On Writing by Stephen King

I read On Writing by Stephen King.

On King and Kingsolver’s band

You don’t even have to read the book to learn my favorite bio factoid on King—it’s right there in the preface, which I read at Bookery months before I read the book. Stephen King was in a rock-and-roll band called The Rock Bottom Remainders with Barbara Kingsolver and other writers in San Francisco in the nineties. Barb on keys and Steve on rhythm guitar. Cool.

On writing about writing

Colonel Sanders sold a hell of a lot of fried chicken, but I’m not sure anyone wants to know how he made it. If I was going to be presumptuous enough to tell people how to write, I felt there had to be a better reason than my popular success. Put another way, I didn’t want to write a book, even a short one like this, that would leave me feeling like either a literary gas-bag or a transcendental asshole. There are enough of those books—and those writers—on the market already, thanks. (vii-viii)

I already felt self-conscious about the Millspaugh method, caveats and all, but this really knotted up that pit in my stomach (and I did rename that essay). But he did write a book about writing in the end, and I liked it.

But to add to my embarrassment, the only King book I’ve read is this one. The only nonfiction book by a prolific fiction author. I obviously like to read meta writing about writing (see: Art Work, The Creative Act). Regardless, I now know that Stephen King is a seriously good writer, and it won’t be long before I read some of his fiction.

On relating to readers

Book-buyers want a good story to take with them on the airplane, something that will first fascinate them, then pull them in and keep them turning the pages. This happens, I think, when readers recognize the people in a book, their behaviors, their surroundings, and their talk. When the reader hears strong echoes of his or her own life and beliefs, he or she is apt to become more invested in the story. (160)

I think this is spot on about relating to readers’ own lives. Readers are interested only if the writing relates to them or something they know and care about. To that end, I’d like to persuade readers in a preface or intro chapter of the secret life of domains to buy their own personal domain (and/or gift domains to friends and family).

On writing about work

Write what you like, then imbue it with life and make it unique by blending in your own personal knowledge of life, friendship, relationships, sex, and work. Especially work. People love to read about work. God knows why, but they do. (161)

I think people love to read about work for the same reason they love books with characters they recognize from their own life. Most of our waking adult lives are work, so it’s a maximally relatable subject. I realized this very minute that this is partly why I love reading about writing so much.

Reading about work might also be cathartic, misery-loves-company reading therapy because lots of people don’t like their jobs. Or daydream, grass-is-greener reading therapy to imagine what another job might be like.

On writer loneliness

Writing is a lonely job. Having someone who believes in you makes a lot of difference. They don’t have to make speeches. Just believing is usually enough. (74)

I don’t actually feel lonely, yet. I talk to more people than ever (mostly reader interviews). But maybe that’s just researched, nonfiction narratives. Writing fiction might be different. The part about having a partner who believes in you is true.

On the passive voice

King hates the passive voice. And adverbs. He says “the road to hell is paved with adverbs.”

On artist-brain activities

These were all situations which occurred to me—while showering, while driving, while taking my daily walk—and which I eventually turned into books. (170)

This is another data point supporting Julia Cameron’s artist brain idea. The first data point she cites is from another famous Steven: Spielberg.

On writing seminars

Stephen King is quite funny. The most I laughed while reading the book was from his critique on writing seminars, which I’ll quote in full (with my own bold emphasis on two sentences I particularly liked).

In truth, I’ve found that any day’s routine interruptions and distractions don’t much hurt a work in progress and may actually help it in some ways. It is, after all, the dab of grit that seeps into an oyster’s shell that makes the pearl, not pearl-making seminars with other oysters. And the larger the work looms in my day—the more it seems like an I hafta instead of just an I wanna—the more problematic it can become. One serious problem with writers’ workshops is that I hafta becomes the rule. You didn’t come, after all, to wander lonely as a cloud, experiencing the beauty of the woods or the grandeur of the mountains. You’re supposed to be writing, dammit, if only so that your colleagues will have something to critique as they toast their goddam marshmallows there in the main lodge. When, on the other hand, making sure the kid gets to his basketball camp on time is every bit as important as your work in progress, there’s a lot less pressure to produce. And what about those critiques, by the way? How valuable are they? Not very, in my experience, sorry. A lot of them are maddeningly vague. I love the feeling of Peter’s story, someone may say. It had something … a sense of I don’t know … there’s a loving kind of you know … I can’t exactly describe it …

Other writing-seminar gemmies include I felt like the tone thing was just kind of you know; The character of Polly seemed pretty much stereotypical; I loved the imagery because I could see what he was talking about more or less perfectly.

And, instead of pelting these babbling idiots with their own freshly toasted marshmallows, everyone else sitting around the fire is often nodding and smiling and looking solemnly thoughtful. In too many cases the teachers and writers in residence are nodding, smiling, and looking solemnly thoughtful right along with them. It seems to occur to few of the attendees that if you have a feeling you just can’t describe, you might just be, I don’t know, kind of like, my sense of it is, maybe in the wrong fucking class. (233)

On writing every day

A month ago I wrote about how Bob Nystrom writes every day and wondered aloud whether I should too. Before reading Nystrom it was King who got me turning this over in my head. Long quotations inbound, but I think it’s worth the words...

The sort of strenuous reading and writing program I advocate—four to six hours a day, every day—will not seem strenuous if you really enjoy doing these things and have an aptitude for them; in fact, you may be following such a program already. If you feel you need permission to do all the reading and writing your little heart desires, however, consider it hereby granted by yours truly.

I don’t know if I need permission to read and write, but it sort of validates writing this kind of thing that doesn’t directly contribute to the work of finishing my book.

Once I start work on a project, I don’t stop and I don’t slow down unless I absolutely have to. If I don’t write every day, the characters begin to stale off in my mind—they begin to seem like characters instead of real people. The tale’s narrative cutting edge starts to rust and I begin to lose my hold on the story’s plot and pace. Worst of all, the excitement of spinning something new begins to fade. The work starts to feel like work, and for most writers that is the smooch of death. Writing is at its best—always, always, always—when it is a kind of inspired play for the writer. I can write in cold blood if I have to, but I like it best when it’s fresh and almost too hot to handle.

This—losing momentum, inspiration, and context—is one of my worries about working part-time for a startup while I continue my book, but so far so good.

I used to tell interviewers that I wrote every day except for Christmas, the Fourth of July, and my birthday. That was a lie. I told them that because if you agree to an interview you have to say something, and it plays better if it’s something at least half-clever. Also, I didn’t want to sound like a workaholic dweeb (just a workaholic, I guess). The truth is that when I’m writing, I write every day, workaholic dweeb or not. That includes Christmas, the Fourth, and my birthday (at my age you try to ignore your goddam birthday anyway). And when I’m not working, I’m not working at all, although during those periods of full stop I usually feel at loose ends with myself and have trouble sleeping. For me, not working is the real work. When I’m writing, it’s all the playground, and the worst three hours I ever spent there were still pretty damned good.

I haven’t yet worked on my book seriously on holidays and travel weekends (weddings etc.) with family and friends. Maybe I ought to.

Don’t wait for the muse. As I’ve said, he’s a hardheaded guy who’s not susceptible to a lot of creative fluttering. This isn’t the Ouija board or the spirit-world we’re talking about here, but just another job like laying pipe or driving long-haul trucks. Your job is to make sure the muse knows where you’re going to be every day from nine ’til noon or seven ’til three. If he does know, I assure you that sooner or later he’ll start showing up, chomping his cigar and making his magic.

Like Susan Shapiro says, plumbers don’t get plumber’s block.