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Secrets of the Universe
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
IS THERE A "YA GAP?"
This post is not purposefully devised to inflame readers, but I know it will have this effect.
I have become concerned lately about YA, and especially about the infusion of fantasy and science fiction into YA. A recent conference in Bolgna had several agents speaking of this trend.
See the article here
I am a proponent of YA, and I of course support fantasy and science fiction. But the gap I speak of is regarding the feeling that quality standards for YA are not the same as for adult fiction. This idea seems especially true in the development of YA fantasy and science fiction by Indie and self-published authors.
I have attended conference for the PNWA and been a reader for their writer's contests for five years. I know that the gap I'm speaking of does not apply to "serious" YA authors who I've had the pleasure to speak to. They recognize that following the rules that generally apply to great writing - tight plot, good character development, logical narrative and so on - are equally important in YA. We are, in essence, exposing our younger readers and potential authors to literature and to proper English. However, some YA authors I have spoken to and whose work I have critiqued have made some untrue assumptions:
My favorite statement made by one author after a critique I made (of a YA fantasy manuscript) was simply: "This is YA. You can't judge this by the same standards by which you judge adult literature."
This thinking, of course, couldn't be more wrong. YA must use the same standards as adult literature. The only difference is audience. If we believe any differently, we are only creating a crutch for ourselves, allowing us to justify our lazy habits as writers. Worse, we are making assumptions about our audience, in essence "dumbing down" our writing to what we assume is their intelligence level. This sells our audience incredibly short, and limits the longevity of our work: A proper YA novel should be able to be enjoyed twice, once for the child and again when that child reaches adulthood. If we produce work without a secondary layer of intelligence - supported by excellent writing - we leave a tarnished childhood memory at best.
I wonder if this gap exists, which allows in work of lesser quality. Is this as prevalent as it seems? Or is this a bad habit that writers in the limited sample I've taken developed? If the latter, and especially if the industry does not support this idea, writers who make allowances for inferior quality are overdue for a rude awakening.
Thoughts?
I have become concerned lately about YA, and especially about the infusion of fantasy and science fiction into YA. A recent conference in Bolgna had several agents speaking of this trend.
See the article here
I am a proponent of YA, and I of course support fantasy and science fiction. But the gap I speak of is regarding the feeling that quality standards for YA are not the same as for adult fiction. This idea seems especially true in the development of YA fantasy and science fiction by Indie and self-published authors.
I have attended conference for the PNWA and been a reader for their writer's contests for five years. I know that the gap I'm speaking of does not apply to "serious" YA authors who I've had the pleasure to speak to. They recognize that following the rules that generally apply to great writing - tight plot, good character development, logical narrative and so on - are equally important in YA. We are, in essence, exposing our younger readers and potential authors to literature and to proper English. However, some YA authors I have spoken to and whose work I have critiqued have made some untrue assumptions:
- Reader's minds are not fully developed until 21 years old.
- Young readers don't (or shouldn't) care about structure.
- Content is much more important than English use for juvenile readers.
My favorite statement made by one author after a critique I made (of a YA fantasy manuscript) was simply: "This is YA. You can't judge this by the same standards by which you judge adult literature."
This thinking, of course, couldn't be more wrong. YA must use the same standards as adult literature. The only difference is audience. If we believe any differently, we are only creating a crutch for ourselves, allowing us to justify our lazy habits as writers. Worse, we are making assumptions about our audience, in essence "dumbing down" our writing to what we assume is their intelligence level. This sells our audience incredibly short, and limits the longevity of our work: A proper YA novel should be able to be enjoyed twice, once for the child and again when that child reaches adulthood. If we produce work without a secondary layer of intelligence - supported by excellent writing - we leave a tarnished childhood memory at best.
I wonder if this gap exists, which allows in work of lesser quality. Is this as prevalent as it seems? Or is this a bad habit that writers in the limited sample I've taken developed? If the latter, and especially if the industry does not support this idea, writers who make allowances for inferior quality are overdue for a rude awakening.
Thoughts?
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
"RETURN TO DUNE TOWERS" WRITING SUBMISSION
This post is in response to a writing challenge issued in association with @WillowRaven, who I follow on Twitter. To wit:
"Visual writing prompt: http://willowraven.weebly.com/return-to-dune-towers.html Write a short for this & I'll post it w link to you :D "
I got hooked on this and on Willow Raven's stunning image:
http://aidana.willowravenblog.com/2014/09/return-to-dune-towers-writing-challenge.html
It literally seized my muse, and words flowed out of me for two hours. The results are, I hope, a little bit out of the zone of anticipation, dealing not with the content of this masterful work, but with its status and physicality as an image, and of what it might become.
Without further ado:
"Visual writing prompt: http://willowraven.weebly.com/return-to-dune-towers.html Write a short for this & I'll post it w link to you :D "
I got hooked on this and on Willow Raven's stunning image:
http://aidana.willowravenblog.com/2014/09/return-to-dune-towers-writing-challenge.html
It literally seized my muse, and words flowed out of me for two hours. The results are, I hope, a little bit out of the zone of anticipation, dealing not with the content of this masterful work, but with its status and physicality as an image, and of what it might become.
Without further ado:
THE UNEXPLODED MINE
Marc was distracted.
That morning was not going well.
It had been only three hours since Dr. Sorrell had left his bed, two
hours since he had been summoned to breakfast, and one since he had logged into
the A.I. terminal. He sensed Martha
and Sanjay waiting for his output, dreading the possibility that Sanjay would open
his mouth again. The man seemed to have
no other topic to discuss but himself.
But the images just weren’t coming. Anything he tapped and sent to Toby came back
rejected. Marc wondered if the unseen critic
which reviewed his work was human or machine.
All Marc could think about was Dr. Sorrel lying next to him,
making herself available, letting him know of her curiosity – a curiosity he
could not satisfy.
Marc scanned the database for more pre-war images, hoping to
come up with something appropriate for the project.
“What the hell?”
Something had come up on his console.
It carried some kind of framed encoding, so it crowded out Fondler and
the A.I. interface completely.
“Marc! Language.” Sorrel warned from her station by the
kitchenette.
“I’m sorry Doctor. It’s
just that my console seems to be malfunctioning again.”
“What’s it doing?”
Almost at once, Sanjay, the data tech, came over and looked
at Marc’s screen. He whistled. “Oh, man.
This is worse that when you were looking at the cartoons of cute fuzzy
animals.”
Sorrel came to look at Marc’s screen as well. “Sanjay, what is that?”
“I don’t know. Some
kind of X-encoding packet. They were
used for advertising on networks before the war. Can you tap it out?”
Marc tapped the screen, and the image disappeared, but
instantly it came back to fill the screen.
“Let me do that.”
Marc held up his hands, and Sanjay swiped the screen, getting the
control interface. He tapped the
interface, and the image disappeared, but instantly came back. This happened six times. Then Sorrel said, “Let
me try.” Marc was aware of Sorrel’s
closeness and her warmth, just under her lab coat, as she leaned over him. With effort, Sorrel was able to get a master
control interface established. But it
was locked. There was no way to get the
image off the data queue.
“That’s the best I can do,” Sorrel said. “This image simply refuses to come out of the
data queue.”
“A fail-safe mechanism,” Sanjay offered. “For servers of the 21st century,
an encoding like this could go forwards, not backwards. It would force the server to send the packet
along in the data stream.”
“So, any system receiving the data would be infected?”
“Not necessarily. The
data must not have any malicious content, or it wouldn’t get into our
database. The A.I. would not allow any
malware. The point is, the image has to
be sent to clients. Once you ingest the
image – once you look at it, the encoding is deactivated.”
“But Marc’s terminal here.
Isn’t it consuming the image?”
“No, the encoding has sniffed the downstream client – Toby. And from there, Martha’s terminal and mine. So it is blocking the control interface from
stopping it before it is transmitted.”
“I see. So we wouldn’t
be sending a virus in the Forzan message.
I mean, if we used this image in the datastream?”
“No. We’d only be
forcing the Forzans to look at it. My guess is that's the whole point. Advertisers wanted to force you to view the image."
The three of them looked at the image, now filling Marc’s
screen, except where the black control interface hovered.
She had come back to
her stronghold, satisfied to find that the guildsmen still remained. Flyers came and went, bringing fresh troops
and supplies. This was preparation for
war, nothing less. Skylia should have
felt exposed here, less than a half kilometer away from her enemy’s outpost. From what had been hers. But she reveled in it. It was not her, but Duke Diastes who was
exposed. He was the prey, she was the predator,
and none of his troops or fire or machines or politics would save him from her
wrath, once she was ready to strike…
What was that?,
Marc thought. He snapped out of this sudden
reverie, brought on as if by some outside force.
“Uhh, guys?” It was
Martha. “I hate to remind you, but we’ve
got a deadline.”
“Oh, right. Sanjay,
can you set up a roadblock on Martha’s machine.
If this thing can detect downstream clients, then let’s not give it any.”
“Then, we send this to Toby as is?” Marc asked.
“Right. You can’t
even bring up Fondler, so you can’t manipulate the image.”
“But that means the image will have to be sent to Forzan
like this as well, right?”
“No,” Sanjay said, beaming self-confidence. “Once we get the image back from Toby –
assuming it’s approved – it will be stuck with nowhere to go. We just pilot down your terminal, and ‘poof,’
the image is gone.”
That hardly seems fair,
Marc thought. He looked at the image
again. It was an old-style painting, or perhaps some kind of illustration,
like the ones his friend Fencie worked on, for government restoration. Not many of these had survived. Someone had signed it with their name and a
date, almost two centuries ago. “But,”
Marc complained, “If Toby approves the image…”
“I see where you are going, Marc. We should use it. Sanjay, if we capture the image back on Marc’s
console, without anywhere to go, can you neutralize the encoding, but still
preserve the image?”
“Absolutely no problem.”
“Then gentlemen – and Martha, too, I want you to be on this
one. All we have to ask
ourselves: Is this the kind of image we
want to send to an alien civilization in the datastream? Because once we send this to Toby, we are
bound to do that. It’s our mandate to
the government.”
Martha slid from her console, and the four of them looked at
the image for thirty seconds.
Marc reminded himself, that the image before him represented
something in the field of fantastical art. It was a popular form in the years before the
war. He knew about it, and about the
incredible literature which surrounded this field. People looking to the future, to other
worlds, wondering what they might be like.
He wondered, if he could take this long-dead artist, and bring him or
her forwards to show them what had actually become of the world, what would
they think?
“Votes?”
Four hands came with thumbs up. Marc noted with chagrin that Sanjay’s came up
last. He considered: Neutralizing the encoding would possibly mean
extra work. Lazy.
“Good. Sanjay, pilot
down your console, or do whatever it will take to temporarily sever the
connection back to Marc's machine. Let's put a block on Martha’s console, but keep it active. I'll pilot mine down as well, just in case there are any shared connections.” Marc’s ears pricked up on this. Were there any shared connections to Doctor Sorrel’s console? Had it been she who had sabotaged the A.I.
the other week, so it only displayed fuzzy animals? “I want this done in the next five minutes.”
Furious activity from Sanjay and Martha. Marc, the visual artist who manipulated the
stills images, basically sat. All the
while, the image of the strange structures in the alien desert hung on his
screen, the woman with the green flowing skirt hovering over the sand on an
unseen, magical platform. The more Marc
looked at it, the more he was drawn in.
The brown skin, the dark hair which adorned this woman’s head. Marc wished he could see the woman’s
face. But then, he was glad that he
could not. Her face could look like Dr.
Sorrel’s.
“Ready!” Sanjay finally announced.
“Marc, send the image to Toby.”
Marc hit send, and the image instantly disappeared. They waited, breathlessly. Ordinarily, it took under two minutes to get
approval for an image. This time, they
waited over ten.
“Oh, crap!” Sanjay finally said. “The encoding.”
“What about it?” Marc asked.
But Sorrel got the message.
She suddenly cried, “Marc, pilot down your terminal, right
now!”
It was too late.
Before Marc could fumble with the power setting, the image was
back. This time, it no longer filled the
screen, but came back in the transmit window as normal. Toby had marked the image “Approved.”
“Should I turn it off?”
“No, don’t bother,” Sanjay chuckling. Sorrel and Martha were groaning. “We’re stuck with it now.”
“What happened, I don’t understand.” Sanjay was too overcome with giggles to
answer, so Sorrel offered the explanation.
“We put the block on Martha’s machine. We should have put it on yours. Since your machine was still on the network,
the encoding on the data packet sniffed the connection back to your
machine. So Toby couldn’t get rid of
it. The only thing they could do is
transmit it back to you.”
“What? We forced them
to approve the image?”
Sanjay finally got his giggles under control. “No,” he said. “They probably could have sent it back
disapproved. Unless the encoding was
able to grab their control interface, like it did yours.” He then got a very thoughtful look on his
face. “I don’t know. I suppose it could be that sophisticated.
Shall we contact Toby, and double-check?”
“Right.” Sorrel moved
to her console, the one right over by the coffee-maker. She sent a message, and at once got a
response. “Um, apparently, you are due
to be amazed, Mister Sanjay. They had
some pretty robust computer algorithms before the war.”
“Then,” Marc asked, “The image is actually rejected? They only sent it back approved because they
were forced to?”
“No,” Sorrel said. “Toby
reports that they detected the encoding, exactly as we had, and tried to kill
the image, but could not because of the encoding and the connection detected
back to Marc’s computer. But, since they
had the image already in queue, they assessed it’s artistic and cultural
merits, and approved it on the provision that it could be de-encoded and
rendered inactive before it was inserted into the message to be transmitted to
Forzan.”
“Then it is really approved?”
“Right.” Marc could
not say why, but this answer gave him deep satisfaction.
Sanjay worked at Marc’s console for three quarters of an
hour. Sorrel rapidly grew
impatient. “Mister Sanjay, I remind you,
we are on a tight schedule. We have over
three thousand more images to encode.”
“Just one more minute!” the annoying little young man kept
saying. Marc could see what he was
doing: Setting up mock networks on the
console, seeing if the encoding was still active, if the data packet would
detect the connection and force jump from one to another. Each attempt failed, one after another, as
Sanjay stripped out more code. Finally,
Sanjay said, “There you are, you little bugger.” He re-initialized the mock network, and the
data packet stayed put. “Found the
kernel piece of code. Sanjay the
magnificent has come through once again!”
“Not so fast,” Sorrel said.
“Let’s try on a live connection.
Marc, go ahead and tap the image over to Martha, once we have that
console up. We’ll see if it sniffs the
connection to Sanjay. And Sanjay, sever
your connection to the data hub, but maintain connection to Martha’s
machine. We’ll encode and compress the
file for transmission, as usual, but let’s not give it a path to the data
hub. No need to let it infect
everything.”
“Right,” Marc said, as he waited for Sanjay to finish on his
console. Then a thought struck him. “We couldn’t do this just by sending the file
back to Toby? Wouldn’t that be safer?”
But Sorrel shook her head.
“That would only confuse things.
They tally each image you send.
We would end up double on this one image.”
“Right.”
More waiting as Sanjay’s fingers caressed his touch screen –
the way Sorrel’s fingers would have caressed him, if he had given her a
chance. Then, finally Sanjay announced “Ready. Send Martha the image.”
“Sending.”
“Well?” Sorrel asked impatiently.
“Hmm, now that I see it on my own screen, this is quite a
nice image.”
“The encoding, Martha.
Do you have access to the control interface?”
“Oh, right. Yeah, it
looks fine.”
“Then process the image to the matrix. Sanjay, restore your connection to the data
hub. But carefully. I don’t want to
give any ancient technology a chance to jeopardize this project, no matter how beautiful
it is.”
So, Marc cleared his cache, and re-initialized the A.I.,
making sure the sensors on his wrist and forehead were in place, letting it
feel the rush of his emotions. And in
spite of himself, he found his thoughts still drawn to the image, thinking how
it had been lurking in their database, probably in a whole collection of databases,
without being detected until their network and his tapping had activated
it. One more piece of the puzzle?
Perhaps, he thought, the long-dead artist or computer
technician who had produced the file, for god-knows-whatever reason, had
anticipated precisely this day, when someone would find it, like an unexploded
mine, and it would activate to whatever malevolence its maker intended. They
anticipated this moment, Marc thought, exactly
like they anticipated and overpowered our primitive computer systems. Modern networks were nowhere near as
complex as they were before the war, Marc knew.
Once, networks covered the entire
world. They had called it the spider web.
And now, they were preparing to transmit this to Forzan. The first alien civilization to contact Earth,
from two hundred light years away, thanks to the accident of ancient cell phone
technology. They responded to our
signals with something we couldn’t decipher, but something definitely
structured: The word “Forzan,” followed
by highly-complex code, miles of it. The techs had been working on it for years. Meanwhile, the Forzan project, dozens and
dozens of teams all over the globe, were putting together thousands of images,
millions of files, a wealth of data that defined our civilization, beaming it
back on that same frequency, hoping to establish communication, Earth's way of
saying hello back. Making a 400-year
round trip cell phone call.
Only, this encoded
file, what if it’s not really dead? Marc thought.
What if it’s only playing dead? And it all came together in a flash, in
his mind: It had to have been alive, long enough that we would be forced to send it to
Toby, his government-sponsored critic who determined whether or the images selected were “acceptable” for alien
consumption. Then, it stayed alive long enough that Toby was forced to send it back
to me “approved.” It fought with Sanjay,
tried to find a way out of the block, more networks and terminals to infect. Or, it was only stalling for time.
Marc further considered:
We never actually talked to
Toby. We only got a message. If the data packet was on Toby’s network for
ten minutes, it could have composed a fake message, saying the image was
actually approve, and sent it over the network to Sorrel’s consoled.
So now, we’ve sent it
to the central hub. And it sleeps there,
biding its time, until it is sent the 200 light years on a radio beam to
Forzan. The millions of pieces of art
and culture we are sending, months of work by thousands of people. And one worm, finding the way out at last.
Marc thought of every piece of data on the distant alien
world, consumed. Every single network,
if they had networks, infected. So every
viewing device on the planet shows nothing – can show nothing – but this one
image.
And it can find a way out of there, too, from the advanced
Forzan civilization, who could receive our 200-year-old signal and send one
back to us, something even pre-war Earth couldn’t easily do. Such advanced technology could reach out to
many other worlds…
“Mister Marc Phage!” It
was Sorrel’s voice, scolding him. “I do
not see your fingertips tapping that screen.
We need a lot more pre-war stills if we want to finish on target.”
“Right,” Marc said.
Now I must devise a new strategy.... To take over the word!!!!
Point the First, I need more reviews on Amazon. The few that I have are good (all five stars!), but I need more. I think that I must promote reviewers.
To any and all: I will arrange a PDF version of TWENTY TWELVE be sent to any wishing to review. (Wishing to review? Sheesh, that's like wishing for death.)
Point the Second, I've announced (to my loyal fans on Facebook & Twitter) that SAMMY LEMKIN will be making a cameo appearance in my soon-to-be-written short story with the working title SIRIUS SLIM CONVERGENCE. I realize, though, this will be met with blank stares from most: Who the heck is Sammy Lemkin?
In 2005, I passed around a manuscript titled HERO OF DREAMS: THE MAKING OF SAMMY LEMKIN to my friends in our local readers' group. Sammy Lemkin, is, of course, the protagonist of that story.
So, I have come to a conclusion on this: Before the end of this year, I must publish my science fiction novel, HERO OF DREAMS, in all its pubescent glory!
Point the Third, I've also announced the publication in about two months, of my first nonfiction book, A CLASSIFICATION OF THE DISTRICT OVERPRINTS ON THE REVENUE STAMPS OF MEXICO (2016 Edition). Stamp collecting is my other love besides writing. I am the Secretary for the China Stamp Society: www.chinastampsociety.org, and I've been collecting and studying Mexican revenue stamps for over a year. A book like this is needed.
Writing nonfiction is very, very different from writing novels and short stories. I am putting in lots of photos and graphs and charts. I am wondering what, say, a good splatter horror-suspense story would be like if written in exactly the same style: A precise description of the knife. A chart showing damaged body parts and organs. Counting & categorizing the number of wounds.
Arthur Conan Doyle would love such a book.
Point the First, I need more reviews on Amazon. The few that I have are good (all five stars!), but I need more. I think that I must promote reviewers.
To any and all: I will arrange a PDF version of TWENTY TWELVE be sent to any wishing to review. (Wishing to review? Sheesh, that's like wishing for death.)
Point the Second, I've announced (to my loyal fans on Facebook & Twitter) that SAMMY LEMKIN will be making a cameo appearance in my soon-to-be-written short story with the working title SIRIUS SLIM CONVERGENCE. I realize, though, this will be met with blank stares from most: Who the heck is Sammy Lemkin?
In 2005, I passed around a manuscript titled HERO OF DREAMS: THE MAKING OF SAMMY LEMKIN to my friends in our local readers' group. Sammy Lemkin, is, of course, the protagonist of that story.
So, I have come to a conclusion on this: Before the end of this year, I must publish my science fiction novel, HERO OF DREAMS, in all its pubescent glory!
Point the Third, I've also announced the publication in about two months, of my first nonfiction book, A CLASSIFICATION OF THE DISTRICT OVERPRINTS ON THE REVENUE STAMPS OF MEXICO (2016 Edition). Stamp collecting is my other love besides writing. I am the Secretary for the China Stamp Society: www.chinastampsociety.org, and I've been collecting and studying Mexican revenue stamps for over a year. A book like this is needed.
Writing nonfiction is very, very different from writing novels and short stories. I am putting in lots of photos and graphs and charts. I am wondering what, say, a good splatter horror-suspense story would be like if written in exactly the same style: A precise description of the knife. A chart showing damaged body parts and organs. Counting & categorizing the number of wounds.
Arthur Conan Doyle would love such a book.
Monday, February 29, 2016
RECENT NEWS:
PRESSED FOR LUCK's time is running out! Only 6 more hours to get your free copy of this short story.
I have started my first nonfiction work, a book on revenue stamps printed in Mexico. The working title of this philatelic work is THE DISTRICT OVERPRINTS FOUND ON REVENUE STAMPS OF MEXICO. It will take 2 months to get the first draft done, and it will be available on Create Space (Amazon print-on-demand).
I told my friends on Twitter: #amwriting Golly, what's going to happen when I start writing nonfiction? Will my friends abandon me?
For my SPECIAL, SPECIAL friends, who read my unpublished manuscripts way, way back before I ever tried publishing, an announcement: SAMMY LEMKIN, the protagonist of my first novel, HERO OF DREAMS, OR THE MAKING OF SAMMY LEMKIN, will appear in cameo in a short story I am planning. The working title for the short story is: THE SIRIUS SLIM CONVERGENCE, although this might change as it sounds a bit too much like an episode of the Big Bang Theory.
Apparently, I am impoverished enough at character creation that I have to just re-using the same poor saps over and over again...
PRESSED FOR LUCK's time is running out! Only 6 more hours to get your free copy of this short story.
I have started my first nonfiction work, a book on revenue stamps printed in Mexico. The working title of this philatelic work is THE DISTRICT OVERPRINTS FOUND ON REVENUE STAMPS OF MEXICO. It will take 2 months to get the first draft done, and it will be available on Create Space (Amazon print-on-demand).
I told my friends on Twitter: #amwriting Golly, what's going to happen when I start writing nonfiction? Will my friends abandon me?
For my SPECIAL, SPECIAL friends, who read my unpublished manuscripts way, way back before I ever tried publishing, an announcement: SAMMY LEMKIN, the protagonist of my first novel, HERO OF DREAMS, OR THE MAKING OF SAMMY LEMKIN, will appear in cameo in a short story I am planning. The working title for the short story is: THE SIRIUS SLIM CONVERGENCE, although this might change as it sounds a bit too much like an episode of the Big Bang Theory.
Apparently, I am impoverished enough at character creation that I have to just re-using the same poor saps over and over again...
Friday, February 26, 2016
PRESSED FOR LUCK is available for FREE download from now until March 1st.
Aliens are conducting a scientific survey on prehistoric Earth. Unfortunately, their mission has been sabotaged. Now they must find a way to neutralize the weapons-grade mutagenic life forms they've accidently released, or be responsible for wiping out all life on Earth before mankind even evolves.
PRESSED FOR LUCK is one of the seventeen short stories available in my collection of short stories, TWENTY TWELVE.
Get your free download HERE
Aliens are conducting a scientific survey on prehistoric Earth. Unfortunately, their mission has been sabotaged. Now they must find a way to neutralize the weapons-grade mutagenic life forms they've accidently released, or be responsible for wiping out all life on Earth before mankind even evolves.
PRESSED FOR LUCK is one of the seventeen short stories available in my collection of short stories, TWENTY TWELVE.
Get your free download HERE
Sunday, February 21, 2016
TWENTY TWELVE is available in KINDLE edition!!! The Kindle book is $4.99, but if you've purchased a print edition you can download it for FREE!!!
Get it HERE
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