At last we have reached the forty-fifth essay in my series of fifty essays on the artistic masochism that is the act of writing. Considering this whole thing was an accident, I think I'm going rather well. All fifty of these essays are based around my original
fifty thoughts on writing, which means I am blessedly, mercifully, almost done. And
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I feel like I'm missing something here. Am I?
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UNPRECEDENTED.
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