I finally got around to reading Stephan King’s On Writing, and wow, it’s just excellent. King explains that the book is meant to be a short (and it is), but not shallow (and it isn’t), take on the art of writing. Half of the book focuses on King’s experiences on the road to becoming a writer, and the other half is dedicated to instruction on the craft. Though the second part of the book — the “textbook” part — is incredibly informative, there are countless gems to be found in the King’s personal story. In following his path to becoming a writer King is sharing with us not only what he learned, but how he learned it. For example, he writes of his first experience writing for the local newspaper:
I took my fair share of English Lit classes in my two remaining years at Lisbon, and my fair share of composition, fiction, and poetry classes in college, but [newspaper editor] John Gould taught me more than any of them, and in no more than ten minutes. I wish I still had the piece — it deserves to be framed, editorial corrections and all — but I can remember pretty well how it went and how it looked after Gould had combed through it with that black pen of his. … When he finished marking my copy … he looked up and saw something on my face. I think he must have mistaken it for horror. It wasn’t; it was pure revelation. Why, I wondered, didn’t English teachers ever do this? It was like the Visible Man Old Raw Diehl had on his desk in the biology room. “I only took out the bad parts, you know,” Gould said. “Most of it’s pretty good.” “I know,” I said, meaning both things: yes, most of it was good — okay anyway, servicable — and yes, he had only taken out the bad parts. “I won’t do it again.” He laughed. “If that’s true, you’ll never have to work for a living. You can do this instead. Do I have to explain any of these marks?” “No,” I said. “When you write a story, you’re telling yourself the story,” he said. “When you rewrite, your main job is taking out all the things that are not the story.” Gould said something else that was interesting on the day I turned in my first two pieces: write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open.
It’s remarkable to me that the idea of writing as though you’re telling yourself the story had never entered my mind, and yet it’s probably the most powerful concept expressed in King’s book. Over the course of the book that phrase — write with the door closed — comes up over and over again; it’s influence on King is unquestionable. At it’s core, it is a profound notion. Writing in a vacuum is actually much harder than one might suppose, and yet that’s what this is saying to do; to push out any concern for what other people will think about your writing, and focus on writing to feed your own artistic interests. I know I’ve never been able to do that, but after reading this book I feel that it’s of paramount importance that I do so in the future.
The book is written in a conversational style, with a wit and charm that makes the book easy to read. King’s personality pours off the page, though his can be a prickly personality at times. He takes every chance he can get to insult the worst of his writing brethren, which, as you might expect, makes him my kind of guy. King begins the “textbook” portion of the book with the following paragraph:
There are no bad dogs, according to the title of a popular training manual, but don’t tell that to the parent of a child mauled by a pit bull or a rottweiler; he or she is apt to bust your beak for you. And no matter how much I want to encourage the man or woman trying for the first time to write seriously, I can’t lie and say there are no bad writers. Sorry, but there are lots of bad writers. Some are on-staff at your local newspaper, usually reviewing little-theater productions or pontificating about the local sports teams. Some have scribbled their way to homes in the Caribbean, leaving a trail of pulsing adverbs, wooden characters, and vile passive-voice constructions behind them. Others hold forth at open-mike poetry slams, wearing black turtlenecks and wrinkled khaki pants; they spout doggerel about “my angry lesbian breasts” and “the tilted alley where I cried my mother’s name.”
Aside from the irresistible urge to write about my own “angry lesbian breasts”1 I feel a total connection to King and his description of these shit-writers. I’ve met these people. I’m probably one of these people. It’s this kind of fun irreverence that carries on in the book, and it makes On Writing a joy to read.
If you’re a writer, or you have any kind of passing interest in writing, I cannot recommend this book enough. It is nothing less than required reading. If you’re not a writer, then I still recommend this book. The personal stories King tells are fascinating — and sometimes moving — and his writing style is lively and entertaining. It is a fun, easy read that can teach you something in the process. I got my copy from the library, but I going to order a copy from Amazon to have on hand. And remember, I’m a cheap bastard, so that’s saying something.
- That makes no sense for so many reasons.↩
Tags: Book Reviews