“It was my first novel,” he said. “I woke up from a nap one afternoon with the sentences burning in my brain. I went to my typewriter and it was like the words were burning through my fingertips, too. I wrote furiously over a few months’ time. It felt like I was channeling some divine intercept, a language from another world.” “From God?”
Maturing, Said King, The dark tower Song of Susanah
“What happens when you make a story?” Roland inquired. “My story, for instance?” “It just comes,” King said. His voice had grown faint. Bemused. “It blows into me—that’s the good part—and then it comes out when I move my fingers. Never from the head. Comes out the navel, or somewhere. There was an editor . . . I think it was Maxwell Perkins . . . who called Thomas Wolfe—” Eddie knew what Roland was doing and knew it was probably a bad idea to interrupt, but he couldn’t help it. “A rose,” he said. “A rose, a stone, an unfound door.” -Song of Susannah
