Joel Arnold's Blog, page 7
September 19, 2011
More Writing What You Know
As a feller who enjoys writing horror, I’m always trying to think of interesting situations in which to put people in jeopardy. At the same time I’m trying to think of how to frame it in a frightening, or at least tension-filled, way. So I spend a good amount of time trying to come up with things that I’m afraid of.
Well, sort of.
Because some of the things I’m afraid of don’t really translate in a literal way to horror. For example, I don’t think H.P. Lovecraft ever wrote about the fear of trying to mingle at a party, or the prospect of being a cubicle-dwelling office drone for the rest of his life (shiver!). But – those experiences/feelings can still be used to create horror.
Take the fear of mingling with a group of strangers. While in and of itself, not very horrific for a lot of folks. But when I’m in that situation, I experience anxiety, self-consciousness, a fear of drawing attention to myself. What should I say? What if I try to talk to that person and they think I’m a bore, or annoying? Would I be bothering them? Everyone else seems to know each other. Maybe if I stand here quietly, no one will notice me (but maybe this will make me stand out even more.) Maybe I should just leave – can I leave without them noticing? And if I do leave, can I live with that? Another social opportunity down the drain? Unwarranted feelings in the above situation, sure, but I can transpose those feelings into a fictional narrative.
Say a character finds himself alone in a park late at night and he stumbles across a murder being committed. The character suddenly feels anxiety, doesn’t want to draw the killer’s attention, feels very self-conscious. Am I breathing too loud? Can the killer see me in this darkness? Do I dare try to run for it? Or should I attempt to help the victim, opening up the possibility of also becoming a victim? And if I don’t try to help, can I live with that? An opportunity to help a fellow human being missed?
That’s just another way of writing what you know. I’ve never stumbled across a murder being committed in a lonely park in the dark of night, but it’s fairly easy to transpose feelings from other situations I’ve experienced that have struck fear in me.
Well, sort of.
Because some of the things I’m afraid of don’t really translate in a literal way to horror. For example, I don’t think H.P. Lovecraft ever wrote about the fear of trying to mingle at a party, or the prospect of being a cubicle-dwelling office drone for the rest of his life (shiver!). But – those experiences/feelings can still be used to create horror.
Take the fear of mingling with a group of strangers. While in and of itself, not very horrific for a lot of folks. But when I’m in that situation, I experience anxiety, self-consciousness, a fear of drawing attention to myself. What should I say? What if I try to talk to that person and they think I’m a bore, or annoying? Would I be bothering them? Everyone else seems to know each other. Maybe if I stand here quietly, no one will notice me (but maybe this will make me stand out even more.) Maybe I should just leave – can I leave without them noticing? And if I do leave, can I live with that? Another social opportunity down the drain? Unwarranted feelings in the above situation, sure, but I can transpose those feelings into a fictional narrative.
Say a character finds himself alone in a park late at night and he stumbles across a murder being committed. The character suddenly feels anxiety, doesn’t want to draw the killer’s attention, feels very self-conscious. Am I breathing too loud? Can the killer see me in this darkness? Do I dare try to run for it? Or should I attempt to help the victim, opening up the possibility of also becoming a victim? And if I don’t try to help, can I live with that? An opportunity to help a fellow human being missed?
That’s just another way of writing what you know. I’ve never stumbled across a murder being committed in a lonely park in the dark of night, but it’s fairly easy to transpose feelings from other situations I’ve experienced that have struck fear in me.
September 14, 2011
Dark Tomorrows anthology
My story "Shiners" is now appearing in the anthology Dark Tomorrows, along with stories by Amanda Hocking, Daniel Pyle, JL Bryan, Robert Duperre, Michael Crane, Vicki Keire and SW Benefiel.
August 5, 2011
Something a little different - Ox Cart Angel
I just released my historical fiction novel Ox Cart Angel in ebook format. It's for middle-grade readers and up...and really has nothing to do with angels (although there is a reason for the title.)
A little about it:
While the Civil War rages far away, Claire and her father set out on a journey from the Dakota Territory, hoping to catch up to the large caravan of Métis fur traders that left the day before. Their destination? The bustling city of St. Paul, where Papa wishes to open a photography studio. But with only Bone Bag, their one-horned ox, to pull their squeaky cart, they soon realize they may have to make their treacherous journey alone. Braving bad weather, packs of wolves, dangerous river crossings, starvation and exhaustion, can Claire and her father survive the deeply rutted ox cart trails?
The opening lines:
'If I had known how much my life was about to change, I would have spent that last day in Pembina differently. I would have said goodbye to my friends and visited the places that reminded me of Mama, especially the elm tree where she was buried. I would have sat at her grave telling her how much I missed her, and that I’d come back someday to visit.
But since I didn’t know any of that, I spent most of that day with Freda Two-Feathers, who was a half-breed like me.
Half-breed.
Papa hated that word.
“You are Métis,” he’d say. “You are not half of anything, Claire.”'
If you'd like to read the first five chapters for free, you can find them here.
It's available for the Kindle, the Nook, and most other devices.
It will also be available in print soon.
A little about it:
While the Civil War rages far away, Claire and her father set out on a journey from the Dakota Territory, hoping to catch up to the large caravan of Métis fur traders that left the day before. Their destination? The bustling city of St. Paul, where Papa wishes to open a photography studio. But with only Bone Bag, their one-horned ox, to pull their squeaky cart, they soon realize they may have to make their treacherous journey alone. Braving bad weather, packs of wolves, dangerous river crossings, starvation and exhaustion, can Claire and her father survive the deeply rutted ox cart trails?
The opening lines:
'If I had known how much my life was about to change, I would have spent that last day in Pembina differently. I would have said goodbye to my friends and visited the places that reminded me of Mama, especially the elm tree where she was buried. I would have sat at her grave telling her how much I missed her, and that I’d come back someday to visit.
But since I didn’t know any of that, I spent most of that day with Freda Two-Feathers, who was a half-breed like me.
Half-breed.
Papa hated that word.
“You are Métis,” he’d say. “You are not half of anything, Claire.”'
If you'd like to read the first five chapters for free, you can find them here.
It's available for the Kindle, the Nook, and most other devices.
It will also be available in print soon.
August 3, 2011
How I Interpret 'Write What You Know'
One of the most important tools a writer has is honesty. Honesty is the light that can bring people together and let others know that they are not alone.
Write your truth. Don't pull any punches. Don't write what you think others want to hear.
Write your truth. By doing this you'll discover that your honesty will bring out truths that are both universal and meaningful.
Also - try to uncover those nuggets of truth within each of your characters. Maybe not all of your characters share your values or your own particular truths - but remember that a well written villain is never just a villain. A well written hero is never just a hero.
Sociopaths have aches and dreams.
Saints have inner demons and regrets.
I'm not saying you must make your readers love and adore your villains - just make them feel your villains.
The difference between a madman and a saint is more often a thin line than a gaping chasm.
The difference between a hooker and a choir girl is often merely circumstance, or merely a slight twist in the genetic code.
Maybe 'Write what you know' should be 'Write what truths you know.'
Write your truth. Don't pull any punches. Don't write what you think others want to hear.
Write your truth. By doing this you'll discover that your honesty will bring out truths that are both universal and meaningful.
Also - try to uncover those nuggets of truth within each of your characters. Maybe not all of your characters share your values or your own particular truths - but remember that a well written villain is never just a villain. A well written hero is never just a hero.
Sociopaths have aches and dreams.
Saints have inner demons and regrets.
I'm not saying you must make your readers love and adore your villains - just make them feel your villains.
The difference between a madman and a saint is more often a thin line than a gaping chasm.
The difference between a hooker and a choir girl is often merely circumstance, or merely a slight twist in the genetic code.
Maybe 'Write what you know' should be 'Write what truths you know.'
Blessings - or - Things I write after one too many drinks...
Blessings; sometimes they come at you disguised as failure and pain.
Sometimes it’s the late night mugging that causes you to miss the taxi that crashes into a building.
Sometimes it’s the bounced check that keeps you from buying that fifth of Beam that could’ve pushed you over the edge.
Sometimes it’s the heart attack that lets the doctor find the malignancy before it metastasizes.
Sometimes it’s getting fired from your job, saving you from years of tediousness and ulcers.
Sometimes it’s the DUI that kept you from killing a family of five or causing the VFW to put up a white cross on the side of the road to mark your passing.
Sometimes it’s the dad who abandons you at a young age so that a loving step-dad can take his place.
Sometimes it’s the teenage abortion that lets you get your shit together and raise a healthy family full of love.
Sometimes it’s the loss of a beloved pet that teaches you about the sanctity of life or prepares you for the death of someone close to you.
A forest fire clears the way for new growth; the ashes create a fertile, potent soil.
If you believe in God, then perhaps God allows tragedy to happen so that we may remember how to live. If you don’t believe in God, tragedies still happen, and perhaps it’s still best to remember how to live.
Sometimes tragedy is what makes us feel again, wakes us up from a coma of complacency, jars us into remembering how to live again.
There are blessings in every tragedy, blessings in every death, every accident, every disappointment – if only to be found in the gained wisdom of the survivors. Yes, of course, take time to grieve tragedy, but eventually allow yourself to open to the resultant blessing. The whole story of human kind is written by blessing after blessing wrought from tragedy after tragedy.
Please don’t think I like tragedy, nor do I wish it upon anyone else. I’m certainly not advocating for the creation of it. There’s enough tragedy in the world to go around without our help. But…tragedy is a fact of life – it will always be here – and instead of falling to my knees and suffocating in its ashes, I’d rather spend my energy gathering those blessings that bloom from it.
Sometimes it’s the late night mugging that causes you to miss the taxi that crashes into a building.
Sometimes it’s the bounced check that keeps you from buying that fifth of Beam that could’ve pushed you over the edge.
Sometimes it’s the heart attack that lets the doctor find the malignancy before it metastasizes.
Sometimes it’s getting fired from your job, saving you from years of tediousness and ulcers.
Sometimes it’s the DUI that kept you from killing a family of five or causing the VFW to put up a white cross on the side of the road to mark your passing.
Sometimes it’s the dad who abandons you at a young age so that a loving step-dad can take his place.
Sometimes it’s the teenage abortion that lets you get your shit together and raise a healthy family full of love.
Sometimes it’s the loss of a beloved pet that teaches you about the sanctity of life or prepares you for the death of someone close to you.
A forest fire clears the way for new growth; the ashes create a fertile, potent soil.
If you believe in God, then perhaps God allows tragedy to happen so that we may remember how to live. If you don’t believe in God, tragedies still happen, and perhaps it’s still best to remember how to live.
Sometimes tragedy is what makes us feel again, wakes us up from a coma of complacency, jars us into remembering how to live again.
There are blessings in every tragedy, blessings in every death, every accident, every disappointment – if only to be found in the gained wisdom of the survivors. Yes, of course, take time to grieve tragedy, but eventually allow yourself to open to the resultant blessing. The whole story of human kind is written by blessing after blessing wrought from tragedy after tragedy.
Please don’t think I like tragedy, nor do I wish it upon anyone else. I’m certainly not advocating for the creation of it. There’s enough tragedy in the world to go around without our help. But…tragedy is a fact of life – it will always be here – and instead of falling to my knees and suffocating in its ashes, I’d rather spend my energy gathering those blessings that bloom from it.
Blessings - or - Things I write after one too many...
Blessings; sometimes they come at you disguised as failure and pain.
Sometimes it’s the late night mugging that causes you to miss the taxi that crashes into a building.
Sometimes it’s the bounced check that keeps you from buying that fifth of Beam that could’ve pushed you over the edge.
Sometimes it’s the heart attack that lets the doctor find the malignancy before it metastasizes.
Sometimes it’s getting fired from your job, saving you from years of tediousness and ulcers.
Sometimes it’s the DUI that kept you from killing a family of five or causing the VFW to put up a white cross on the side of the road to mark your passing.
Sometimes it’s the dad who abandons you at a young age so that a loving step-dad can take his place.
Sometimes it’s the teenage abortion that lets you get your shit together and raise a healthy family full of love.
Sometimes it’s the loss of a beloved pet that teaches you about the sanctity of life or prepares you for the death of someone close to you.
A forest fire clears the way for new growth; the ashes create a fertile, potent soil.
If you believe in God, then perhaps God allows tragedy to happen so that we may remember how to live. If you don’t believe in God, tragedies still happen, and perhaps it’s still best to remember how to live.
Sometimes tragedy is what makes us feel again, wakes us up from a coma of complacency, jars us into remembering how to live again.
There are blessings in every tragedy, blessings in every death, every accident, every disappointment – if only to be found in the gained wisdom of the survivors. Yes, of course, take time to grieve tragedy, but eventually allow yourself to open to the resultant blessing. The whole story of human kind is written by blessing after blessing wrought from tragedy after tragedy.
Please don’t think I like tragedy, nor do I wish it upon anyone else. I’m certainly not advocating for the creation of it. There’s enough tragedy in the world to go around without our help. But…tragedy is a fact of life – it will always be here – and instead of falling to my knees and suffocating in its ashes, I’d rather spend my energy gathering those blessings that bloom from it.
Sometimes it’s the late night mugging that causes you to miss the taxi that crashes into a building.
Sometimes it’s the bounced check that keeps you from buying that fifth of Beam that could’ve pushed you over the edge.
Sometimes it’s the heart attack that lets the doctor find the malignancy before it metastasizes.
Sometimes it’s getting fired from your job, saving you from years of tediousness and ulcers.
Sometimes it’s the DUI that kept you from killing a family of five or causing the VFW to put up a white cross on the side of the road to mark your passing.
Sometimes it’s the dad who abandons you at a young age so that a loving step-dad can take his place.
Sometimes it’s the teenage abortion that lets you get your shit together and raise a healthy family full of love.
Sometimes it’s the loss of a beloved pet that teaches you about the sanctity of life or prepares you for the death of someone close to you.
A forest fire clears the way for new growth; the ashes create a fertile, potent soil.
If you believe in God, then perhaps God allows tragedy to happen so that we may remember how to live. If you don’t believe in God, tragedies still happen, and perhaps it’s still best to remember how to live.
Sometimes tragedy is what makes us feel again, wakes us up from a coma of complacency, jars us into remembering how to live again.
There are blessings in every tragedy, blessings in every death, every accident, every disappointment – if only to be found in the gained wisdom of the survivors. Yes, of course, take time to grieve tragedy, but eventually allow yourself to open to the resultant blessing. The whole story of human kind is written by blessing after blessing wrought from tragedy after tragedy.
Please don’t think I like tragedy, nor do I wish it upon anyone else. I’m certainly not advocating for the creation of it. There’s enough tragedy in the world to go around without our help. But…tragedy is a fact of life – it will always be here – and instead of falling to my knees and suffocating in its ashes, I’d rather spend my energy gathering those blessings that bloom from it.
June 29, 2011
CONvergence 2011 Schedule
Here's my CONvergence schedule for the upcoming weekend:
Friday, 2-3pm
Essential Elements of Horror Literature
About: The pieces that go into writing a truly bone-chilling/effective work of horror fiction. Elements that horror writers have ready in their tool box every time they sit down at the keyboard.
Speaker/Artist(s) Info: Brian Keene, Roy C. Booth, Tim Lieder, Joel Arnold
Friday, 10-11pm
Why Do We Enjoy Being Scared?
About: Boo! Did we scare you? Did you like it?????? Why horror in all it's forms continues to be popular and why it always will.
Speaker/Artist(s) Info: Brian Keene, Dana Baird, Melissa Kaercher, Joel Arnold
Saturday, 3:30-4:30pm
The End of Bookstores?
About: With e-books, possible mergers between Borders and Barnes & Noble, and other economic and cultural changes, what happens to bookstores? How do readers and authors adapt? Will books survive the digital transition?
Speaker/Artist(s) Info: Catherine Lundoff, Michael Lee, Joel Arnold, Rob Callahan
Sunday, 11:00am - 12:00pm
Joel Arnold and Tim Lieder signing
Venue: Autograph Table
About: Joel Arnold & Tim Lieder will be available to sign their work.
Speaker/Artist(s) Info: Joel Arnold, Tim Lieder
Sunday, 12:30-1:30pm
Joel Arnold Reading
Venue: Vista Suite
About: Joel Arnold reads from his work.
Speaker/Artist(s) Info: Joel Arnold
Hope to see you there!
Friday, 2-3pm
Essential Elements of Horror Literature
About: The pieces that go into writing a truly bone-chilling/effective work of horror fiction. Elements that horror writers have ready in their tool box every time they sit down at the keyboard.
Speaker/Artist(s) Info: Brian Keene, Roy C. Booth, Tim Lieder, Joel Arnold
Friday, 10-11pm
Why Do We Enjoy Being Scared?
About: Boo! Did we scare you? Did you like it?????? Why horror in all it's forms continues to be popular and why it always will.
Speaker/Artist(s) Info: Brian Keene, Dana Baird, Melissa Kaercher, Joel Arnold
Saturday, 3:30-4:30pm
The End of Bookstores?
About: With e-books, possible mergers between Borders and Barnes & Noble, and other economic and cultural changes, what happens to bookstores? How do readers and authors adapt? Will books survive the digital transition?
Speaker/Artist(s) Info: Catherine Lundoff, Michael Lee, Joel Arnold, Rob Callahan
Sunday, 11:00am - 12:00pm
Joel Arnold and Tim Lieder signing
Venue: Autograph Table
About: Joel Arnold & Tim Lieder will be available to sign their work.
Speaker/Artist(s) Info: Joel Arnold, Tim Lieder
Sunday, 12:30-1:30pm
Joel Arnold Reading
Venue: Vista Suite
About: Joel Arnold reads from his work.
Speaker/Artist(s) Info: Joel Arnold
Hope to see you there!
June 27, 2011
120 Miles in a Canoe
I’m not really the adventuresome type. I love to travel, but prefer a hotel to a tent, a car to a bike. I really don’t have any desire to sky dive or bungee jump or get my nipples pierced on a drunken dare. But I did once take a 120-mile seven-day canoe trip down the Namekagon and St. Croix Rivers in Wisconsin/Minnesota when I was fourteen years old. A friend of mine and his dad and uncle invited me along, and against my better judgment, I agreed to go.
I’d been canoeing before, but the longest trip I’d done was the Zumbro River outside of Rochester – a three or four hour jaunt that had none of the rapids that would curl (or straighten?) your short hairs, no Land of the Lost waterfalls into another dimension.
A large part of me that was afraid to go – afraid that I couldn’t handle the work of paddling for that distance, afraid that we’d capsize and become wedged in rocks beneath the river’s surface, afraid that I’d get eaten by...something.
But there was the bigger concern of disappointing my friend, so I agreed to go.
We did near twenty miles a day and camped at night, and that second day when I woke from a restless sleep on the not-so-soft ground, my arms and shoulders felt like they’d been filled with lead and pounded with a hammer. But eventually by the fourth day, my muscles grew used to the paddling, my body found its rhythm, and I was mentally in the canoeing zone.
Twenty miles a day is a long time spent on fairly calm waters, and the weather cooperated with us. There were a few rain showers, and we gladly accepted them as a change of pace. Rain brought its own atmosphere, its own smells, its own sounds. There was the sizzle on rain on the river, the patter of drops on our ponchos. But the best part of the rain was the respite it gave us from the deer flies.
Those were the hardest part of the trip, much harder than the endurance it took to paddle. And it wasn’t the biting, although that could be painful. What the deer flies brought with them was a challenge to maintain sanity as they endlessly buzzed around our heads. They’d dive close to our ears, and we’d swat and miss, and then they’d circle and dive and chuckle at our helplessness. I realize this doesn’t sound like that big of a deal, but this went on for hours every day, with only the aforementioned rain bringing relief. There were times when I’d lose my mind and swing at them with my paddle, forgetting that my friend was also in the canoe, nearly taking his head off in the process – but if knocking his head off would’ve stopped the buzzing, it might very well have been worth it.
But mostly...
Mostly the trip gave me a profound appreciation of nature – of the beauty and the stillness and those times of not-so-stillness, of the give and take of dipping a paddle in water, watching the cold river drip off the paddle’s glistening end...
Pierre Elliott Trudeau once said this: “What sets a canoeing expedition apart is that it purifies you more rapidly and inescapably than any other travel. Travel a thousand miles by train and you are a brute; pedal five hundred on a bicycle and you remain basically a bourgeois; paddle a hundred in a canoe and you are already a child of nature.”
That single canoe trip had a large influence on my life. It changed how I looked at nature. It’s made its way into my writing – most directly into the canoe journey of the sisters in Northwoods Deep. Many of my memories of that trip made their way into that novel. The deer flies, certainly - the mosquitoes. But also the pull of the river and the new mysteries and wonders it brings around each and every bend.
I’d been canoeing before, but the longest trip I’d done was the Zumbro River outside of Rochester – a three or four hour jaunt that had none of the rapids that would curl (or straighten?) your short hairs, no Land of the Lost waterfalls into another dimension.
A large part of me that was afraid to go – afraid that I couldn’t handle the work of paddling for that distance, afraid that we’d capsize and become wedged in rocks beneath the river’s surface, afraid that I’d get eaten by...something.
But there was the bigger concern of disappointing my friend, so I agreed to go.
We did near twenty miles a day and camped at night, and that second day when I woke from a restless sleep on the not-so-soft ground, my arms and shoulders felt like they’d been filled with lead and pounded with a hammer. But eventually by the fourth day, my muscles grew used to the paddling, my body found its rhythm, and I was mentally in the canoeing zone.
Twenty miles a day is a long time spent on fairly calm waters, and the weather cooperated with us. There were a few rain showers, and we gladly accepted them as a change of pace. Rain brought its own atmosphere, its own smells, its own sounds. There was the sizzle on rain on the river, the patter of drops on our ponchos. But the best part of the rain was the respite it gave us from the deer flies.
Those were the hardest part of the trip, much harder than the endurance it took to paddle. And it wasn’t the biting, although that could be painful. What the deer flies brought with them was a challenge to maintain sanity as they endlessly buzzed around our heads. They’d dive close to our ears, and we’d swat and miss, and then they’d circle and dive and chuckle at our helplessness. I realize this doesn’t sound like that big of a deal, but this went on for hours every day, with only the aforementioned rain bringing relief. There were times when I’d lose my mind and swing at them with my paddle, forgetting that my friend was also in the canoe, nearly taking his head off in the process – but if knocking his head off would’ve stopped the buzzing, it might very well have been worth it.
But mostly...
Mostly the trip gave me a profound appreciation of nature – of the beauty and the stillness and those times of not-so-stillness, of the give and take of dipping a paddle in water, watching the cold river drip off the paddle’s glistening end...
Pierre Elliott Trudeau once said this: “What sets a canoeing expedition apart is that it purifies you more rapidly and inescapably than any other travel. Travel a thousand miles by train and you are a brute; pedal five hundred on a bicycle and you remain basically a bourgeois; paddle a hundred in a canoe and you are already a child of nature.”
That single canoe trip had a large influence on my life. It changed how I looked at nature. It’s made its way into my writing – most directly into the canoe journey of the sisters in Northwoods Deep. Many of my memories of that trip made their way into that novel. The deer flies, certainly - the mosquitoes. But also the pull of the river and the new mysteries and wonders it brings around each and every bend.
June 23, 2011
And it's Live!!!
The trade paperback version of my novel Northwoods Deep is now live at Amazon!
I'll also (hopefully) have copies with me at CONvergence next weekend (June 30-July 3).
I'll also (hopefully) have copies with me at CONvergence next weekend (June 30-July 3).
On Stephen King
I’ve noticed that it’s almost not cool to confess a love for Stephen King’s work – or maybe he’s taken for granted by so many of us.
‘Who’s you’re favorite horror author?’ they’ll ask.
I’ll try to think of all the new hot, cool authors out there, before stating my obvious choice, because, you know, an old stand-by just ain't fresh and - cool. But I'll eventually say, ‘Stephen King.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ they say, unsatisfied. ‘But who else?’
As if he's been around too long to be cool.
Remember how when you were a teenager eager to get your driver’s license, and then you finally get it and you can finally take the car out on your own? It was such a freeing experience, the first giant step toward independence. That car took you places, man! And it was thrilling – you got to choose where to turn, choose which roads to take. There was no one to tell you to roll the windows up or down or turn off the air conditioner or change the radio station.
Your ability to drive took you into that adult world of work and freedom and sex. For so many of us, our cars were the only privacy available if we wanted to get out from under our parents’ noses - where else could we take our girlfriends or boyfriends to experience those first sexual fumblings? Or - at the very least our cars could transport us to that old graveyard at night, where there were only the dead to witness our youthful exuberances.
But then...
But then you begin to take the old, reliable car for granted. You forget how amazing it was and still is.
Stephen King is kind of like that.
My older brother had a paperback copy of The Shining. You remember the silver one with the black silhouette on the cover? That’s the one. Anyway, I’d seen it sitting on his bookshelf for quite a while, and one summer day, when I was bored and nothing was on TV (only three channels, mind you!) and there was nothing else to read, I picked up that novel, and...
And my life changed.
Please realize I already enjoyed reading at that time, and was fairly well-read for my age. So it wasn’t that it opened my eyes to reading.
But...it did. It re-opened my eyes to reading.
It was the way he crafted the words – the way he used italics and sentence fragments, forcing my eyes race to across the page, starting and stopping and pausing to his rhythm – a rock-and-roll kinda rhythm. He created a pulse in that novel that attached itself straight to my heart and forced the blood to nearly burst through my skin.
Of course the storytelling was top-notch, too. Without the storytelling, all the writing tricks in the world wouldn’t have helped.
But his ability to tell a story...
Wow!
I was thirteen years old when I read The Shining, and after reading the last sentence of that novel, I had to have more. I proceeded to read every novel he had out at that time and every short story of his I could find. And my parents, God bless ‘em, always bought me his newest hardcover for my next handful of birthdays. It was always my favorite present.
So now, all these years later, all of these Stephen King novels later, I think readers take him for granted.
I know that I sometimes do.
‘Yeah, of course he just wrote another great novel, but so what else is new?’ they say.
Sorta like he’s a car. ‘Runs great, been driving ‘em for years, so?’
So without the car, man, it’s one hell of a long and tedious journey from here to there. Dig?
Maybe we’ve grown a little old, perhaps a bit too large around the middle to make love in the back seat of our cars, but they can still take us places – amazing places, places you wouldn’t fuckin’ believe...
So yeah, I’m happy to admit that Stephen King is my favorite author. He’s brought me on some of the best journeys, some of the most exciting road trips – and so many of them! And best of all, the engine on that thing still purrs like a son-of-a-bitch.
