A couple of months back I read Stephen King’s book Titled “On Writing.”
It was excellent. I have had two authors whom I admire recommend it, and since I’ve been on a quest to inspire myself to pick up the craft I thought it would be more than appropriate to give it a go.
This is a book about writing, it obviously appeals more to the aspiring writer than the next person. However, if you are that next person, you might just enjoy it too.
This was a lecture detailing his advice and practices about writing yet it read like a lovely story.
And now I would like to share a lovely story with you. I think it will convey my thoughts and feelings toward this book. It is also a scary story, in King’s honor.
I had been trying to clean my house all day. At about four in the afternoon I got around to mopping my kitchen floor. I had swept it minutes before. I told my daughter to play with her little brother in her room for a few minutes so I could mop without children slipping on the floor. She whined, complained and acted like a three year old. It’s pure torture when toddlers act like toddlers. I took that little brother of hers and was going to hold him while I mopped. Just as I began I noticed dirt had been tracked all over my floor. The floor I had just swept. I WAS MAD. I did what any sensible person would do and I beat the hell out of the mop. Why? Because it was the mop or a kid. I slammed the mop against the floor, the battery casing shattered. Then I slammed it against the floor and stomped it over and over again, more plastic pieces flew off. Sweating and angry I finally called Mason.
“You better come home now, or your kids won’t make it. “ I said.
“Okay, I’m on my way.” He said.
Mason walked in and there was the victim. Batteries scattered across a dirty floor. A black mark on the base board and the mop in two pieces, unrecognizable.
He walked down the hall barely making a sound, slowly pushed the door open peeped in like he was an actor in the latest horror film and the audience was like, No, no don’t open the door you idiot. He found me in the rocking chair red faced, glistening with sweat reading a book to our children. Who were to his surprise, alive.
He said, “Why don’t you go for a drive, get out of the house, take a break.”
I whisked past him grabbed my kindle and car keys and I was out of there. Sometimes after I have a meltdown and murder a helpless mop I like to drive to a scenic spot and read. Yes I park. No parking isn’t what it use to be, at least not for me. On this horrible day I drove up millville canyon and parked close to where another car was parked. It was a dirt parking lot placed right below what looked like some four wheeling trails. I opened “On Writing” and soon found myself lost in his words. Pages later I looked up and realized that while I was entrenched in my book someone had locked the gate. The gate that was wide open when I entered. Hmm this is interesting, I thought. I saw the car that was parked close to mine was still there. Well, they have to get out sometime, right. So I read a few more pages. Looked up, gate still closed, no one in sight. And I read a few more pages. Unfortunately, before I had finished the book the people parked next to me arrived, and I realized this was my opportunity. So I followed the car out of there and waved at the girl who was kindly holding the gate open, like maybe I was a cousin of hers or something. See you at dinner, I thought, as I waved. Little did she know this was not the most humiliating thing I had done today.
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