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48 The฀Other฀One Books฀in฀Print฀attests฀I’m฀doppelganged฀by฀another Kevin฀Stein,฀whose฀quill฀pens฀tales฀of฀dragons, magic฀castles,฀and฀sorcerers฀tapping฀wands both฀good฀and฀evil.฀There’s฀the฀usual฀slew of฀potions,฀spells,฀and฀curses฀cured฀by฀a฀kiss. A฀few฀heaving฀bosoms฀and฀menace฀masquerading as฀an฀apple.฀Please฀don’t฀sue฀me,฀Mr.฀Stein. For฀reasons฀I฀only฀imagine,฀he฀calls฀himself “The฀Man฀in฀Black.”฀When฀Amazon.com฀lists his฀damsel฀and฀dragons฀beside฀mine,฀I฀cringe. No฀doubt฀he’s฀creeped฀out฀by฀my฀buntings, race฀riots,฀and฀the฀too฀thin฀deaf฀man with฀lopped-off฀hands.฀Egads. People฀buy฀his฀book฀online฀thinking฀it’s฀mine. Maybe฀they’re฀the฀folks฀who฀wrote฀the฀Journal฀Star to฀pledge฀my฀soul฀to฀hell฀and฀urge฀the฀Bishop quick฀excommunicate฀that฀heathen.฀Still, think฀of฀the฀slothful฀Goth฀who฀glosses a฀book’s฀blurbs฀and฀gets฀mine฀instead฀of฀his. What฀curses?฀What฀laughter฀among฀the฀coven? Like฀most฀writers,฀we’re฀guilty฀of฀solipsism, wasting฀gallons฀of฀coffee฀to฀pry฀the฀other’s daffy฀tar-baby฀from฀our฀serious฀pink฀palms. “Oh,฀the฀work’s฀my฀life,”฀we฀squeal.฀Well฀yes, and฀no.฀Poetry฀exposes฀the฀soul’s฀leitmotif, but฀life’s฀a฀messy฀cauldron฀of฀bliss฀and฀traffic฀tickets. The฀two฀of฀us฀are฀bound฀as฀in฀marriage.฀Our฀name’s the฀vow,฀and฀neither฀church฀nor฀state฀will฀sunder 49 what฀our฀parents฀joined฀by฀chance.฀Anyway, he’s฀probably฀a฀swell฀guy.฀If฀we฀were฀to฀meet, we’d฀shake,฀“Hi,฀I’m฀Kevin฀Stein.”฀Then฀what? Beck’s฀and฀a฀Guinness—he’s฀German-Irish฀too. Then฀photos฀of฀my฀kids฀and฀his฀black฀cats, chit฀chat฀and฀weather,฀the฀unenlightened฀presses, and฀by฀the฀way,฀how฀his฀books฀sell฀more฀than฀mine. ...

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