I think Stephen King should be teaching writing somewhere. Seriously. The day I left for this sabbatical, my colleagues presented me with a gift basket that included, (among other things) a copy of On Writing. I’ve just about finished it, and I have to say, aside from the copy of Warriner’s English Grammar and Composition I swiped from the high school when I was student teaching, this one book has had a most profound impact on the way I’ve been spending my afternoons.
Among other things, King lets you know right away that plot will kill you if you give it too much thought. To him, the story is what should be handled with reverence. And I tend to agree. Probably because not a lot is happening in this little book of mine. In these stories. The sections that are action-packed (my sister and I did manage to blow up the family Buick, after all) aren’t as revealing or nearly as interesting to me as the interior stories that are being revealed just through what I remember people saying to me. I’m not kidding. When that happens … well … it’s like the story is writing itself. I’m just along for the ride.
The other thing I find appealing about King’s memoir is his no-bullshit approach to craftsmanship. Like today, I found myself getting a little lost in the details. I spent more than a few minutes trying to find out a couple of facts. (Those of you who know, can you please, please tell me when the post office in Anaconda was built? AND most importantly, is the benchmark for a mile about sea level in the third step of the post office, or the hotel?) But as soon as I took his advice and allowed myself to get that wrong … or put in a placeholder … the story started tumbling like water.
It was really, really cool. I wish you all could have been here, but you are! You are all here with me. And we’re having a great time.