The writer's job is to drink up ink and exude it through every pore, to fashion tiny homunculus characters and voodoo bits of his soul into them, to carve earth with his fingers and pour seas from his hands and to take that thought, that thought, pluck it from his mind, and try his utmost to put it into someone else's. This is mind-control. Dark art. Hypnosis, suggestion, brainwashing. And if done properly, the writer can set the heart on fire. He can draw tears on trails of silver. He

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