On Writing
A Memoir Of The Craft
Stephen King
- 288 pages
- English
- ePUB (mobile friendly)
- Available on iOS & Android
On Writing
A Memoir Of The Craft
Stephen King
About This Book
Twentieth Anniversary Edition with Contributions from Joe Hill and Owen King ONE OF TIME MAGAZINE'S TOP 100 NONFICTION BOOKS OF ALL TIMEImmensely helpful and illuminating to any aspiring writer, this special edition of Stephen King's critically lauded, million-copy bestseller shares the experiences, habits, and convictions that have shaped him and his work. "Long live the King" hailed Entertainment Weekly upon publication of Stephen King's On Writing. Part memoir, part master class by one of the bestselling authors of all time, this superb volume is a revealing and practical view of the writer's craft, comprising the basic tools of the trade every writer must have. King's advice is grounded in his vivid memories from childhood through his emergence as a writer, from his struggling early career to his widely reported, near-fatal accident in 1999āand how the inextricable link between writing and living spurred his recovery. Brilliantly structured, friendly and inspiring, On Writing will empower and entertain everyone who reads itāfans, writers, and anyone who loves a great story well told.
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And Furthermore, Part I: Door Shut, Door Open
The Hotel Story
Mike Enslin was still in the revolving door when he saw Ostermeyer, the manager of the Hotel Dolphin, sitting in one of the overstuffed lobby chairs. Mikeās heart sank a little. Maybe should have brought the damned lawyer along again, after all, he thought. Well, too late now. And even if Ostermeyer had decided to throw up another roadblock or two between Mike and room 1408, that wasnāt all bad; it would simply add to the story when he finally told it.Ostermeyer saw him, got up, and was crossing the room with one pudgy hand held out as Mike left the revolving door. The Dolphin was on Sixty-first Street, around the corner from Fifth Avenue; small but smart. A man and woman dressed in evening clothes passed Mike as he reached out and took Ostermeyerās hand, switching his small overnight case to his left hand in order to do it. The woman was blonde, dressed in black, of course, and the light, flowery smell of her perfume seemed to summarize New York. On the mezzanine level, someone was playing āNight and Dayā in the bar, as if to underline the summary.āMr. Enslin. Good evening.āāMr. Ostermeyer. Is there a problem?āOstermeyer looked pained. For a moment he glanced around the small, smart lobby, as if for help. At the conciergeās stand, a man was discussing theater tickets with his wife while the concierge himself watched them with a small, patient smile. At the front desk, a man with the rumpled look one only got after long hours in Business Class was discussing his reservation with a woman in a smart black suit that could itself have doubled for evening wear. It was business as usual at the Hotel Dolphin. There was help for everyone except poor Mr. Ostermeyer, who had fallen into the writerās clutches.āMr. Ostermeyer?ā Mike repeated, feeling a little sorry for the man.āNo,ā Ostermeyer said at last. āNo problem. But, Mr. Enslinā¦ could I speak to you for a moment in my office?āSo, Mike thought. He wants to try one more time.Under other circumstances he might have been impatient. Now he was not. It would help the section on room 1408, offer the proper ominous tone the readers of his books seemed to craveāit was to be One Final Warningābut that wasnāt all. Mike Enslin hadnāt been sure until now, in spite of all the backing and filling; now he was. Ostermeyer wasnāt playing a part. Ostermeyer was really afraid of room 1408, and what might happen to Mike there tonight.āOf course, Mr. Ostermeyer. Should I leave my bag at the desk, or bring it?āāOh, weāll bring it along, shall we?ā Ostermeyer, the good host, reached for it. Yes, he still held out some hope of persuading Mike not to stay in the room. Otherwise, he would have directed Mike to the deskā¦ or taken it there himself. āAllow me.āāIām fine with it,ā Mike said. āNothing but a change of clothes and a toothbrush.āāAre you sure?āāYes,ā Mike said, holding his eyes. āIām afraid I am.āFor a moment Mike thought Ostermeyer was going to give up. He sighed, a little round man in a dark cutaway coat and a neatly knotted tie, and then he squared his shoulders again. āVery good, Mr. Enslin. Follow me.āThe hotel manager had seemed tentative in the lobby, depressed, almost beaten. In his oak-paneled office, with the pictures of the hotel on the walls (the Dolphin had opened in October of 1910āMike might publish without the benefit of reviews in the journals or the big-city papers, but he did his research), Ostermeyer seemed to gain assurance again. There was a Persian carpet on the floor. Two standing lamps cast a mild yellow light. A desk-lamp with a green lozenge-shaped shade stood on the desk, next to a humidor. And next to the humidor were Mike Enslinās last three books. Paperback editions, of course; there had been no hardbacks. Yet he did quite well. Mine host has been doing a little research of his own, Mike thought.Mike sat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk. He expected Ostermeyer to sit behind the desk, where he could draw authority from it, but Ostermeyer surprised him. He sat in the other chair on what he probably thought of as the employeesā side of the desk, crossed his legs, then leaned forward over his tidy little belly to touch the humidor.āCigar, Mr. Enslin? Theyāre not Cuban, but theyāre quite good.āāNo, thank you. I donāt smoke.āOstermeyerās eyes shifted to the cigarette behind Mikeās right earāparked there on a jaunty jut the way an oldtime wisecracking New York reporter might have parked his next smoke just below his fedora with the PRESS tag stuck in the band. The cigarette had become so much a part of him that for a moment Mike honestly didnāt know what Ostermeyer was looking at. Then he remembered, laughed, took it down, looked at it himself, then looked back at Ostermeyer.āHavenāt had a cigarette in nine years,ā he said. āI had an older brother who died of lung cancer. I quit shortly after he died. The cigarette behind the earā¦ā He shrugged. āPart affectation, part superstition, I guess. Kind of like the ones you sometimes see on peopleās desks or walls, mounted in a little box with a sign saying BREAK GLASS IN CASE OF EMERGENCY. I sometimes tell people Iāll light up in case of nuclear war. Is 1408 a smoking room, Mr. Ostermeyer? Just in case nuclear war breaks out?āāAs a matter of fact, it is.āāWell,ā Mike said heartily, āthatās one less worry in the watches of the night.āMr. Ostermeyer sighed again, unamused, but this one didnāt have the disconsolate quality of his lobby-sigh. Yes, it was the room, Mike reckoned. His room. Even this afternoon, when Mike had come accompanied by Robertson, the lawyer, Ostermeyer had seemed less flustered once they were in here. At the time Mike had thought it was partly because they were no longer drawing stares from the passing public, partly because Ostermeyer had given up. Now he knew better. It was the room. And why not? It was a room with good pictures on the walls, a good rug on the floor, and good cigarsāalthough not Cubanāin the humidor. A lot of managers had no doubt conducted a lot of business in here since October of 1910; in its own way it was as New York as the blonde woman in her black off-the-shoulder dress, her smell of perfume and her unarticulated promise of sleek sex in the small hours of the morningāNew York sex. Mike himself was from Omaha, although he hadnāt been back there in a lot of years.āYou still donāt think I can talk you out of this idea of yours, do you?ā Ostermeyer asked.āI know you canāt,ā Mike said, replacing the cigarette behind his ear.