2. Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft (2000) (2/19/19)
Reading this book as a writer (which I sometimes feel I actually am, when I'm not busy feeling like a fraud—but that's another story) felt like I was sitting down with a good friend, a supportive mentor, who wants me to write. He believes in the power of writing a good story and sharing it, and he also believes that writing is plain fun, so why not have a little? He includes various mechanical tips, such as avoid adverbs, don't use the passive voice. But more than that he tries to focus on the magic of the process. In introducing the "On Writing" section, he writes:
What follows is everything I know about how to write good fiction. I'll be as brief as possible, because your time is valuable and so is mine, and we both understand that the hours we spend talking about writing is time we don't spend actually doing it. I'll be as encouraging as possible, because it's my nature and because I love this job. I want you to love it, too. But if you don't want to work your ass off[, Anne!], you have no business trying to write well—settle back into competency and be grateful you have even that much to fall back on. There is a muse [Traditionally—he comments in a footnote—the muses were women, but mine's a guy. I'm afraid we'll just have to live with that], but he's not going to come fluttering down into your writing room and scatter creative fairy-dust all over your typewriter or computer station. He lives in the ground. He's a basement guy. You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish an apartment for him to live in. You have to do the grunt labor, in other words, while the muse sits and smokes cigars and admires his bowling trophies and pretends to ignore you. Do you think this is fair? I think it's fair. He may not be much to look at, that muse-guy, and he may not be much of a conversationalist (what I get out of mine is mostly surly grunts, unless he's on duty), but he's got the inspiration. It's right that you should do all the work and burn all the midnight oil, because the guy with the cigar and the little wings has got the bag of magic. There's stuff in there that can change your life.More specifically, he counsels that a writer needs to eliminate distraction ("you need [a] room, you need [a] door, and you need the determination to shut the door"); work every single day, with a specific goal in mind (his is 2,000 words/ten pages a day); read, read, read. Know your themes or "deep interests," for they power most, if not all, of the stories you will tell. (His are "how difficult it is to close Pandora's technobox once it's open . . . the question of why, if there is a God, such terrible things happen . . . the thin line between reality and fantasy . . . and most of all, the terrible attraction violence sometimes has for fundamentally good people.") Interestingly, King distrusts plot—which he calls "shifty and best kept under house arrest"—
Believe me, I know.
for two reasons: first, because our lives are largely plotless, even when you add in all our reasonable precautions and careful planning; and second, because I believe plotting and the spontaneity of real creation aren't compatible. . . . My basic belief about the making of stories is that they pretty much make themselves. The job of the writer is to give them a place toKing says that the most interesting situations he explores in his stories can generally be expressed as a "What if?" question (e.g., Dolores Claiborne: "What if a cleaning woman suspected of a murder she got away with [her husband] fell under suspicion for a murder she did not commit [her employer]?).
grow . . .
I lean heavily on intuition, and have been able to do that because my books tend to be based on situation rather than story. Some of the ideas which have produced those books are more complex than others, but the majority start with the stark simplicity of a department store window display or waxwork tableau. I want to put a group of characters (perhaps a pair; perhaps even just one) in some sort of predicament and then watch them try to work themselves free. My job isn't to help them work their way free, or manipulate them to safety . . . but to watch what happens and then write it down.
The situation comes first. The characters—always flat and unfeatured, to begin with—come next. Once these things are fixed in my mind, I begin to narrate. I often have an idea of what the outcome may be, but I have never demanded of a set of characters that they do things my way. On the contrary, I want them to do things their way.
There's all sorts of good advice, and good examples, in this book—which I will likely read again before too long. But mostly, I enjoy King's exuberance and generosity. He concludes the book by saying,
Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life as well. It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy. Some of this book—perhaps too much—has been about how I learned to do it. Much of it has been about how you can do it better. The rest of it—and perhaps the best of it—is a permission slip: you can, you should, and if you're brave enough to start, you will. Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink.I am going to try to be a better writer—not in the mechanical sense of putting words and thoughts and characters on paper, though I hope I can continue to improve there too. But in the sense of doing the work and finding joy in it. That's a promise to myself I hope I can keep.
Drink and be filled up.
I am not, however, going to read any more Stephen King. Although I loved both The Stand and On Writing, I just don't think his what-ifs are my kind of what-ifs. I might be wrong, but I guess I'll never know.
