Finished

The last time I wrote on this blog, I started reading Stephen King’s On Writing. I don’t remember because my memory is unreliable these days. I know because I use an app to track my reading, and it says it took me thirteen days to read On Writing.

In the Before Times Long Ago, I would have read King’s book in an afternoon, or even quicker, but since graduating university, my ability to read books has lessened over time. I’d not be able to concentrate, and the will to read would not materialize for weeks (or even longer).

Then came the bout with Covid that nearly killed me. I think I read during that week, but in a haphazard way. I didn’t start or finish a book, but read selections from the Star Wars trilogy novelizations. That exercise was to stave off the boredom of potential death more than a real effort to read anything straight through.

Since Covid, all I have really read, aside from a few books here and there (I think Carrie Fisher’s and Anthony Daniels’s memoirs were among the longest), were picture books: The Art of Star Wars in several volumes. I am certain I’ve written about my frustration with being unable to read before on this blog.

Finishing On Writing feels like a breakthrough. King endorses reading as much as possible if one wishes to be a writer. That advice you will find in any treatise on writing. I also believe it. Something about the way King espouses that sentiment struck through my mental fog straight to my reader’s core. I want to read again, and frequently. I cannot say the desire existed much before.

I wanted to read in the way that people want to exercise or eat healthily: they know they should. But they don’t want to, really. Doing such things becomes a chore, a necessity, an aggravation, and usually, a non-starter. With me and reading it was similar: I just didn’t do it. Even reading King’s book took thirteen days because there were several in those almost two weeks that I just didn’t want to pick up the book. Persevere I did and finish I did.

Reading On Writing turned into a journey I needed to take. I had no idea what the book was going to say, nor did I expect the emotional impact it has had on my psyche. King talks about his life of writing, which includes his eventual sobriety and concludes with a life-threatening accident. I knew of neither. Look, the rest of King’s compendium really isn’t my thing and I knew almost nothing about him personally, but I picked up On Writing on a whim because I knew he was a good, established author. I figured something he had to say could be useful.

King’s advice was more than helpful: it was life-changing. Not least will be if I can read again because it was permissive. I know pretty much what King said already: eliminate adverbs, read plenty, write regularly, and so on, but the simple way in which he presented his advice, and life story, said to me that I can do those things, too. He doesn’t pretend to be some great writer, as opposed to a best-selling author, and he doesn’t stand on pretense. He is, and he invited me to be as well. Read what I like to read; write what I like to write (minus a few adverbs). And no worries about the rest.

Sometimes we all need the permission to do what we already know to do. Permission can take us from inaction to action. As kids we all wanted to do things, but it wasn’t until a parent or other authority gave us permission that we actually went out to do the thing (usually). I think Stephen King gave me permission to read, as weird as that sounds. I didn’t pick up his book asking for that, but late-90’s King communicated permission anyway.

I have a large backlog of books to read, including the Lord of the Rings. (Anyone reading right now knows that Lord of the Rings is among my favorite reads, which is to say, I’ve read it.) I set out to read Tolkien’s masterpiece once a year. That dream died when reading died. Now I just might try again. Autumn is the time of year I usually crack open Tolkien, in honor of Bilbo’s September birthday, and I think this year I will do the same. I have textbooks to read, and other reading on my horizon, but Lord of the Rings will be read!

I have a new purpose in reading. Enjoyment, of course, but to learn as well. Learn how other writers write. Learn how to craft wonder, intrigue, suspense, or put forth knowledge. I never read with that in mind before, but King told me to read with my eyes open, to note what other writers do and why and to emulate. I will do my best. After all, hand in hand with reading is writing. Ever since I first started reading thirty some years ago, I have wanted to recreate the experience I had in pages for someone else. If I am going to be a good writer, I must as well be a good reader.

I feel reborn, relieved, and reinvigorated. Light and full of light. Hyperbolic as well. I’ll take it all. I’ve not felt this way in a long time. A good book will do that for me, but I’ve forgotten the feeling. All that I had included dim memory and stale knowledge. Now I’ve got first hand experience once more! It feels good. Plus, life is short and if reading and writing get me through the pain of it all, so much the better. It did when I was a teenager, starting a mental health decline, but like so many things, I’d forgotten what billions know: reading is a pathway: to betterment, to amusement, to knowledge, and to joy. Yes, to escape as well. Who doesn’t need escape from time to time?

I’ve finished On Writing. But I’ve not finished writing, in fact where I’ve been precocious before, I plan to be prolific now. I’ve not finished reading, either. Where I may have been voracious before, I now plan to be insatiable. As author George McFly once said, “Like I’ve always told you, you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything!” I still contend with mental illness, life, and a host of adversity, but anything can be accomplished, and I’ve put my mind to overcoming!