The Stephen King Project
Reader (Mom)!
I have done it. I have read a Stephen King book, and it was everything I had hoped for. Yesterday, I finished On Writing, which was on my to-read list for this year. Now I am making my merry, spooked way through ‘Salem’s Lot, with The Shining, Pet Sematary, and It awaiting me on my shelves. I am positively terrified to read Pet Sematary. Getting through those reads and keeping my calm, I am calling this the Stephen King Project.
On Writing was spectacular. I am a graduate student in Writing at Johns Hopkins, a program that has pushed me further than ever toward the lifelong goal of being a writer. Reading On Writing was a humorous and informative experience. I would never compare myself to the master, but I did understand some of King’s experiences myself. Namely, like Stephen King, I was run over once and I feel like the two of us could form an entire writer’s club around this. I would count on him to come up with the brilliant title.
Ba dum tss.
Anyway, I have a profound love of books that can effectively pivot between humor and drama, the poignancy listing into bittersweetness when necessary for the work. I knew from following him on Twitter that King has a wit that I could only dream of, and it was not surprising to find that spear-sharp cleverness on most pages of On Writing.
On Writing continues my streak of reading great books and busting out of my year-long reading slump. My copy of Dracula (which I am finally getting to, yes) shared space on my TBR cart with ‘Salem’s Lot and the books that I am picking up for my second readathon beginning tomorrow. But On Writing was more than a witty shake of the pen — it was a kaffeeklatsch with someone who loves the art of language as much as myself. Love of writing is something I share with my mother, and puncturing the walls that separate us to find a community of literature fanatics pressed neatly between the pages of a book? Life changing.
Today I write this from a coffee shop table, having slurped down my chai. Rain festoons the otherwise grimy sky. These moments, posing for pictures with that tea, make me feel like I have a chance at being a Real Writer, probably because I know how to operate cliches, but more so because I share this love with other people in the world. My mother is my first reader. She is about halfway through Canis Major. King reminded me in his illuminating prose that none of us are ever alone.
Except maybe in a haunted house.
