The 13th Post: Stephen King’s On Writing, and an Excuse for Genres Everywhere

January 11, 2012 § 6 Comments

A milestone in the young life of my blog is reached: the 13th post. Superstition tells me not to make it a long or arduous one, because as soon as I have it all written, wordpress will find a way to destroy it. That, or turn it into some kind of hidden, haunted gem, findable only by the most specific and evil search terms.

What better to write about in a 13th post than Stephen King?

I’ve just finished the Master of the Macabre’s On Writing, which I got as a Christmas gift from my parents. It was a fitting gift–before traveling up to Maine to visit said parents for the holiday, I had been reading King’s Bag of Bones. The goal was to finish it before the miniseries premiered so I could write here on the blog about the adaptation (you know  just love picking apart adaptations) But the miniseries came and went (to little acclaim, I hear), and I resolved to save the book instead for December, and to start a tradition of reading a Stephen King novel every Christmas.

Here’s why: my parents live on an unassuming street in Bangor, Maine. If you walk out their front door, you’ll see a neat little park where two roads come together in a triangle. You’re walking your dog, say. The dog pulls you across your parents’ street into that little park to do her business. From there, at the meeting point of those two intersecting roads, you can look up one block and see a gas station, a row of plain but cozy 19th century houses (one of which is where my parents live), and a florist’s shop. It’s a pretty busy street. If you look up the other road, though, which is a tad more stately, you’ll see at its end a huge red Victorian with white-painted trim and a black iron gate.

Yep, just  an odd triangular block away from my parents’ front door is where Stephen and Tabitha King live. « Read the rest of this entry »

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