Oops, got involved in other stuff Friday. Here’s the belated flogging.
Submissions needed—only one left for this week. If you’d like a fresh look at your opening chapter or prologue, please email your submission to me re the directions at the bottom of this post.
The Flogometer challenge: can you craft a first page that compels me to turn to the next page? Caveat: Please keep in mind that this is entirely subjective.
Note: all the Flogometer posts are here.
What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page (first pages of chapters/prologues start about 1/3 of the way down the page). Directions for submissions are below--new: I've added a request to post the rest of the chapter.
A word about the line-editing in these posts: it’s “one-pass” editing, and I don’t try to address everything, which is why I appreciate the comments from the FtQ tribe. In a paid edit, I go through each manuscript three times.
Storytelling Checklist
Before you rip into today’s submission, consider this list of 6 vital storytelling ingredients from my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells. While it's not a requirement that all of these elements must be on the first page, they can be, and I think you have the best chance of hooking a reader if they are.
Evaluate the submission—and your own first page—in terms of whether or not it includes each of these ingredients, and how well it executes them. The one vital ingredient not listed is professional-caliber writing because that is a must for every page, a given.
- Story questions
- Tension (in the reader, not just the characters)
- Voice
- Clarity
- Scene-setting
- Character
Jaycee sends the first chapter of My Name Is Delicious.
“Let's take a trip together. We're gonna kiss the sky.” I was hypnotized by his husky voice and dark, dangerous eyes. “Come here, beautiful girl.” He placed what looked like a postage stamp on the tip of his tongue.
On the first day of my senior year in 1970, I dropped a tab of Windowpane acid by french kissing the new bad boy at University High in West Los Angeles.
“I don't even know you.” I protested, and yet I was drawn towards him by some invisible force.
He grabbed my hand for a warm, firm handshake. “My name is Mat Black,” he introduced himself as his face inched closer to mine. “And I know YOU, Ronnie Tamura. You're the girl of my dreams.”
I was hopelessly seduced. “Will it be a good trip? Will I be okay?” I whispered, staring wide eyed, as his mouth descended upon mine.
“Mm-hm,” His response was nothing more than a low, throaty murmur as his tongue explored my tongue.
I felt high already. I was sixteen years old and never been kissed. I closed my eyes, purring like a kitten, reveling in the intoxication of that very first kiss that I had been anticipating for years.
It was lunchtime and the smoking area outside of the cafeteria was crowded. There were about eight of us sitting at a wooden table, sharing our chips and cans of Coke as we smoked our cigarettes.
Good writing, good voice, and the potential for something to go wrong for this girl with a bad acid trip raises a good story question. I do think the narrative could be crisper and come from more within the character’s point of view. I turned the page to see what would happen. Notes:
1970, West Los Angeles
“Let's take a trip together. We're gonna kiss the sky.” I was hypnotized by his husky voice and dark, dangerous eyes. “Come here, beautiful girl.” He placed what looked like a postage stamp on the tip of his tongue. I think here would be a good place to let the reader know this is acid. It could be her reaction to what she sees, something like: I’d heard about acid, but it was the first time I’d seen a tab.
On the first day of my senior year in 1970, I dropped a tab of Windowpane acid by french kissing the new bad boy at University High in West Los Angeles. Well, this is a succinct way to get this information in, but it’s not exactly organic to being in a character’s point of view. Let us find out that he’s the bad boy. As for the time, why not just include it by putting the year in a single line before the first paragraph? It’s a quick and easy way to orient the reader without intruding on the character’s experience.
“I don't even know you.” I protested said, and yet I was drawn towards him by some invisible force. Her statement is a protest, so there’s no need to describe the dialogue in this way.
He grabbed my hand for a warm, firm handshake. “My name is Mat Black,” he introduced himself said as his face inched closer to mine. “And I know YOU, Ronnie Tamura. You're the girl of my dreams.” It’s clear from his actions and words that he’s introducing himself.
I was hopelessly seduced. “Will it be a good trip? Will I be okay?” I whispered, staring wide-eyed, as his mouth descended upon mine.
“Mm-hm,” His response was nothing more than a low, throaty murmur as his tongue explored my tongue.
I felt high already. I was sixteen years old and never been kissed. I closed my eyes, purring like a kitten on the inside, reveling in the intoxication of that very first kiss that I had been anticipating for years. Aren’t most high-school seniors 17 or 18? She’s a year younger than I think most seniors are. I suggested the “on the inside” addition just to keep it clear that she’s not really purring like a kitten.
It was lunchtime and the smoking area outside of the cafeteria was crowded. There were about eight of us sitting at a wooden table, sharing our chips and cans of Coke as we smoked our cigarettes. Good job of setting the scene on the first page.
The chapter continues after the fold.
Comments, please?
For what it’s worth.
Ray
Submitting to the Flogometer:
Email the following in an attachment (.doc, .docx, or .rtf preferred, no PDFs):
- your title
- your complete 1st chapter or prologue plus 1st chapter
- Please include in your email permission to post it on FtQ. Note: I’m adding a copyright notice for the writer at the end of the post. I’ll use just the first name unless I’m told I can use the full name.
- Also, please tell me if it’s okay to post the rest of the chapter so people can turn the page.
- And, optionally, include your permission to use it as an example in a book on writing craft if that's okay.
- If you’re in a hurry, I’ve done “private floggings,” $50 for a first chapter.
- If you rewrite while you wait for your turn, it’s okay with me to update the submission.
Flogging the Quill © 2014 Ray Rhamey, story © 2014 Jaycee
(continued)
There was another crowd standing next to the table. I had noticed them peering inside a baggie, whispering, and passing it around. Smoking pot was common. LSD was something new and intriguing.
“No!!” Marisa's voice yelled so loud that I jumped back from Mat in fright. “Ronnie! Did you take that acid? Why did you do that?” she screamed, her eyes big with alarm.
Marisa Baron had been my best friend since the seventh grade. She was already seventeen years old. I had always considered her older and wiser.
“It's cool, man. Chill out. It's gonna be okay,” Mat crooned to Marisa.
She jumped up from the bench on the other side of the table and came to me, crouching down on the ground to look into my face. “No, it's not okay!” she snapped at Mat. “Ronnie, why did you take that acid? Is is still on your tongue? Spit it out!”
I tried to stifle my giggle. “It dissolved, Marisa. It'll be okay. It's just gonna be a mellow trip.”
She huffed. The bell rang indicating the end of our lunch period. “Well, at least half of the day is gone. I'll check on you in between classes, okay?” She glared at Mat.
Mat and I stood up. He wasn't much taller than my five foot seven, but he was attractive with a rock musician look—chocolate brown hair, a little longer than most guys in the school; a worn, black leather jacket; and eyes that were sort of squinty—devil eyes, I thought. He draped his arm around me. “It's just gonna be a mellow trip,” he echoed my words, nodding and smiling to reassure me. “You're gonna be fine, baby. Don't be afraid of anything.”
“Are you crazy, Ronnie?” Marisa was hissing, on the other side of me. “What are you thinking—doing acid in the middle of the school day? Oh, my God! You're such a naïve chick!”
Both Mat and Marisa walked me to my next class. Marisa was acting like a mother hen. Mat was acting like a boyfriend. I couldn't get my mind off of him for the rest of the day. Marisa and I knew most of the stoners that hung out at the smoking area of University High. Most of us had grown up together in West Los Angeles. Mat Black was new to the school, but not new to Los Angeles. Most of us knew him as the sexy key board player and lead singer of his band, the BlackHearts. They were from the town of Monterey, about three hundred miles up the California coast. The BlackHearts had been playing in a club in Venice all summer. They had exploded into the music scene with their hard rock and enigmatic looks.
Word was that Mat's parents had divorced and he had moved with his dad to L.A. The guys in our crowd were eager to meet him and talk about the BlackHearts. The girls were infatuated with him. He was the quintessential bad boy. I couldn't understand why he had singled me out. Marisa said I gave off a mysterious, artsy vibe. That was okay with me. My art work was the most important thing to me.
I soared from one class to the next, barely aware of Mat and Marisa finding me in the crowded halls and walking me to my next class.
“Are you okay, Ronnie? Try to stay focused until the end of the day—not too much longer. Meet me out by the parking lot when school lets out,” Marisa peered into my face with a worried look.
“It's a cool trip, huh, Ronnie? Man, I'm seeing colors that I've never seen before! Far out!” Mat was flying high, playing with my hair and hugging me in the hallways.
By the time of my art class at the end of the day, I felt like everything was in slow motion. I painted a psychedelic blend of colors on a canvas and giggled at the curious comments of the art teacher and my classmates.
Finally, the bell rang at the end of the day and I floated out of the building toward the parking lot where Marisa and I were meeting her brother, Ric, in his Love Bug to take us home. I felt lost in the throngs of people crowding on the concrete, leading out to the parking lot, but I didn't care. I was seeing vivid colors and morphing shapes. The air was filled with the aroma of a sweet perfume.
As I was slowly wandering through the crowds, I noticed someone in front of me, beckoning and whispering, “Come this way.”
Then, I heard a voice in back of me, firmly urging, “Don't go that way.”
Peering over my shoulder, I encounted the most beautiful person that I had ever seen in my life. He was dazzling and dressed in white.
The sinister person in front of me crooked his finger and repeated, “Come this way.”
Fear and confusion clouded my judgment. Was that the devil in front and an angel in back of me? My mind was in another dimension.
Exhausted, I sunk to the ground. “There!” I huffed in resignation. “I won't go ANYWHERE! I'll just sit here and rest!”
People began to crowd around me. “What's the matter?” they were asking, with concern. “Why are you sitting on the ground? Are you sick?”
Suddenly, I saw Marisa crouching in front of me. “Ronnie!” Her caramel colored eyes looked so huge. I thought that they were filled with love. “What are you doing on the ground? You need to get up, honey! Oh, Ronnie—teachers are coming over here!” She tried tugging me off of the ground, but I wouldn't budge.
“What's wrong with her?” The teachers were now peering down at me with furrowed eyebrows. “Is she sick?”
“She's high!” I heard someone laugh.
“Yeah, she's trippin!” Somebody else chimed in.
Then, I saw Mat Black's face in front of me. “Hey, baby—it's me, Mat. I'm gonna pick you up, okay? Put your arms around me, baby. I'm gonna lift you up.”
I put my arms around Mat. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. I felt like I had known Mat a long, long time. “I'm purfume,” I whispered in his ear, as he picked me up in his arms.
I felt his lips press against my cheek. “Yes, you are, baby. You're purfume. You're real, real sweet.” And that was the last that I remembered of that first day of my senior year.
My mind was hazy as I began to open my eyes. I wasn't sure where I was. I was staring at a stark white ceiling above me. I looked at the bed that I was lying in. I looked around the room.
I realized that I was in a hospital, when a nurse walked into the room, carrying a tray with covered plates of food. “Good morning, Miss Tamura. Go ahead and eat breakfast, dear. Then, get dressed and I'll come back and take you to your session.” She set the tray on a bedside table.
“What do you mean by session?” I asked in a clipped tone, rubbing my head. Panic and irritation were creating a pounding headache at my temples. “What is this place?”
The nurse cocked her head, looking sympathetic. “Your session with the doctor, dear. You're in a psychiatric unit.” She pointed to the floor next to my bed. “There's your suitcase that your parents brought you.”
I recognized the powder blue suitcase. It belonged to my mother, the actress, Vanessa Lara. “My parents were here?” That acid trip must have wiped out most of my memory. I couldn’t remember yesterday afternoon at all.
The nurse nodded and began exiting the room. “Yes. They brought you here yesterday evening.”
I wrinkled my nose at the tray of inedible food when the nurse left the room and shoved the bedside cart aside. I bounded out of the bed and tore off the hideous, sage green hospital gown that I was wearing.
“What the hell?” I muttered as I opened up the suitcase. Most of the clothes inside belonged to my mother. She never approved of my hippie attire.
I took a deep breath and blew it out quickly. “Great! Just great! I've landed in a psychiatric ward with my mother's clothes!” I tried to remember my acid trip at school the day before, but it was all vague now.
I pulled on the bell bottom jeans and denim shirt that I had worn at school the day before. Digging into the bottom of my purce, I found some cosmetics. I lined my hazel eyes with black eyeliner and caked on black mascara. Being half Japanese, my eyes were slightly Asian. I tried to make them look more Caucasian by piling on the eye make up. It didn't really work. I just ended up looking more Hispanic like my Mexican mother. I flipped my head over to brush my hair. It was dark, almost blue-black and hung all the way to my lower back.
After a few minutes, the nurse came back into the room. “Okay, Ms. Tamura. I'll take you to your session with the doctor now.”
I trailed behind her. She left me outside of an office at the end of the hall. Blinding sunlight burst out of the partially open door. The sunshine was so bright from the window behind the doctor's desk, that I could barely make out his appearance.
“Come in, Ronnie.” His voice was deep, but sounded youthful.
I remained standing in the doorway, still trying to focus my eyes in the bright room. The man behind the desk stood up and approached me. He looked young. He had to be in his twenties.
“You're the doctor?” My tone was impertinent.
“Actually I'm an intern. A psychology intern.” He approached me and stuck out his hand. “I'm Wesley Wiseman.”
I crossed my arms and rolled my eyes. “Oh, my God,” I muttered. “WISEMAN?” I asked incredulously. “Well, I guess I'm in capable hands with a Wiseman on my case.”
Wesley Wiseman smirked and stepped back as I brushed past him to sit down on the couch. “Yeah, I get that a lot. I imagine it'll get worse when I become Dr. Wiseman. You can call me Wes for now. Is it all right if I call you Ronnie? I understand that's what your parents call you.”
“Well, that's my name!” I snapped. We stared at each other as he sat down on a chair in front of the couch. He was a good looking guy, but I was in no mood to befriend him. I was feeling increasingly annoyed. I kept my arms crossed as I glared at him. I noticed my chart on his desk. “So you got information about me?” I asked him.
He nodded. “I didn't meet your parents when they brought you here yesterday evening, but the psychiatrist did. Do you remember coming into the hospital?”
I shook my head. “Not really. I guess you know I was tripping.”
“Acid?”
I nodded. I was trying to figure out his age. He couldn't be too young if he was a psychology intern. He had to be working on his PhD. His hair was a sandy brown and cut short. He had light brown eyes that stared at me intently. I felt uncomfortable under his scrutinizing gaze. He had a golden brown tan, a straight nose and a mouth that remained in a slight smile. “You don't have to talk about how you got here or what you did at school yesterday. I'd just like to get to know you, Ronnie.” His voice was smooth and soothing. He sounded too good to be a counselor. He looked too good to be a psychologist.
I hugged myself tight, determined not to become seduced by his good looks. “What do you want to know?” My eyes narrowed with suspicion and distrust. I didn't like the idea of opening up to some strange guy.
“Tell me about your family, Ronnie. I'd like to have a family session with them.”
I snorted. “You can forget about that. They'll never come for something like that.”
Wes settled back into his chair. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I know them—and they're not the family therapy type. They're not even the FAMILY type.”
Wes studied my face. “Are you close to anyone in your family?”
I shook my head. “Only my sister Veronica.”
Wes looked puzzled. “You have a sister?” He reached back on the desk for my chart. He began thumbing through it. “Isn't Ronnie a derivative of the name Veronica?” He glanced at me.
I rolled my eyes and let out a deep breath. I really didn't want to do this. What the hell was I doing? Why was I in a psych ward with some guy too good looking to be my psychologist? Oh, I mean intern!
“My sister was adopted,” I finally began to explain in a bored monotone. “She's Mexican—like my mom. I guess it was one of those cases where my mother couldn't get pregnant, so my parents adopted a kid and then--voila! I was born shortly thereafter. I suppose they wanted to name their biological kid Veronica, but they gave the name to her and I got the name Ronnie.”
Wes was giving me that stare—like he was looking through me. I'd had it! I stood up. “Jesus Christ! Do you have to stare at me like that?” I exclaimed, starting to make my exit.
“Sit down, Ronnie,” his voice was suddenly so authoritative that I stopped in my tracks.
We continued staring each other down. Finally, I sighed and sat back down.
“What is Veronica like?” Wes asked me.
I looked above Wesley's head to gaze at the sky through the window. The sunlight was softer now. “She's very studious,” I answered him. “All she does is study in our bedroom. All she cares about is preparing for college. She goes to school and comes home and studies. She has no friends. She says she does, but I never see them. I think she's anti-social.”
A grin appeared on Wesley's face. “Have you studied psychology?”
I shrugged slightly. “Some. It's gonna be my major in college.”
Wes raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he paused. “So, how are you different from Veronica, Ronnie?”
I smiled as I gazed at the cumulous clouds in the sky. They were big and fluffy and morphing into different shapes. “I'm an artist. I'm a free spirt.”
Wes nodded, looking thoughtful. “I see,” he commented, glancing at his watch. He had large hands. I noticed people's hands because I was a piano player. The golden brown hair on his arms blended in with his golden brown skin tone. I tried to imagine him with longer hair on his head, instead of the military short haircut. He was way too conservative to be my type.
“Our time is up for today. I'll see you again tomorrow, Ronnie.”
I rose quickly from the couch and said nothing as I walked across the room. I ignored his outstretched hand once again. I felt the irritation rising up into a slow burn inside of me. I couldn't understand what the hell I was doing in this psych ward. I strode out of his office. Then, I glanced quickly back at him. Yeah. I knew it. Wesley Wiseman was watching my ass in my tight, bell bottom jeans with an appreciative smile on his face. I knew how guys minds worked around me. THAT I understood.
I tried to stay to myself the rest of the day. There were other teenagers in that psych unit, but they looked like they had some serious mental problems. They had us do group therapy in the afternoon, but I had nothing to say besides the obligatory introduction of my name. I just sat there and observed the rest of the kids who looked like juvenile delinquents to me. I had a session, if you can call it that, with a REAL doctor in the afternoon. He was a psychiatrist, so nondescript looking that I wouldn't have recognized him after I left his office. I was only in his office for about fifteen minutes as he asked me a bunch of boring questions. This real doctor was nothing like the psychology intern, Wesley Wiseman. I picked at the hospital dinner as I sat in a community dining area, watched some TV for awhile, and then, returned to my room and went to bed.
When the nurse woke me in the morning, instructing me to eat breakfast in the community dining area again, I asked her, “How long am I going to be in here? When am I going home?”
“You'll see the doctor after breakfast, Ronnie. He will give you that answer,” she replied curtly.
“You mean that psychology intern I saw yesterday? He's not a doctor!” I shot back at her, but she just gave me a flippant look and left my room.
I hurriedly ate my breakfast and then, headed for Wesley Wiseman's office. I didn't feel like waiting for a nurse to escort me there. I remembered the way down the hall—it was a straight path, for God's sake! I stopped at Wesley's office and stood at the open door for a moment. He didn't notice me, as he was writing some notes on his desk. I studied him for a while. I couldn't figure him out. I had never known any psychologists in my life, but Wesley Wiseman didn't look like what I thought a psychologist would look like.
I was an avid swimmer and Wes looked like a lifeguard to me. He had a swimmer's body. Tall and lean and fit. With that golden tan and sun kissed hair, I could picture him sitting high up on his lifeguard chair on a beach somewhere. I started grinning as I imagined him blowing his whistle and yelling, “Hey, you! Stay out of that restricted area of the water! Don't you see that restricted sign there?” Yeah. He had that authoritative type of personality.
Suddenly, he looked up from his desk and caught me standing outside of his doorway, with the smirk on my face. “Oh. Ronnie. I didn't know you were there.” He glanced at his watch. “Is it time for our session? Come on in.”
I walked in slowly, as he rose from the desk and walked around to the chair facing the couch. We watched each other. He kept his eyes on my face, as if making a concerted effort not to let his eyes travel down the rest of my body. I could tell that he was a smart man.
“How are you doing today, Ronnie?” he asked me.
“Anxious to get the hell out of here.” I answered him quickly. “Any idea when that's gonna be?”
“You're being discharged this morning. We see no reason to keep you in here any longer than that. Your mother should be joining us for this session.”
“Oh, joy,” I muttered. “You'll get a kick out of her.”
“And what do you mean by that?” He sat down on the chair, keeping his eyes on mine.
I looked away. I looked out of that window behind his head again. I loved looking at clouds. I could get lost in clouds. They made me daydream—and daydreaming gave me the inspiration for my paintings.
“My mother is an actress,” I finally replied.
“Oh, really? What kind of an actress?”
“She acts in those Spanish soap operas that are on TV. Vanessa Lara--- she's a very good actress.” I looked at Wes, now. Let's see how well he could read me.
He leaned forward in his chair. He rested his right elbow on his knee and stroked his chin. He had a bit of a brown stubble on his chin. It gave him some contrast to his clean cut image. “Now, why do I get the feeling that you mean she's a good actress outside of the studio?” half of his mouth quirked up in a sarcastic grin.
So, he COULD read me. I was impressed. “That's right,” I commented flatly. “She's a master manipulator.”
Wes leaned back in his chair, nodding. “Does she manipulate you?”
My eyes darted up at the clouds once more. “No. Not anymore.”
“So, she used to—when you were younger.”
I said nothing. I was starting to feel queasy.
“Does she say hurtful things to you?”
I stared at the clouds. “She says that I'm a loser. She says that I am nothing. She says that I'll never amount to anything.”
Wesley's voice became soft, soothing. “Do you believe those things, Ronnie?”
Suddenly the loud clicking of high heels could be heard approaching Wesley's office. The door was still open and Vanessa Lara appeared at the door, just standing there for a moment, as if to make a grand entrance. Her red hair was big and teased and hanging in curls around her bare shoulders. She had on a lime green and pink shirtwaist dress with a scooped boat neckline and capped sleeves. Her bright pink lipstick matched her dress, as did her high heels.
“Ay, Dios santo!” she gushed loudly, throwing her hands up in the air. She rushed into the room and Wes stood up. “Ronnie! My God! You're expelled from your school, Ronnie!” She stood in front of me, yelling.
I stared up at her impassively. I was used to her dramatics. Wes stuck his hand out to her. “Hello, Mrs. Tamura. I'm Wesley Wiseman.”
She turned to look at him with disdain, refusing to shake his hand. “My name is Vanessa Lara,” she hissed, putting emphasis on the pronunciation of “Laura”.
She turned back to me. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is to me, Ronnie? Oh, my God! The media is going to have a field day with this news! You've RUINED my reputation!”
I had to chuckle as she actually threw the back of her hand up against her forehead in the ultimate melodramatic fashion.
“Sit down, Ms. Lara!” There was that authoritarian persona of Wesley Wiseman again.
I had to hold back my snorts of laughter. It was turning into a comedy act in his office.
Vanessa shot him a shocked glare with furrowed eyebrows and one eyebrow arched. She was an expert at facial expressions. She lowered herself very slowly at the end of the couch—far from me, and sitting on the edge of the seat.
“Ms. Lara, we need to discuss where your daughter is going to continue high school.” Wes took command of the room with a firm, professional tone. “Now,” he continued, walking back around to sit at the desk. “Ronnie can continue her senior year at the school district alternative school, or she can go to any private school of your choosing.” He began rifling through papers on his desk, waiting for his words to sink in.
“Alternative school?” I screeched. “Oh, Jesus! Is that where those juvenile delinquents in this place go?”
Vanessa threw her hand at her chest in a clutching gesture. “Oh, my God! My daughter is not a juvenile delinquent!”
“Thanks, Mother.” I rolled my eyes.
“No. No.” She was trying to think quickly. “She'll go to that Catholic school. You know, Ronnie, that Catholic school down the street.”
“Jesus, Joseph and Mary,” I muttered, sinking down on the couch. I really had fucked up my life.
“All right, then,” Wes replied blandly. Oh, yeah, what did HE care where I went to school?
Then, he looked at me with those light brown eyes. I noticed that he had dark eyelashes and his eyebrows were dark, too. He had some really interesting coloring. “Ronnie. I work at the clinic down by that Catholic school. I'd like for you to continue counseling with me. You could even walk to that clinic from that school.”
I stared at him with a grimace—as if he had just grown two heads. Why the hell would I want more psychology counseling?
He got up from the desk and walked over to Vanessa with some papers on a clipboard. “Ms. Lara, if you will sign these discharge papers, then you and Ronnie are free to leave.”
I stood up. “So I can go? Can I go get my stuff ready to leave?” I was already heading out the door.
“Yes, Ronnie. You're free to go.” He followed me to the door of his office. “You ARE a free spirit, after all, right?” He was grinning at me.
I stared at him with cocked eyebrow as I walked out the door.
“I look forward to seeing you at that clinic, Ronnie!” he called after me as I walked down the hallway. I didn't look back.
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