I just finished reading Stephen King’s part autobiographical/part instructional On Writing, A Memoir of the Craft. Like the majority of his literary creations, it moves with addictive velocity over terrain both familiar and alien, with the alien this time being not a telekinetic high school outcast, but the Zone (sometimes Dead) of a writer’s creative center.
Having just graduated with a bachelor’s degree and submitted applications to graduate programs for an MFA in Creative Writing, it was ironic to read King’s view that writing classes are a questionable necessity for a talented writer, and will do little good for an untalented one. He also doubts that writing workshops succeed in elevating a decent writer to a good writer, or a good writer to a great writer. He further tosses out the observation that some writers will never advance beyond contributing columns to a local newspaper.
There were actually two Me’s reading King’s book: The Me who loved every word he shared and totally sucked up his insights, and the Me who attends writing workshops, used to write a column for my local paper, and expects graduate school to elevate my writing into the stratosphere. Both of Me thinks that’s a lot to sort out.
His nuggets of gold, though, are beyond value for any writer. King learned from an early editor who rejected his work the Divine Rewrite Formula that he uses to this day: 2nd draft = 1st draft – 10%. The relentless truth is that less is almost always more. Pare down your writing to its meaningful core with no wasted words. The story is the boss; you’re just the one telling it. Adverbs pave the road to hell. “He stared glaringly” is not more powerful than “He stared.” Ever. Write about what you know, but since you don’t know everything, be prepared for research, only don’t let it look like research. Make it look like what you know.
Trust your idea radar. King relates an experience he had one winter day when he stopped for gas in a remote area of Pennsylvania and wandered over to look at an icy stream after he filled his tank. Taking a step downhill to get closer, his foot slipped on a patch of frozen snow and he went sliding down the slope toward the rushing water. Had he not grabbed onto some rusty engine parts jutting out of the snow, he would have disappeared into the water with certain injury and no one would know he was there. Driving away with a racing heart and soaking wet pants, he thought, hmmm, injured best-selling writer stranded in a remote area after a car accident who gets nursed back to health (or death) by the psychotic fan who rescues him. Misery.
Like all writers who use their craft to deal with the personal losses and fears that threaten to derail them, King called upon his enormous talent to help him recover from the devastating 1999 accident that left him mangled and forever changed. A citizen with a challenged driving record was trying to restrain his Rottweiler inside his van while driving. He crossed the road to the opposite shoulder where King was walking and mowed him down. After months of rehab, countless operations, and a world of pain suitable for a Stephen King novel, the author literally raised himself from his own ashes and finished the book he had only half completed before he left for a walk that day, the book I just read. Then he wrote thirty more. You have to admire him madly for that. Sorry, Steve, the adverb stays.
Daughter’s Featured Fotos aim to drown out the Winter Drearies
seduction
LEGO picker
Dave Kinsey, a rose is a rose is a rose
Montreal Convention Center