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The ten thousand things and the one true only.

by Kip Manley

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Days-go-by.

The trouble with getting people together in a room finally is then they want to say stuff to each other that threatens to derail the scene, if not the plot.

It’s coming along, the 33rd chapbook, the last installment of the third volume, the mid-season finale of season two, and my God, the violence done by that phrase, “mid-season finale,” to structure, to storytelling, criticism, language, to the passage of time itself. —Aren’t words wonderful?

Anyway, while I’m writing, while you’re waiting, now that the shape of the thing is hoving into view, I thought you might maybe like a glimpse of one of the tools I use to keep track of what’s happening when: simple, yes, almost abstract, but nonetheless necessary:

Calendar.

And look: I know it’s been four years, but it’s only been seven weeks: a glacially pell-mell bent for leisurely saunter into eyeblink chaos, or something. Soon enough we’ll know where we’ve ended up, and I’ll need to start working on getting us out. —Until then.


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