You Like It Darker

by Stephen King

“Timidity never won a fair maiden the Nobel Prize,” she said, and took off her mask. “How’s the coffee here?”

What the fuck is talent, anyway? I ask myself that question sometimes while I’m shaving, or—in the old book-promotion days—while waiting to go on television and sell my latest glut of make-believe, or when I’m watering my late wife’s daylilies. Especially then. What is it, really? Why would I be chosen when so many others try so hard and would give anything to be chosen? Why are there so few at the top of the pyramid? Talent is supposed to be the answer, but where does it come from and how does it grow? Why does it grow? Well, I tell myself, we call it a gift and we call ourselves gifted, but gifts are never really earned, are they? Only given. Talent is grace made visible. The young man said nothing can give you what isn’t already there. This is axiomatic. I hold onto that. Of course, he also said he felt sorry for us.

ALWAYS REMEMBER OTHERS HAVE IT WORSE