Sundays with Stephen King’s “On Writing”
A series featuring reflections on writing from the famed author’s memoir.
A series featuring reflections on writing from the famed author’s memoir.
I had not read Stephen King’s memoir On Writing for several years when it occurred to me to do so again. While at it, why not share reflections from the renowned writer in a weekly Sunday series at Go Into The Story?
King is a prolific author. Fair to say that is an understatement. One need only glance at a roster of his written works to determine that. If any contemporary writer has earned the right to reflect on the craft, it would be King. However, that is not the motivation he had in writing his memoir. This excerpt from the ‘First Foreword’ of On Writing explains the genesis of the book, a fateful exchange with Amy Tan, fellow writer and member of an authors’ charity rock music group The Remainders.
One night while we were eating Chinese before a gig in Miami Beach, I asked Amy if there was any one question she was never asked during the Q-and-A that follows almost every writer’s talk — that question you never get to answer when you’re standing in front of a group of author-struck fans and pretending you don’t put your pants on one leg at a time like everyone else. Amy paused, thinking it over very carefully, and miss said: “No one ever asks about the language.”
I owe an immediate debt of gratitude to her for saying that. I had been playing with the idea of writing a little book about writing for a year or more at that time, but had held back because I didn’t trust my own motivations — why did I want to write about writing? What made me think I had anything worth saying?
The easy answer is that someone who has sold as many books of fiction as I have must have something worthwhile to say about writing it, but the easy answer isn’t always the truth. Colonel Sanders sold a hell of a lot of fried chicken, but I’m not sure anyone wants to know how he made it. If I was going to be presumptuous enough to tell people how to write, I felt there had to be a better reason than my popular success. Put another way, I didn’t want to write a book, even a short one like this, that would leave me feeling like a literary gasbag or a transcendental asshole. There are enough of those books — and those writers — on the market already, thanks.
But Amy was right: nobody ever asks about the language. They ask the DeLillos and the Updikes and the Styrons, but they don’t ask popular novelists. Yet many of us proles also care about the language, in our humble way, and care passionately about the art and craft of telling stories on paper. What follows is an attempt to put down, briefly and simply, how I came to the craft, what I know about it now, and how it’s done. It’s about the day job; it’s about the language.
My intention is similar to the Sundays with Ray Bradbury series: Each week as I re-read King’s memoir, print notable excerpts at Go Into The Story to inspire our creativity and conversation about the craft.
Today: From the twenty-fifth anniversary edition of On Writing, an excerpt from a wonderful chapter titled “Toolbox” (pp. 111–137). King frames the chapter with an anecdote about his Uncle Oren, a carpenter, and a toolbox he had inherited from King’s grandfather Fazza. The toolbox in question is heavy, as King notes weighing “between eighty and hundred and twenty pounds.”
King writes about how as a lad, he accompanied Uncle Oren to fix a broken screen on the backside of the house. He finishes the anecdote with this:
When the screen was secure, Uncle Oren gave me the screwdriver and told me to put it back in the toolbox and “latch her up.” I did, but I was puzzled. I asked him why he'd lugged Fazza's toolbox all the way around the house, if all he needed was that one screwdriver. He could've carried a screwdriver in the back pocket of his khakis.
“Yeah, but Stevie,” he said, bending to grasp the handles, “I didn't know what else I might find to do once I got out here, did I? It's best to have your tools with you. If you don't, you’re apt to find something you didn't expect and get discouraged.”
This leads King into using a toolbox as a metaphor for writing. Here is an excerpt from pp. 117–118.
Put your vocabulary on the top shelf of your toolbox, and don't make any conscious effort to improve it. (You'll be doing that as you read, of course … but that comes later.) One of the really bad things you can do to your writing is to dress up the vocabulary, looking for a long words because you may be a little bit ashamed of your short ones. This is like dressing up a household pet in evening clothes. The pet is embarrassed and the person who committed this act of premeditated cuteness should even be more embarrassed. Make yourself a solemn promise right now that you'll never use “emolument” when you mean “tip” and you'll never say John stopped long enough to perform an act of excretion when you mean John stopped long enough to take a shit. If you believe "take a shit "would be considered offensive or inappropriate by your audience, feel free to say John stopped long enough to move his bowels (or perhaps) John stopped long enough to “push”). I'm not trying to get you to talk dirty, only plain and direct. Remember the basic rule of vocabulary is use the first word that comes to your mind, if it is appropriate and colorful. If you hesitate and cogitate, you will come up with another word — of course you will, there's always another word — but it probably won't be as good as your first one, or as close to what you really mean.
This business of meaning is a very big deal. If you doubt it, think of all the times you've heard someone say "I just can't describe it" or "That isn't what I mean." Think of all the times you've said those things yourself, usually in a tone of mild or serious frustration. The word is only a representation of the meaning; even at its best, writing almost always fall short of full meaning. Given that, why in God’s name would you want to make things worse by choosing a word which is only cousin to the one you really wanted to use?
And do feel free to take appropriateness into account; as George Carlin once observed, in some company it's perfectly all right to prick your finger, very bad form to finger your prick.
I love this chapter because the toolbox metaphor in relation to writing is such a visual and valuable one. Some may argue whether writing is an art… but it is most certainly a craft. The day to day grind of pounding out words is a job. As we go about our work, we carry with us a “toolbox” with its requisite tools.
As far as King is concerned, the uppermost part of the toolbox featuring its most common tools is vocabulary. This makes sense. After all, we are wordsmiths and words are what we use to construct sentences, paragraphs, scenes, chapters, acts, and so on.
I am reminded of an anecdote involving Irving Thalberg, a successful producer and studio executive in the 20s-30s, known for his ability to select the right scripts and make profitable movies out of them. Here is a quote from a biography, “Thalberg: Life and Legend,” authored by Bob Thomas:
“At times Irving Thalberg seemed to hate his very dependence on writers and his frustration that he could not perform their functions. During one heated script session, he said almost contemptuously, ‘What’s all this business about being a writer? It’s just putting one word after another.’ Lenore Coffee (a screenwriter) corrected him: ‘Pardon me, Mr. Thalberg; it’s putting one right word after another.’”
“Putting one right word after another” — that is so right. When you bust it all down, writing is about choosing words. A writer can choose them well, or not.
In zeroing in on using words which convey their meaning in the most direct fashion possible, King exhorts us to find the right words … often, our first choice of words … and not get lost in an attempt to come off as more sophisticated.
That said, don’t overlook King’s observation: use the first word that comes to your mind, if it is appropriate and colorful. Appropriate. Colorful. The former speaks to the word’s meaning. The latter is equally important. If, as King suggests in the previous chapter, writers engage in telepathy, the words we use are the conduit of that telepathic experience. In this context, colorful = evocative. Words which evoke images … emotions … we should always strive to find and use them.
In other words: Make Words Your Friend.
Come back next week and many weeks thereafter for more in the Sundays with Stephen King’s “On Writing” series.
Twitter: @StephenKing