Last week, before I left for my road trip, I finished Stephen King’s On Writing. I’d borrowed it from friends a few weeks before. Somehow I started reading it without any intentions to and it grabbed a hold of me again. This is one of only a few books (less than 5) that I’ve read more than once.
I’ve noticed my tolerance for crappy books is down and my need for reading is up ergo I have permission to quit books. Gasp. This used to not be granted to me by me. Oddly, at the same time my interest in rereading books increased. Tried and true, I guess?
King draws you in with the bits of his growing up, being a younger brother, writing at his desk in High School. This time around his whole near-death experience went by in only a few pages. Poof. In my memory of the last time I read it… and when was that… the description of his pain and recovery dominates. It’s conversational. It’s funny. And it’s educational. I learned practical advice that I don’t get by writing here in my room, alone. Like, how to delete as many adverbs as possible. But also advice you can apply to any pursuit – life, really – of starting small and being smart and working hard.
He also seems wildly in love with his wife, which I just adore.
Note that I’ve never read a single Stephen King novel, but I like this book. It makes me want to read his novels, but I do feel a class issue there for me as a reader – that his novels are somehow unworthy of my reading time – which you’d think is an opinion this memoir would alter, being so well written, but no…not yet anyways.
Maybe I just need to start with the right one… Any suggestions?
p.s. After I published this, the space on the side of the “published” bar had a Stephen King quote – I kid you not! Funny universe, really funny.