Poorly Played, Stephen King

I've never read a Stephen King novel, but I am currently reading his informational text On Writing.

The book is broken down into four parts.  Getting them out of the way, the second and third parts detail what writing is and a writer's toolbox respectively.  He did a decent job on them, although they could have been much better compared to his first piece.  That piece is a memoir of events in Stephen King's life.  It reveals a lot about how Mr. King developed as a writer, more specifically as a writer of horror and self-insertion.  I loved it.  It was conversational, light, and he didn't tick me off.  In his fourth, final, and probably most important section, appropriately titled On Writing, he made some comments that annoy me greatly.  I most certainly disagree with him that television is the bane of writers.  Who makes sitcoms happen?  I dunno...writers?! (1)  Their dialogue and wit can be extremely helpful for writers, especially the dry and the sheltered.  Mr. King struck another nerve when he wrote that bad writers could not become competent, nor good writers great, only competent writers good.  Not!  Evidence: were you as skilled at writing when you were in preschool, first grade, eight grade?  Even referring to innate ability you probably swayed one way or the other.  Yes, I am indeed saying that you can become worse as a writer.  But I digress.

I'll finish On Writing.  As I've stated before, I very rarely leave a book unfinished.  However, I may not bother to read his novels.  It might be a mistake, heck, it's probably a mistake, but I'm not sure how supportive I want to be now.  Am I overreacting at the moment?  A little, I'm sure.  Yet when you diss T.V. and the ability to grow as a writer, both in skill and God-given ability, you won't find me becoming a disciple.  Poorly played, Stephen King.








(1)---Pardon my terrabang.  I am, by the way, an advocate of the crazy punctuation in blog posts.  However, novelists should probably avoid it.

2012: Looking Back

 I accomplished a good bit in 2012.

• Started this blog
• Wrote 122 blog posts
• Wrote over 30 flash-fiction pieces
• Started a Twitter account
• Read a few books, including my first sci-fi tomes
• Assisted a Varsity soccer goal
• Maintained wicked grades
• Received a paper rejection with a personal note
• Received my first half-dozen or so electronic form rejections
• Polished a short story
• Critiqued several chapters of other writers' manuscripts
• Began a novelette (or long short story) that has promise

Creationist Commando

     Streams of orange filtered through the small window beside my chair.  I was trying to read a dissertation on evolution—laughing all the way—when I heard a sharp noise toward the front of my townhouse.   The next sound was unmistakable—the turning of a door-knob.

     My heart skipped a single beat.  I bent the corner of my page and tossed the magazine on the floor.   “Another break-in,” I called into the phone.  The number was on speed-dial.

     I rose to my feet, taking time to stretch.  Shoulder rolls, lunges, neck circles—what am I forgetting? Oh, yeah, my wrist stretches.  Lithe and ready, I drew my Swiss Army knife and crept beside the opening into the hall.

     The thief crossed into the room toting what looked like a Santa sack.  I laughed audibly.  He blinked hard.

     Metal blurred as I struck him in the thigh and twisted in a quarter-turn.  His cry of pain was cut short by my fist slamming into his jawbone.  The low-life tried to get a quick jab in below my belt, but I stopped it with my free hand and tugged him to my blood-red carpet.

     Another, less whimsical, man entered at a run. I stuck out my leg and sent him flying.  The sharpness in his eyes was evident.  Although, maybe it was just the perfect combat roll talking.

     The second intruder made two critical mistakes.  His first came a split-second after he regained his footing.  I dodged the soaring knife with ease.  The second was more dramatic.  “Lord Jesus,” he spat.  It took me a moment to talk myself out of whacking his head off.  Instead I drove the bottom of my palm into his right temple.

     A sudden pain shot through my back.  My lips pursed.  A cold stream began to flow almost at once.  Before it could, however, I had the original thief on his back in front of me clutching the back of his skull where it had hit the floor.  “We didn’t take anythin’ yet, missir’,” he moaned.  “Don’t kill us.  Please.”

     “You’ve already chosen death for yourself,” I said.  “‘Thou shalt not steal.’”  Sirens rang out distantly.  “I’ll let the cops sort you out for now.  I have my own commandment to keep.  Lucky you.”

Links to Link Lists

Today I'm not only going to not post an essay-sort-of-thing about writing, I'm not even going to give you direct links to posts about writing.  Instead, I'm going to link to two other people's sets of links.  Sorry, I was about to attempt to fall asleep when I remembered that I needed to post.

Mr. Jeff Hargett's Sunday Surfing

Ms. Charlie Holmberg's Link Blitz

Merry Chirstmas

Merry Christmas all ye faithful.  I'm having a great one and I hope everyone else is as well.