then I’m done. Because I know. I’m not happy that life has been a series of events or people or experiences that have molded me to be this way. I’m working on it. Being in healthy relationships helps. But I’ll be damned if I’m the last one to know that I’m being fooled. And even writing this, it feels like a pride thing, maybe even that paranoia. “No one is going to pull the wool over my eyes. No sir-ee!” Or--"Ha! I knew it! Caught you, ya bastard!" Perhaps the real answer is to get to a place where you love yourself enough to love others fully and with trust. Because really, it says more about you than it does about them when you’re always looking for disaster or dishonesty. Life will be a series of disappointments. People lie. And it won’t be the last time they lie to you. The question is: Do you think that is reason enough to never open yourself up to another human being? Maybe. Maybe not. So that is why loving yourself makes it all worthwhile, doesn’t it? For if you must say goodbye to someone you love, you’re never alone. Do you ever feel like you don't exist? Like you don't matter? It hurts, doesn't it? Today, I share my thoughts from a few recent trips I took and an event that happened. As I traipsed the city of Minneapolis a few weeks ago, going out to different parts, exploring as I often do, the scooter my best friend, I realized how the United States has failed and continues to fail on the issue of homelessness. Some cities seem to hide it better than others, painting a false perception with a simple police baton, or some, like Portland, go in the opposite direction, even embracing it as a separate subculture. It's no secret we have a serious issue here, so I won't bore you on what we already know. That we need change. That we need more social programs. That we need governments who make it a priority. That we NEED. But in NYC a couple weeks ago, the problem was even more prominent. And I still wake up some nights with that sinking feeling that we must to do better. In a park one morning, sipping my too-expensive coffee, I noticed a cluster of people surrounding somebody. Of course, I tried not to stare, and of course, curiosity got the better of me. How appropriate as it centered around a cat. A woman sat with her cat curled in her lap on a hot and smoggy day, and people gathered to give her some money, some lingering, some simply dropping coins in a can by the sign that read: Please help me feed my cat. After a couple days in the city, you become a bit desensitized to homelessness. The first day, you find yourself giving money, smiling, doing anything to try to be...well...human. And as time goes by, you just don't know what to do. I'm not proud of this. I'm just being completely honest. We start to ignore it. We stop making eye contact. We have little voices inside our heads that say --"What will they do with the money?"--or "Jesus, not again?" As more time goes on, you just ignore it. We walk by. We try to pretend we didn't see. But we see it, damn it. And we can say or hear or make every excuse in the book, but we are suddenly looking at the homeless as a thing and not a person. As a problem and not a worthy living individual. As if this PERSON doesn't even exist. Why? How does that happen? But this woman wasn't being ignored. Instead, people cared. They cared, not about her, but about her cat. That was the sticking point. I heard murmurs: 'OMG. That poor cat.' And yup, stupid me, I started to cry. Maybe I was exhausted. Maybe I was hormonal. But the point is, no one cared about her. She wasn't important. But her cat? Her cat was important.
And the hardest part of all this reflection is that while food and hunger and shelter and all that is vital, it's the emotional part that keeps us living. I know. I have a dog that wasn't supposed to live through a week and with love and care, is going on 14! And I also know first-hand what being ignored feels like. It's awful. It kills self esteem. It can make us have moments of the darkness of feelings, of self-loathing. Imagine that feeling every day? Now imagine that feeling times 50 or 100 or 1000. Imagine being ignored by EVERYONE. Every. Single. Day. Yes, America. We MUST to do better. It's funny. My dad always loved that song from Fiddler on the Roof, maybe one of the earliest memories I have of musicals, a love of mine. And though I often hear people talk about the sunset and all its beauty, I rarely hear people talk about the sunrise. So today, I want to talk about the sunrise, something I haven't witnessed in a very long time. When I was younger and camping with my family, my dad loved to wake us up wherever we were to see the sunrise. He'd poke my brother and me, and we'd begrudgingly crawl out from under the warmth of our sleeping bags, remove the pillows from our faces that blocked the very sun we were about to revere, and either walk, or scramble into the car, to go see the sunrise at some ungodly hour before 6 am. As I grew into a teenager, I often "passed," my dad going it alone, decreeing: You only live once. After he passed, I often warmed at the thought of all those years ago, the thermos held tightly in my tiny hands full of the coffee he'd make I couldn't drink but loved to smell like I loved to smell his Old Spice. And this morning, I felt myself right back there. I set my alarm, something I loathe to do, made some coffee, poured it into a thermos, and went and sat on the beach to watch the sun rise. I could marvel and describe to you the colors and how the horizon met ocean and sky, that moment of grace where I know I'm important and not at the same time, a moment where I toasted my freedom on the 4th of July, and the inexplicable awe of nature. But instead, it was the smell of that coffee mixed in the with sea that I noticed more than anything, and I swore I saw my dad's smile in the clouds, a smile so infectious, anyone who met him talked about it. Before I knew it, the tears soaked my face, but they weren't sad tears. They were profound tears. I was sitting on that beach because I could, because my parents gave me a life that set me up to where I am now, a life where both my parents, but especially my dad, had made great sacrifices.
When I sat there, I knew I wouldn't be seeing a rainbow I often associate with my dad, given the weather, and yet, I kept looking anyway, because in that moment, I knew, though I am agnostic, there are greater things at work I'll never understand, like why my dad was taken from me so young. And even if scientifically there couldn't possibly be a rainbow, the possibility of it still existed. We don't have answers to everything. We never will. But my dad was right: You only live once. And so, I do, living freely, able to have the luxury to set an alarm if I choose to go see the sun rise with my dad. I’m looking at a nest precariously sitting in a tall tree, and the birds look like floating leaves in the clear, blue spaces between the branches. And hear them, even with my windows shut. Spring is coming! And it demands to be noticed. It feels…different. It’s as if your whole body reacts to the change, and something shifts. That heavy winter, the one that made you drag your feet every morning in the dark cold, where coffee wasn’t hot enough, now shifts to hope, like those floating leaves, and something says, deep inside you—Clean up. Get it together. Shake that baggage. Simplify. Become lighter! It makes me want to strap on my Converse and walk and notice and breathe. That’s what spring is. BREATH. It’s the conscious inhaling and exhaling of breath. And that does more for our psyche than any drug or substance. It is a physical and mental warmth. It’s a meditation, if you let it be. You put your head to the sun and let it warm you, and FEEL it, not superficially. You feel less harried. Less stressed. You don’t want to rush the way you do in winter. There is no longer a need to rush from house to car to car to building to car again to get anywhere but the cold, running to get out of the pelts of snow or wind. Instead, you feel your neck removing itself from your ears. You let your arms hang in a natural rhythm by your side. You’re no longer freezing. It’s quite fascinating when you stop and really think about it. That tension of pulling coats close and tucking scarves into necks so they don’t move as you walk is gone. You don’t even mind standing in one place. You feel each muscle unfurling, the tension and aches--gone. You can…think. That blue is brighter than any color you’ve ever seen. So what will you do to stop and breathe? What baggage will you leave behind? Sit for a bit. Watch the birds-- for they are "the secrets of living”—and hear them, even if it’s the first time.
Today I ponder happiness. Is true happiness attainable? If I were to ask you this very moment, “Are you happy?” What would be your answer? Sometimes I wonder if happiness exists, wholly or truly. Many will say that in order to feel happiness, we must feel the pain of its opposite. That THAT is one of life’s great paradoxes. The myriad colors of emotion. I hear that sort of reasoning often. But I can honestly say that I know feelings without their opposites, love without hate, for instance. And so, that theory doesn’t often hold up, even though it’s comforting and makes perfect sense to me. Is it just a way we keep ourselves from going rogue or crazy or off the deep end? That we must always come up with plausible explanations for things that often can’t be explained. I can’t think of a time I’ve ever “hated.” I’m being quite sincere here. Maybe it is because our parents always told us NEVER to use that word: “Rosemary. You may dislike something but you never say you hate.” Sound familiar? I’m starting to think there is no lasting happiness, that maybe from a young age, we've been sold a bill of goods, and maybe that’s the thing. Maybe nothing lasts but we have glimpses of it. Does it mean I’m unhappy? Or is it just another word. Sad. Disappointed. Unfulfilled. Bored. And are they only moments, like every moment is? No moment lasts, and therefore, no feeling lasts? Like this one, right now, already gone with each stroke of my keyboard. Poof. Like childhood, gone. Maybe it’s just about change. And maybe change is a form a happiness. And maybe without change, we feel ‘unhappiness.’ Maybe it’s time I think about a change. Or perhaps we’re always chasing happiness. Maybe happiness is nothing but a hollow, chocolate bunny. There’s nothing inside happiness. It tastes sweet, but maybe it’s just…boring. Empty. Superficial. You know?
I think a better word or phrase might be peace or peace of mind. Contentedness. But then does that mean we become complacent? Perhaps that’s just it. We want the chocolate. It tastes good, but after we have a taste or worse, become satiated, we ‘feel’ the most unhappy? Are feelings even real? And so, I circle back. Maybe happiness is just an illusion. Maybe happiness doesn’t exist. Maybe we don’t want it to, because maybe, just maybe, happiness means we’re dead. |
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I LOVE to write and read. I particularly enjoy reading erotic romance that has tons of emotion in it. I hope you will ask me questions and share your favorite authors and novels. I welcome all feedback.
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