Posted by: jeannineatkins | July 16, 2014

First Drafts: Embracing Messiness

In the summer my view is less from the window seat and more from the porch. I’m so taken with the big views and sometimes-sticky air that I stay out even though it’s cooler inside. And my dog and cat are so committed to my company that they stick with me, the dog huffing under the table and the cat melting on top. A little heat-induced laziness is a good way to start writing a new manuscript, for there’s a slim line between that and patience, which is what I most need as I make mistake after mistake. Or should I say set out one not-quite-workable plan after another? I’ve only been at this a week or two, and have changed the title maybe ten times. That’s all right. Starting out means spilling not sweeping. I won’t know the main theme or plot until I’m finished, but for now, the ever-changing titles are just guides. The characters names switch, too, until I find ones that fit. I’ve written a few good lines of dialogue and lots of bad ones. It all looks rather like this chalkboard I saw getting iced coffee in an Amherst bagel shop.


Sometimes we writers like to show off our stockpiles of bad early drafts just to prove we’re doing something here. I’ve done that, just as I recently made my daughter and husband admire my piles of weeds. I was doing something in the garden! But those early drafts aren’t about proving that we weren’t only poking around on the computer or that our job is easy just because we can do it with bare feet propped up near the cat, listening to crickets. Those whirling lines, mismatched plots, and characters that come and go are essential to finding characters and plots meant to stay.

Coming with all my thoughts of what a good book should look like, it’s hard to throw things around, making the biggest possible mess. But this is what it takes for me. There aren’t shortcuts to the clean orderly end. I never mind questions about whether I’m doing something wrong. Of course I am, and that’s just right. What I’ll keep will likely be the setting, where most of my work begins. I like being lavish with the senses, though I’ll have much to trim. That’s not my worry now, but to stockpile details that may not only make readers feel as if they’re there, but also suggest something about the characters and the situation. Details that do more than one thing are not only those I’ll look to save when I revise, but I keep an eye out for them as I start. There’s always another story, and to find a revelatory one, we have to set out the furniture or build the forest. Then characters may confide in us, objects unfold into metaphors that hint at other layers.

I wrote about ten pages of plane trip and backstory. Gone now. I wrote six pages of driving from the airport. Deleted. We’re starting on the porch, as we should, though tomorrow I might put everyone right in the attic. It’s like pulling the rug out from under my own feet, but I learned a lot about the family in the plane and rental car. I don’t stick with writing first chapters either, but imagine myself in the middle and at the end. I take a far view – check out the weather – then zoom in, and read the cereal boxes on the kitchen table. Smells and sounds may give me the first clues about what to develop. So while I imagine a summer night, I see children riding bikes, playing Mother, May I? and Red Light, Green Light, jumping rope, and then … down my memories of evening games I hear the calls of one with risks that cross with another idea. I follow this scene, letting details swell and shrink. I can look under or behind them, setting up my own treasure hunt. Creating places where secrets may lurk.


Posted by: jeannineatkins | July 7, 2014

The Days Between: Finishing One Manuscript, Starting Another

For the past year or two, I’ve been working with a map, though one I made myself. I outlined the forests and paths of the manuscript I just finished, and erased old lines and drew new ones. Still, I had something to work from, and a dream to get it right. Now I have to think of blank paper not as a dare, but an invitation, and I tell myself: when I’m ready. My writer-self doesn’t like to be pushed. She performs better with loopholes and sweet talk than threats.

The blank page will call if I don’t panic. I keep the lined but otherwise empty paper by my elbow, but the porch isn’t church. It’s okay if I fiddle with the straw in my ice tea, flip through a magazine, stare into the green, even check my e-mail, though I’m better off now sticking with paper and my barely-decipherable handwriting than a laptop. I can fold over the corners of paper. I can stick my pen through paper. Watch it curl in the heat. Its everyday look evokes unscheduled summer days. But if the laptop with its built-in diversions calls, I’m not going to raise a fuss. If I take time off for poetry, I may come back with a gift for my work instead of outrage at some scandal, but let’s not go crazy separating bad from good habits, setting too many rules.

I’m trying to hold out just one admonition for the characters and place starting to form. I’m telling myself that this book won’t be drawn from history. I love stacks of books, but want a vacation from the nonfiction section, partly to catch up on reading poetry and novels, immersing rather than skimming surfaces, which is part of my research method: waiting to be caught by a concrete noun. A friend recently lured me to walk down the street of Old Deerfield, scanning the historic village map for a century that pleased us, but I’m off the clock, here as company for Deb, who is a weaver as well as a writer, and is open to something that might bring those selves together. We smelled the roses in my photo, and then the sawdust inside a recreation of an old joiner’s shop.


Finishing my manuscript was fun, even if there were no fireworks. More and more I let myself listen to the whispers of a few new ideas. Foolish, full of holes, overdone, not my style, or are they? I’m trying not to assess at this point. Maybe some history will sneak in after all, for there is an old house, and the mom looks like she might be a paleontologist, and what’s life without looking back? I was thinking no magic as I’ve tried and failed at it before. But could I try harder? I don’t feel obliged, but admire books in which magic weaves through realism. We will see. What great words to have as a job description. I feel my luck, I feel my trepidation.

Pushing out the judge-in-me isn’t just about having a better time. It’s vital to creation. To weigh ideas at this point would be like cutting down all the trees in a forest because none had painted signs showing a way out. I don’t know which dead old branch or falling leaf I’ll need. Maybe there’s not a theme in the brush, but a way toward one. I keep looking and walking, getting over stubbed toes, and grateful for the occasional blue bird.

It’s a thrill, or do I mean terror, to begin. At least there’s a lot of hope. I make folders with titles that keep changing, put in and toss out flotsam, while looking more closely at other bits. And writing a page is writing a page, whether it’s first, last, or in the middle. So it’s best to celebrate wherever I am in the process, at least with a smile, a tip of ice tea at the cat, when I’m, say, pleased with an image. Or a bit of dialogue, or the rhythm of a sentence. Or even that I spelled rhythm right the first time, which has taken a lot of years.

Posted by: jeannineatkins | July 4, 2014

Novels in Verse: A Time to Dance and Caminar

I like novels in verse for lots of reasons, and one is the way that many good ones take readers into corners of our diverse world. If, like me, you’re eagerly waiting for Jacqueline Woodson’s Brown Girl Dreaming to come out next month, in the meantime you can be moved by these two new wonderfully written novels for teens.


A Time to Dance by Padma Venkatraman follows the dreams and setbacks of Veda, a dancer who loses her leg in an accident early in the book, and must adapt to using a prosthetic. The novel is divided into nicely titled poems, while keeping the pace of a fast-moving but elegant dance. I liked the themes of resilience, a bit of romance, art, and spirituality (and art as spirituality), all weaving in and out of what many will find a familiar and beautifully unfamiliar world. A Time to Dance is framed with poems about the Temple of the Dancing God. Both poems refer to costumes and feet sculpted from bronze or carved in stone. There are sounds of cymbals and scents of white jasmine, but in the final poem, there’s a stronger emphasis on the inner life. The music of applause has deepened, and the fears and hopes of a young dancer have turned to acceptance and joy.


Walking (caminar means “to walk” in Spanish) keeps the plot moving in a new verse novel, which is more like a collection of poems in that most, though usually short, have a completeness of their own. Caminar by Skila Brown is set in Guatemala in 1981and tells the story of Carlos. The first poem sets the place, comparing where he lives to a hand. The particular fingers and thumb named here are important throughout, as Carlos walks, meets people, changes his mind, faces violence, and climbs the mountain we see on that first page to warn others about the soldiers who invaded his village. The beginning poems also set up trees, animals, and “nahuales,” or animal spirit protectors, which appear throughout.

The book covers a lot of time and the leaps between poems makes such time-passing graceful, and also suits the themes of courage and coming of age. How each poem appears on the page is given a lot of thought, with patterns of words sometimes mimicking sounds. Some conversations seem to zigzag, while others are broken or speckled over the page so we get a sense of many talking at once. Some shape poems look scattered like ammunition, or at a moment of terror rely on a single word.

Both books use lyrical language to show hardships faced, bringing together beauty, pain, and courage. Highly recommended!

For more Poetry Friday posts, please visit Heidi at my juicy little universe.




Posted by: jeannineatkins | July 2, 2014

Finishing a Manuscript

For a moment I breathe deeply and feel like I’m very clean, as if just out of a shower on a hot day, before I start to get sticky again. There’s no fanfare on the porch, no parades, cheers, or party. Just the heavy-breathing dog, the cat curled into a sleep so dense you’d think I’d popped him in a steamer. The table is as quiet and cake-less as it was yesterday. Finishing a book is like the stillness of summer morning, the heat just starting to thicken, the birdsong at slow speed. Or the stillness of darkness, with fireflies winking here and there. I look at an empty yellow pad with affection. What should I write on it? Chapter one? That seems like a good idea. But I’m not in a hurry.

My work got easier toward the end, fixing fixes, tending to fine touches that will attract notice or not, though there were times when the sense that I was inching toward the end disappeared and my calm turned to freaking out. I read through it all again, until the problems seemed few enough that I knew another pass through only meant I was stalling. I had fun printing out a copy that I’m finally not going to scribble all over. I queried someone who’s not a friend or husband, who may or may not offer an overview of her reactions, but whose primary role is to decide whether this is something that can be published successfully, which is a gentler term for money-making. My focus has been on whether the work is as good as I can make it, which is different, though I hope it might be both.

So what now? There’s a thin line, if there’s a line at all, between finishing one thing and beginning another. But I’m trying to mark it, even as I rely on the satisfaction of completing a work to ease me into a new start. For a while, I’ll complete two essays, take some looks at two picture books put away, try to blog a little more. I want to write poems that are whole in themselves. I meant the ones I wrote in Finding Wonders each to hold their own ground, but I also had to keep narratives threading through dozens of poems. I’d like to be bit firmer about first and last lines.

Imagination likes a vacation, even a short or pretend one. I get to put my feet on the porch table and read slim volumes of poems. But some of the best poetry breaks up our concentration. It makes us dream or think, and doesn’t mind when we pause in the middle of a page, put down the paperback mid-stanza. Poetry is kind, maybe even ever so quietly claps, glad to inspire. I find myself dreaming, which leads to note-taking.

Ideas flutter like pale moths beating the screens. There’s an old house in the woods. Secrets. Fear of night. And a bit of a tone, a desire to work with shorter sentences, stay in middle reader territory. But who knows? I pour myself lemonade. I consider a swim.

Posted by: jeannineatkins | June 27, 2014

Revising with Love and Doubt

While revising a collection of verse based in history, I’m leaning on the voices of smart friends. Two of my readers are new-ish friends, but my other readers are the man to whom I’ve been married for thirty plus years and three people in my writing group who’ve been meeting for about twenty-five years. That’s a lot of trust. Sometimes I can imagine their reactions before I give them pages, beating them to the punch by taking out what I know will get marked. (It’s like doing yoga in my room, while imagining the voice of my teacher in the studio telling us to get our back ends a little higher or lower, to consider downward-facing dog as a practice in itself.) As I revise, I anticipate some of what may seem meandering to Bruce, too convoluted for Lisa or too prosy for Dina. But of course they are better at being themselves than I can imagine them to be, and they catch stuff I miss. When there’s unanimity about something, I don’t argue, but some things go by them and are being caught by my husband who’s the final reader. I was into this image involving eyes as hooks, until I got back a note from Peter: That is a truly disturbing image. You will not find hook-eyes in my book. His eyebrows also shot up beyond raised at my “saved stones in a soaked satchel.” Okay, I get it, I told him. Just write TMA for “too much alliteration.”  I’m kind of addicted.

Revising is complicated, but absolutely integral to the process. In the comments of my last blog, a few people mentioned students who groan when it’s time to revise. I understand. You think you’ve finished something, then someone tells you that you haven’t. Even if we knew that was coming, there’s a feeling like being kicked we might have to acknowledge with a private scream or muttering. It’s hard to take out the knife-like pen to cut out places that took work, then start new sentences. But once the knife has done its work, I usually see new sparkle or opportunities. Then I’m in full revision mode, not tending to a taskmaster’s demands, but being in a sort of conversation with my older and newer selves, the creative idler and the fastidious setter-of-bars. Last Friday in the comments on blog, Holly Mueller beautifully phrased this as the lending nature of the process: we give our work to others, then take it back, perhaps slightly changed. Also in the comments – I’m so thankful for these conversations! — Donna Smith referred to the delicate art of critique, mentioning the fine line between hurting and helping, and how some will hold back on the helping for fear of hurting. I think we’ve all been there. No matter how carefully phrased, when our work is criticized we feel a bubble burst, and the pain sticks around longer than marks left by water and soap.

When I visit schools, teachers may urge me to discuss my revision process, and I will mention the weeks and months of crossing out words, destroying chapters. But I sometimes feel uneasy. I love that great teachers look to writers to show students ways into the process, but I hardly revised until I was in my twenties, and wonder if there’s a connection between revising and age. While we want students to learn from “real writers,” we rarely give them the sort of time writers need to get a distance from our work, or even to mull and make more mistakes. Older people get perspective in exchange for other losses, and that is handy when revising.

I was a kid who liked to write, back in a days when it was at the far end of the English class curriculum, when more time was spent learning to diagram sentences and spell. On my own, I sometimes wrote the first acts of short plays, rhymed poems, or the start of a story, and learned that revising can sometime mean letting go, moving on to the next project. I also learned the solitary nature of the process, and kept myself protected until I felt ready to show anyone what I was dreaming up. Now I see that some students may learn that starting out again into revision is tough, but the reward may be getting to have the happy finishing-feeling when they’ve worked their way through that last – perhaps – round. But some students just might never get revision. I hope we all stay mindful of the needs of the shy, thoughtful, maybe a bit too sensitive children we hope will grow up and run the world. Some children are wary for good reasons. Some need to stay firmly in the age of dreaming, creating, bubble making not bursting. Some will write as if making offerings, and sometimes we grownups just need to say, “Thank you.” No matter how gentle our voice in suggesting changes, it may be the wrong thing to say.

This is me talking about me as a teacher: I’ve regretted some of my words. And I speak about these children with some authority because the shy girl I was remains in sixty-year-old-me as I write, and I need her as much as I need the experienced reviser, and the professional who can write back to an editor who asked her to lop off fifty pages with a quiet, “Yes, thank you, I can do that.” Keeping the moaning to myself, and that faithful writing group,who, stick with me for more than critique, but are ready with the as necessary reminder that there’s more work to be done that only I can do.


It truly takes time to learn that fields that look both perfect and never mown may have known scythes or machines, or to see beauty in a field of pale wildflowers as much as artfully arranged or bright blossoms. And time may give us a belief that we can fix what can be fixed and move on from what can’t. We learn that love isn’t always pure-valentine pink, and adjust ourselves to love that holds what we never thought it could. Revising calls for both gentleness and ruthlessness, which is a lot to ask. But grownups now, we can do this and it will be worthwhile. And we’ll arrive at point where we can say: for better or for worse, this is mine.

For more Poetry Friday posts, please visit: Buffy’s Blog.

And for one more note about revision, check out the amazing Laura Shovan for the heroic way she kills her darlings here:

Then go congratulate her for her recent two book deal at The Best News Ever!


Posted by: jeannineatkins | June 20, 2014

Deep Breaths for Poetry’s Last Lap

It’s the season of irises, roses, and revision. I recently got back notes about a manuscript I’m calling Finding Wonders from my writing group and two other friends. Dina, Lisa, Bruce, Deb, and Terry all assured me that it’s close to a book. “It’s mostly housekeeping, now,” Lisa said. Of course it’s more spring cleaning with mattresses to be overturned, cushions thrown around, and when you get behind the sofa, who knows what you’ll find. Fixing one stanza breaks up those before and after. Some poor phrases can be snipped away, but switching one word makes me question others. If you’ll pardon my mixing metaphors, I’ve been shoved back ever so gently to the start, and given great shoes and cheers, but also need to take deep breaths for the last go-around.

I email Deb that what she suggested seems doable, and think I hear caring impatience in her reply: Of course it’s doable! Okay, but revising with astute suggestions still means minute by minute, hour by hour, and day by day, facing mistakes, uncertainty, wrong tracks I went down. It takes both faith and doubt. I know other poets, I’ve taught other poets, who think their work is entirely theirs, and don’t want critiques, but only cheers. I believe there’s always a time for encouragement, but it can take a brusque tone. If we want an audience of more than one, we should listen to attentive readers. I’ve been writing a long time and feel like I judge myself well, but I miss problems, from easily fixable things, like starting a poem in a bed that seems to stay there with a bunch of speakers under the covers (I just cut the bed), to larger issues of wobbly arcs and a disturbing dearth of character flaws. The small missteps are often due to oversights as I focus on words and larger issues of plot. The big writing problems are like the habits we drag with us every day, so common that we hardly see them. We can always use another eye, even when we don’t welcome helpful remarks because no matter how well-phrased, they carry a sense that we didn’t quite cut it before. Who likes to be reminded of imperfection or get shoved back to uncertainty, where almost everything original begins.

I chant, I can do it, I can do it, but cringe through some changes. It helps to know good people will look squinty-eyed at me if I threaten to quit now. While housecleaners are advised to tend to the big first, then deal with the dust, at this stage of revision, I start with the small mistakes, which builds my confidence to take on larger issues. As the list of what must get fixed slowly shrinks, my need to tackle the next builds enough so that I’m hardly aware of flashes of grumpiness and joy that braid together, along with that anxious state, where I know have to decide on my own what’s clear and what’s hazy, what’s too much or not enough, what finally matters.


I hate to make yet another mess, but it’s necessary to crack open characters, see if I can understand them a bit more. All of this is made easier from truthful critiquers. Their little checks or “nices” in the margins keep me good company, and they’ve bestowed gifts: a few scenes or images rearranged, lines deleted, where I can see that yes, those remaining will have a sharper impact. I’m glad for these while struggling with contradictions. One person loves an image, while another writes something nicer than the “huh?” I translate it to in my notes. Can I find new words to keep the image, but make it less opaque? One reader marks some lines as prosy, and I change them, even though in a recent conversation she referred to Elizabeth Bishop using that word. Still, I question my language and syntax. Deb notes places where she feels lost in some sequences, while Dina won’t allow me to use words like “then” or other time markers. They’re both right. I have to make everything move smoothly ahead, and still keep a sense of poetry, not clocks and calendars.

After tending to my friends’ advice, the poems will be all mine again for a while. I’ll read each one, listening for rhythms. I’ll try to come to the words as if I never heard them before and find more places to trim, and a few views to add. I can lay them all on the floor or porch table, taking turns, and consider switching order. For a while, I can do whatever I want, before setting them forth again, this time across the table to my husband, who is a great spotter of jumbled phrases, overblown metaphors, and too quirky wording, as well as errant commas. A work is ours, then not, back and forth, just like we hope words will be for readers, who make them theirs.


For other Poetry Friday posts, please visit Jone at Check it Out.

Posted by: jeannineatkins | May 16, 2014

Rain Falls on the Lilacs

For Alice, my Mother-in-Law

July 3, 1925 – May 16, 2014


The call comes in early morning, as it had last year

with her husband. This time we’re more prepared.

Alice’s last clothes are ready. On the edge of the garage,

floor swept, tools sorted and bagged, her children

had discussed songs, pictures, and flowers for the funeral.


For a few hours, there’s not much to do, like yesterday,

when I brought my old volume of Emily Dickinson

to her bedside. We didn’t understand much,

except there are a lot of poems about death.

Alice’s Bible was gone from the table,

but her daughter had left a hymnal, so I read

from call-to-worships in the back.

Good King James words with lots of vowels:

Oh, thou, all mighty. We liked that.

I skipped the threats, and murmured, over

and over, All will be well, and it will.


Posted by: jeannineatkins | May 7, 2014

Revising Language

People who see revision as fixing may not have as much fun as we who consider it as a conversation. Every time we go back, we learn new things from what we, or our former selves, put on the page. We find words written yesterday, or a few months or years ago, and now that we’re wiser or less besotted, we can step back and engage in a conversation between mystery and knowing. We have a new chance to be surprised, at least if we don’t come to the work in a red pencil frame of mind. In Under the Sign, poet Ann Lauterbach writes, “Language is an astonishment; it never betrays its capacity for renovation. Why, then, do we rush to turn it to purely instrumental purposes?” Of course sometimes words serve a practical purpose, but other times we might unsettle, explore, or play. We want to kick up fallen leaves with all their scents, rustle, and memories, finding what’s underneath, creating new associations.

I come to the page sometimes with tenderness, sometimes angry, sometimes in simply the spirit of there being work to do. All of these moods have something to give, though I’m careful, moving softly as we do around secrets. I seek courage, too. Did I say everything? Doubtful. Enough? There’s the hope. It’s good to let drafts swell and shrink, allowing openings where the unconscious can gather, then take away. My strategy as a poet is to first write long, then ask again and again: Can this be shorter? And I keep a close eye as I scrape away, watching for what might be lost, and what can be risked. When a corner of a poem glows like polished glass, we’re reminded to keep on. Somehow, someday, we can make the rest shine, too.




Posted by: jeannineatkins | April 30, 2014

Finding Ways into Poems

During the past few months, age, grief, a heart condition, and who knows what else has brought more changes to my mother-in-law than in all the thirty years I’ve known her. She’s always been proud to be punctual and dependable, working at a library for many years without taking a single sick day, keeping regular habits, though those have switched in the past decade, so we’ve sometimes stopped in mid-afternoon and interrupted supper: “We thought we’d get that over with.” She’s famous for sticking to her opinion, which have recently been mostly about disappointments. Even food she used to like no longer tastes good. It’s a slippery world for all of us, as we navigate through conversations marked with denial and delusion, weighed down by depression. What’s true here? What can be of use?


My desk isn’t that dark – I’ve got tulips! – but these are the same questions I pose when writing a poem. A few weeks ago after visiting Alice in a hospital, I wrote in my journal as a way to order my mind back to what I’m more accustomed to, less ringing with desires that can’t be met. Hearing repetitions of small points of humor and compassion in my visit, and the way both Alice and I felt lost, I used those meeting places to structure Finding a Way.

That poem came together for me fairly quickly. More often I need to paste thick layers of words and phrases before I find a path from beginning to end. Listening for rhythms, the ends of breaths and echoes between words, I ask my more conscious self, who I’ve trained to be neither overly critical nor overly lazy, to note what may be of value, while paring away what’s not. Poet George Oppen wrote: “It is necessary to study the words you have written for the words have a longer history than you have and say more than you know.” We write and listen, as if following a conversation. If we keep at it long enough, and are honest about what we don’t know — perhaps because we’re writing fast enough to escape shame, or slowly enough to catch sight of something shy – we may catch something that’s deeper than our ordinary knowing. Maybe we can call it true.

Posted by: jeannineatkins | April 28, 2014

Stumbling into Metaphors

Metaphors make connections, but stop short of drawing lines of “like” or “as” between them. There shouldn’t be a frame or pointing finger, but just a space where readers might or might not draw their own parallels, hovering between an object and meaning. Metaphor may be most powerful when something tangible is drenched with memories, perhaps suggesting something beyond the moment. Something big may recognize its shape in something smaller.

As a writer, I may stumble into an image that seems to speak softly back, and wonder if it will echo for someone else. Readers should stumble and wonder, too. Symbols aren’t meant to be a treasure hunt, but portals between worlds, which is why students get annoyed in classes where they’re treated with a point and shoot approach. Still, as a teacher I do my share of pointing, though with a moving hand. I recently asked my children’s lit students to get into groups to answer questions about BRIDGE TO TERABITHIA, which they’d bring back to the whole class. One group was tasked to see how much the disaster at the end was foreshadowed. I overheard them starting out saying, “Not much,” then get rowdier, laughing, “We’re such bad English majors! It’s everywhere!” They noted the rain and Biblical flood imagery, with the puppy held under a jacket so he didn’t drown, and the talks about death at Easter. They listed words such as “floating” laden with water imagery and noted Jess’s preferred medium is water colors, his fearful reaction to Leslie’s paper about scuba diving, her references to Moby-Dick –“the whale dies!” – and Hamlet – “Ophelia drowns!” The bully is described as a shark. Yes, death is kind of everywhere in Katherine Paterson’s beautiful classic, though also great themes of friendship, class, and gender. The group investigating the theme of imagination noted how the bridge between the land with domestic chores and worries and Terabithia’s freedom was first a rope, always in motion over the brook, requiring a leap of faith to land. Only after this bridge broke, after a mature awareness of death developed, was a more permanent bridge built, yet still made from a tree, which rots as well as grows.

Finding such connections can be exhilarating. As writers, we want to mirror our own sense of surprise upon discovering hidden paths and gates. Sometimes we can do this by developing the setting, showing where we tripped upon two things coming together, then stepping back. We may dust and polish, but leave enough grit so readers can discover as we did. Meaning peeks out the way character does among people we meet, perhaps in a glow around small gestures, often appearing after we say good-bye. Shut the door. Let it echo.


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