Dealing With Your Moment in the Sun: the writer and self-belief

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Just over a year ago I wrote a piece called Dealing With the Dark Places, about the crippling yet essential nature of creative self-doubt. It rang some kind of bell with a lot of people. The last couple of weeks, as 2011 approached, several of my favourite bloggers have written on a particular theme – taking yourself seriously as a writer. Taking my cue, and reflecting on 2010, I thought I would write something about the flip-side to self-doubt: self-belief. And, as my post on self-doubt turned out actually to be about self-belief, I am sure this will have more than a little to say about doubt.

2010 was the year I lost the last shred of belief in my own creative ability. It’s hard to put my finger on why exactly because in these things there are never exactlies. But there are some instructive contributory factors. And, whilst I don’t have a precise answer, I think I have a pretty useful suggestion.

The most obvious thing has been this place. This exuberant, energetic, exhilarating place. Which sounds strange, because it gives me a buzz I can’t remember feeling from anything else, but being surrounded on a daily basis by work so original and so brilliant inevitably leads to comparison, and that has inevitably exacerbated the doubt in my own work. But one of the reasons I set up eight cuts gallery was a feeling that my own work would never, really, reach the levels I wanted it to, and a desire to champion work that did achieve that. So the doubt was already there.

Something that looks like an achievement on paper is the live gigging we did at Year Zero this year. We’ve been to some incredible venues like Rough Trade, and had some truly moving evenings, such as the one at the OVADA Gallery. I even won something, at Literary Death Match, that should make me feel happy. And it does. I love reading to a live audience. But somewhere I think what I love may have changed. Maybe somewhere I stopped connecting directly with the audience, and started making it about my performance. No wonder it feels increasingly empty.

But the doubt precedes all of that. It precedes, too, the general reaction to my work, the sense that people find it cute that I’m outside the mainstream, that it’s a nice hobby for me to have, but never worth a mention when they’re talking about serious.

The doubt is something I imagine everyone has hardwired into them. Only they seem not to. It’s the feeling that if I’ve done it, it’s not worth talking about, that whatever you’re talking about, there’s always someone who deserves it more. That it would be fake, disingenuous to talk about my work, to accept payment for it, to take compliments for it, because there are others whose work is better. Don’t pay for my book if you don’t own The Dead Beat. Don’t tell me my writing’s good when you could use those breaths you’ll never get back to big up Oli.

And yet there are people who do accept payment for their work, who not only take compliments but tell people their work is good. If they’re prepared to do that, given that to do so when there are things more deserving is stupid, disgusting, self-aggrandisement, then the only conclusion is that my work is lesser than theirs.

That’s the real truth of it. I still can’t wrap my head around it. It was the same when I worked in retail. I couldn’t sell a product that I didn’t believe was the perfect one for my customers, and I couldn’t understand people who did. I know, in theory, it has to do with “making a living” and I tell myself that every morning – that’s the only way I can persuade myself to get to work and pretend the papers I push around my desk have any value at all. But art isn’t like that. It’s about the truth. All art that matters at all is about that quotation of Cody’s I come back to again and again “Maybe there is no way to leave the world a better place, and all we can do is tell the truth.”

And that’s where the doubt ends and the speculative answer begins. I don’t want to make a crass art versus trade distinction because, well, it’s crass. But I will say most writers’ motives for taking their place in the sun aren’t really relevant here, and a few disingenuous, but the writers I really admire have another reason.

Like most aphorisms, “if you don’t believe in yourself no one else will” is simultaneously true but tosh. It’s true because, well, it’s true. Except in those one-off cases where someone happens upon a scribbling in a bar and propels it to stardom, in order to get agented, published, sold, you need to sell yourself with conviction – even if it’s only the confidence to present your material to best advantage in your query and then post it off. It’s tosh because it’s beside the point. I’m guessing most people who’ve found their way to this site aren’t writing “to get published” or “to be famous” but because they want to create something that matters. Whatever, to paraphrase Prince Charles, “matters” means. And, to be honest, what we think of our work has pretty much no bearing on that.

Pretty much.

I’ve been thinking about the amazing people I am surrounded by at eight cuts gallery and Year Zero, and there is a common thread. One that’s there in everyone I admire most. And it’s this. What counts is not believing in your work but believing in what you have to say. If you have nothing to say, or if you get so tangled up in the clothes it wears, the result will be equally tangled. Or plain shallow.

And that’s what I’d lost. I’d become on the one hand carried away with the performance of my work, and on the other dismayed at its technical inferiority, that I had stopped making the only driving force behind it the conveyance of my own personal truth.

Cody, Sarah, Penny, Elly, Sabina, Oli, Stuart, writers I admire most in the world, all have a complex relation with self-doubt and self-belief. They have the most crushing episodes of doubt about their work, but beneath that, under the clothes, there is a self-belief that is unshakable. It is a belief in the truth they have to tell, and it is so passionate that one of its inevitable consequences is doubt over the ability adequately to convey that truth.

But belief in the truth you have to tell means something else. It is why an artist must take their moment in the sun, accept what comes their way, not do constant deference to others whose truths are different. We owe it not to ourselves to put our work forward and take our slice of the spotlight, and not to our work – to do it for either of those is to render our motivation, our selves, and our art, hollow. No, we owe it to the truth.

And that’s what I lost sight of. I became too much concerned with the clothing, and too little with what mattered. I wrote very little last year, and almost all of that was all surface and no substance. I spent so long talking about the need for writers to tell the truth – which is still what I want to spend much of my time doing, and is the raison d’etre for this place – that I forgot the truth I had to tell.

My challenge to you is to join me in refocusing yourself on why you write. On the truth you have to convey – the thing that gives your work its heart. That’s something genuinely worth believing in. And worth every moment you get in the spotlight.

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46 Responses to Dealing With Your Moment in the Sun: the writer and self-belief

  1. yearzerowriters says:

    I sort of agree with the general conclusions about the truth being the art, other than the notion that all truth is purely subjective, but I don’t follow your argument that it has to be one person’s work or the other’s. As brilliant as other people’s work is, it doesn’t discount your work as inferior by comparison. That is your own surrender to self-doubt. You know, or you should know, that there are plenty of us lined up to reiterate to you that your work is of a consistently high standard and of that we are in no doubt.

    If anything, you may sometimes over-think the theory behind your work. And that lets you put a knife through your glorious canvas. But you still write from the heart and the truth; it’s when you set your brain loose on the work that you may undermine it and you. Trust your instincts. I’ve found yours to be very sound.

    marc xx

  2. danholloway says:

    Thanks – I guess if you opf all people think I over-analyse there may be something to it! I was actually elucidating the point mentioned in your first paragraph so as to, in a cognitive behavioural kind of way, refudiate it. Any writer who writes their truth has cause for self-belief. It’s when (gawd I sound like an existentialist from the 60s I know) self-deception creeps in that we need to worry. I think comparing technique to ascertain value is a fatal error, and certainly no cause for self-doubt!

  3. ordinary Joe says:

    Yes, don’t think about your work. Just write it, man. The themes and clever stuff will still be there, only it’ll surprise you when people point them out to you.

  4. yearzerowriters says:

    Since when does cognitive behaviour refudiate anything?

    I’m with Oli, surely confessional writers of all writers are the most instinctive writers? Write what’s begging to be written and then just figure out what the hell it’s all about after the fact. That’s what I do.

    marc

    • danholloway says:

      cognitive behavioural therapy is like white blood cells for false negativity. It’s based on the principle of refudiating negative thoughts by breaking them down and showing up the deceits on which they’re built.

      I’ve started being more carefree, and Elly’s project in particular was very helpful. But the problem is when some of the stuff in your head is so screwed up it would at the least lose you your job and friends, at most lose your family and make you a pariah, there has to be some kind of filter. Only I know there mustn’t be. I know my writing has to be free of pretence, but there’s a survival imperative to keep the pretence. It’s tough.

      • That’s the sort of writing you tuck away in a file named “For Posthumous Publication”. None of us are going to be famous until we’re dead anyway. Then again, maybe that’s because we have that Posthumous folder . . .

        I write stuff I have to hide, too. And it’s very good stuff, but it’s just too much.

  5. Lou says:

    What a wonderful post.

    “It is a belief in the truth they have to tell, and it is so passionate that one of its inevitable consequences is doubt over the ability adequately to convey that truth.”

    So well put. I’m very much looking forward to following you and your work in the next year.

    • danholloway says:

      Thank you so much. I was looking through your super blog earlier today. I don’t know if it has anything to do with the title, but The Kills’ Black Balloon is one of my favourite songs ever

  6. When I was a youngster I gave up my place in Dental School and had an interview witg the Dean before I left. He asked me what I wanted to do and I said , “I want to be a writer.” He looked me in the eye and said, “I wanted to run a pub once but people like us don’t do things like that.”

    When you speak about selling your work or marketing it I get echoes of that very sad pronouncement. I am certain you and the Dean make very convincing arguments not to run a pub or promote your work – but when it boils down to it if you really wanted to do those things you would and should do them.

    Life isn’t a competition although many people try to make it seem that way. There is room for everyone and everyone is entitled to do the best they can to be heard.

    The writers who are better and say something more truthful and who touch people will also have others to champion them – because they have lit the blue touch-paper in those readers and fireworks will surely follow.

    Others can make their little sparks but won’t hit the target and all there will be will be the one tiny light.

    But if the writer/artist singer wants to try – then there is no disgust or shame in it and no reason to preclude them being fired up by someone else’s work and spreading that joy as well.

    In the meantime wanting to do what you want to do right now is amazing, fantastic and a treasure you give to all who benefit from your energy and vision. But don’t give up on sharing your own work and keep some sparklers tucked away for when you get the urge to write your name in the dark night. XX

    • danholloway says:

      I wasn’t at all saying there was anything wrong with marketing – I thought I’d said that explicitly. If not, I should have done.

      I do struggle with the “not for the likes of us” thing. As you know, I spent 10 years of study hoping to be an academic only for that to be buggered by a breakdown and debt. I have some wonderful things in my life. Money and career aren’t amongst them and, if I’m honest, I can’t conceive of ever being paid to do sonething I love. And I don’t understand what it’s like to be one of those people who have a job they enjoy. That seems to be a privilege I could never begin to dream of, and certainly have no right to aspire to.

  7. Cody James says:

    Most of the best stuff I’ve ever read was written by people who can’t write for shit. It’s just that they gave a lot of themselves in the work. You don’t even need to refocus, dude. Just, unfocus.

    • danholloway says:

      Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean, giving yourself completely in your work. My problem is that unless I remember that’s what’s important, the overwhelming feeling that everything I write is utter crap stops me writing a thing. You’re right, though – the answer isn’t to refocus on the worth of what you’re doing. But to quite worrying about the other stuff. That you and Oli jumped straight on this probably says a lot about why I picked you guys as my opening releases.

      • I get that exact problem with writing fiction. For some reason poetry is easier possibly because I just let that flow spontaneously and then deal with it afterwards. I wonder if knowing too much and having read too much and maybe having been ‘educated’ formally too much is a very badly inhibiting factor – because of experiencing what we consider the ‘best’ and then being convinced we can never reach that standard?

        My son at school was given poetry by various famous and revered poets and then told to go and try to write something similar!!! Unsurprisingly he couldn’t even begin – he said it was because he knew anything he wrote would be rubbish in comparison and he didn’t even want to try – just to produce comparative crap.

        But if you just have fun lesson playing with sounds and words with kids and then encourage them to string stuff together and they are enjoying what they do – they can produce amazing work.

        We need to allow ourselves to enjoy the process and hang the consequences – just do it and see what results. But it is horribly hard to take the restraints off.

      • danholloway says:

        Very wise, Michele. Very wise indeed

  8. Andy Harrod says:

    I agree with Cody here Dan, as well as you. Write what is true to you whilst not focusing on it. The work I like (it is hard for me to admit to liking anything i do) and complete is the work that takes hold of me and writes itself and is also me, it is about something i need to express. Whilst my novel in progress is stalling as I am focusing too much on it, it is again something i need and want to express and is very much me, but I am stuck and therefore plagued by self doubt as i am too focused on it being the answer. So I’ll join you in the truth and not focusing on it. Andy

    • danholloway says:

      The key word in the last paragraph is “why” – not on the content of what we write but, when we feel that hollow inadequacy, remembering why we write, and that it’s that which gives our work value.

      Very very best with the novel this year 🙂

  9. Cody and Oli are right; write without thinking, unfocus. In regards to what Marc said, though, I don’t think it’s just confessional writers that are instinctive. Well, maybe that’s not what he said exactly, but I agree that you have to write what wants to be written and figure it out later. Be instinctive. The more fiercely personal you make something (or the more you do exactly what you want with it) the better it ends up being . . . and these ‘meanings’ kind of wiggle out after that. Metaphors appear, parallelisms, all one big network you didn’t even try to create happens.

    As for doubt, I think it’s healthy to have a good amount of it. I don’t want to go around looking like a fool, thinking I have something good when it’s mediocre at best, and weak and stupid.

    I don’t think I have an underlying unshakable self-belief. It’s just doubt under doubt under doubt. Like the turtles that hold up the world. It’s just turtles all the way down . . .

    • danholloway says:

      I think you do, somewhere. I’ve seen it. I agree doubt is essential – but for me the difference is that good doubt is about the content, the surface; good belief is about why we write. BAd doubt is doubt about why; bad belief is about the what. Does that make sense?

      • Yeah, that makes sense. I think I have hope that someday I’ll write something good, that I’ll like, that will be effective in some way. Usually this doesn’t happen, and this is why I keep on writing. Maybe? I’m not sure. But regardless of if I know why, it happens and that’s that.

      • danholloway says:

        Something good that we like is tilting at windmills. If it’s good we usually hate it. But at some level believe in it. Sometimes

  10. alisonwells says:

    I’ve said it before, Songs was beautiful writing and meant a lot to me and when I find a writer who says things in the way that you do I want to read him/her more and more. But like many others when I write I say, what is the point of this, why do I think I can do this as well as or better than others. But I want to, that’s the point isn’t it and other people say they want me to and if I make something beautiful or striking out of the muddle of humanity then its worth it. I may have said this before too, I’ve got a collection of stories called Random Acts of Optimism, ‘opening your eyes when the world might already be gone’, making a mark on the page, starting again and again when knocked down by the sadness of having a son with Aspergers who feels always at odds with the world and the people in it, or by suicide, depression, or the general disappointments in life. There is nothing but doubt sometimes, but you’ve got to keep getting up. We should write because it hums in us and we want to, need to, let it go out to people and see what happens.

  11. Wonderful, thoughtful post as always, Dan. I imagine self-doubt is dogged companion to all artists – even the ones who appear confident. I suppose in the end you just have to say what you have to say from the heart and in good faith. The rest is down to the alchemy of the reader’s soul and imagination interacting with your words – something you have no control over but something into which the reader enters of their free will.

    You can only control your response to your work – nobody else’s – so it’s pointless to project your feelings about it onto your readers. I find that readers see things in my work that I never intended (consciously) to say.

    We all have an equal right to express ourselves, yes write honestly – but also filter and edit to a level that YOU’re comfortable with.

    Dan what would you say to someone expressing the anxiety and doubt that you do – I guess it would be – feel the ]fear but don’t stop.

    Now if I could just take my own advice…

    • danholloway says:

      “in good faith” – that’s the key.

      What would I say? Exactly what I do in this post – if you’re writing the truth then you have no reason to doubt. If you’ve stopped doing that, then remember what really matters.

      Yes, it’s the hardest thing of all taking one’s own advice, isn’t it 🙂

  12. Maybe we have to get to that point where we’ve lost all our self-belief before we can really write. And then build it up again. I know all writers have a strong sense of ‘self’ whatever that is but if it doesn’t get broken, it’s just an ego.

    I am sure some amazing things will come out of -you- the next coming months. And some of them will be words you want to hold onto and develop and show others.

    Good luck!

    XElly

  13. danholloway says:

    “I know all writers have a strong sense of ‘self’ whatever that is but if it doesn’t get broken, it’s just an ego”
    I love that

  14. marchorne says:

    You’re in an unusual place being both publisher and writer. The publisher is naturally searching for ‘the best’, but the writer has to not care and has to write the thing that they do best.

    Like personally, I am long since resigned to playing in the second division but hammering in some massive goals now and then. If I was player/manager of Manchester United maybe that would be a different story.

    [Metaphorically. I cannot really play football]

    Anyway, awesome post… inspiring. I look forward to your return to writing, as I am sure it will come.

  15. I always remember the advice my older brother gave me when I was first learning how to drive. He said, “if all those other assholes out there can do it, so can you.”

    I’m never quite sure about the difference between belief and doubt. Don’t we believe because we doubt, and doubt because we believe?

  16. This discussion is liberating, and I’m going to adopt ‘write without thinking’ as my motto for 2011. And it’s part of Dan’s genius that he not only writes like an angel, and sparked off Year Zero and its gigs, but he goes on to establish eight cuts gallery, and publish some of the best writing around, while his blogs generate discussions like this. Awesome achievement.

    For myself, the Critic in my Head is cunning and adopts a variety of disguises, and he’s most dangerous at the beginning of a WIP. ‘You say you’re writing the truth about psychiatric hospitals and lobotomy, but your writing is old-fashioned and emotionally frigid, and most readers find you boring. Stop writing now.’ Entering into a debate with the Critic is pointless, he always wins. Analytical thought is his chief weapon. I’ve evaded him since Xmas and resumed writing, and I intend to use the motto ‘write without thinking’ whenever he reappears.

  17. yearzerowriters says:

    “Entering into a debate with the Critic is pointless, he always wins.” I know exactly what you mean, and yes, the way to beat him isn’t to fight back but to ignore him. It’s great that you’re writing again 🙂

  18. 2010 was the year I lost the last shred of belief in my own creative ability
    Dan, this is a daft statement. You are an astonishingly creative, inspiring individual; just look at all this stuff around you have made come alive.

    We write when we want to, we write when we have to. Not-writing is not a sin or a sign of weakness, in fact the compulsion to make art can be seen as a neurotic activity, given the amount of self-obsession it demands. If we were really at one with the world, would we have to write anything?

    What counts is not believing in your work but believing in what you have to say.
    Yes, I know exactly what you mean (some might posit that the notion that art has to “say something” rather than being a process is a rather quaint, old-fashioned assumption, but let’s not go there). It’s ‘not being sure what I want to say’ that has stopped me writing – I don’t to write another book about the impossibility of belief or ‘not being sure what to say’, but it doesn’t’ worry me (too much). There are many different creative forms and processes, they all work for you differently at different times, let’s not get hung up on the novel which at the moment seems somehow not quite fitting.

    I can see there is a conflict here between Dan the nurturer of talent and Dan the publisher. To encourage everybody to do their best, to inspire them to do more needs a very different attitude to hard-headedly selecting the very best work to go out into the world. But they are both positive and necessary roles. As in every art form, the majority of what the majority of us do just isn’t good enough. Statistically, almost none of us are going to make great art; emotionally, we have to know that we can.

    So yes, we have to kick that critic aside who stops us doing anything. But then we have to call back into the room again, because we need him, because what we do can always be better. We can’t be precious about our work; the notion that anything we write can only be printed as we wrote it, without any interventions or editing is simply adolescent. We have to alternate pride with humility.

    So, Dan, relax. Maybe you’ve been struggling with forms that don’t quite fit your mood or the times. Do what feels right, do what you have to do. That’s all any of us can do.

    • danholloway says:

      “this is a daft statement” – what goes on in our head rarely reflects the opinions of others, though, does it? And – like I said before, this is a positivity post! – I have to say that whilst there are serious drawbacks to that fact, it is also rather comforting – if we can get our self-belief back, or get it in the first place, I don’t think many people would argues 1. that this is great and 2. that maintaining it shouldn’t be dependent on the opinions (negative or positive – we should be careful where we find reinforcement or we’ll find that a confidence that was solid becomes fragile) of others (remember I’m not talking about the packaging, or technique). The converse of that is that self-doubt is equally independent.

      I think I agree about the role of the critic (like I said in my piece over on Cordia’s blog, I’m not actually a hardcore punk, although I sometimes wish I were) – I think that’s what I was trying to say – that we need to separate off the what and the why, having an unshakeable confidence in the latter and an equally resolute determination to tear apart the former again and again.

  19. Sorry, Dan, I didn’t mean it was a daft statement. What I should have said was that you shouldn’t lose faith in your creative ability. Since we haven’t.

  20. Phillipa Fioretti says:

    Dan, I love The Kills ‘Black Balloon’ too. Brilliant song.
    As a commercial genre fiction author I feel a little shy on this blog … er … I think what I write is truthful because I couldn’t write any other way, but it is not personal to me, or not overtly anyway. Not confessional either, but humourous and humour is another way of getting at the truth. People recognise the truth of the character’s actions and dialogue and that’s maybe why it’s successful commercial fiction, like successful commercial films – lots of people relate to the situations and characters.
    Enough blather.
    I understand self doubt, understand it very well. No matter what one does it’s a constant companion, but I’m flabbergasted that a man of your amazing, distinctive talent and productive energy and generative force in getting things happening can doubt your own ability. When I first read your work on autho I thought I would just pack up and go home as there was no way I was in the same league. I have Songs, I have Skin Book and I even have a file on my computer for your poetry – and I read them all occasionally because they are so bloody good, so layered, so thick with imagery and ideas and … well, just stop doubting yourself. So many people who lack talent power along on chutzpah only while the true artists are agonizing in some darkened corner, comparing and marvelling at others. I marvel at you, I’ll never be as good as you, I know I must have something (not quite sure what), but it’s way, way down the evolutionary writing scale compared to your work.

  21. danholloway says:

    You are hugely hugely welcome here always. It’s lovely to hear that people like what I write 🙂 Doubt and belief are funny creatures, though, as I know you’ve found too. They tend to respond (and as I said to Roland, I think that’s probably best) to internal stimuli much more strongly than external ones. I’m feeling very positive about my work now, because I’m happy that I’m doing what I should be doing. I don’t think I was in 2010 by and large – most of it was written to please other people. Only a couple of short stories really made me happy as a result. My current WIP will make me happy even if no one likes it.

    A file of my poetry. Wowsers 🙂

  22. stolperer says:

    this article and the comments are exactly what i needed – I’ve been in a pit of what i call “Occupational Disobedience”, reading books in chain before, during, after work, at night, in order to subvert concentration on the day job and on ‘needing’ to create something. But lately I’ve starting thinking, enough of this (tho I still have 5 books on tap i was sort of counting on for continued disobedience). Although everybody has to some extent their own personal/life-management demons to fight, a lot of the person-creator conflicts seem universal – I personally identify with a lot of the problems and suggestions brought up by Dan, and by the commentors – especially the belief/doubt theme – identification with others always makes a good wake up call

    • danholloway says:

      “Occupational Disobedience” – that’s a brilliant phrase.
      I think that a lot of us find these things cyclical. I’m the same with food – stodge and stodge and give into the desire for more stodge and I’ll wake up one day ready for months of salad. I think it’s like that when we forcibly ignore any creative urges for a while

  23. theganges says:

    Thanks for writing this, Dan. And happy new year to you!
    Grace

  24. As you say in response to Phillipa ‘My current WIP will make me happy even if no one likes it.’ Nail on head 🙂

    And so much of what Phillipa said resonates with me and I would just like to echo her sentiments. I’m also shy of popping up here – I’m always aware that what I write isn’t of an eightcuts nature. But like her – I admire and respond to your writing. I also have Songs and the Skin Book. You pushed me out of my comfort zone and I’ll always be grateful for that.

    Doubt and belief – I guess they’re part of a healthy and refreshing ebb and flow for writers/artists – certainly beats stagnation. More (tidal) power to you, Dan.

  25. Quenntis says:

    Your post makes me think of my years spent dancing where the dance master/teacher was always shouting at me to be thinner, stronger, faster, better… with little praise for who I was at the time. As a writer (and I do call myself that now because I write every day without getting paid for it) I always think I’ve survived that staring-in-the-mirror depression of not being good enough part of my life, that every single thing I write that’s mine is completely and utterly filled with the sun. I don’t need the affirmation of publication to accomplish self-belief and self-worth as a writer. When publication comes (as it must to those who knock at the blank page every day with something to say to shout from rooftops to whisper in lovers’ ears to hum in the shower…) and goes, I’m left standing with pen and paper in hand to face a new horizon where I strive against non-existence again and again. You are only as good as you are now. When I look at the past me and the present me I’m left wondering if there will be enough sun for a future me. Being the writer I am now is all I can be. I have to believe in myself before I expect others to.

  26. Viv says:

    Oh boy!!
    I don’t think I can say anything except that it’s comforting to find someone else whose relationship between self doubt and self belief mirrors my own.
    I’m in.

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