Book Review of: On Writing, by Stephen King

On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


Let a genii answer, for he promises fledgling authors many things: his name, is Stephen K.

I don’t know where the “less than a master” statements come from. Did you really read him? Did you really listen to that song? Are you a literati, saying this, a Chump? I can compare his stories to the Lord of the Flies or the Great Gatsby, both excelling books and still say he’s better. Don’t know about James Joyce as my only tackle of Ulysses is undergoing consumption but Stephen speaks of him within. But who knows, I have a hard time putting enough mud on myself to conceal myself from Ghosts as it is…Therefore I’ll disregard the literati or opposing agencies and just continue with my review.

King relegates the mantle, and his craft with hat tips to many others, with an audacity that springs from a wealth of intuition. Not an old wive’s type, a type of intuition that seems more akin to unerring knowledge.

The kind of intuition that sparked the heart of Alexander to his conquest, or Socrates’ direction by omens. Since he is a miracle lamp, it is only fitting that he is atop the Mountain as well.
I know this sounds silly, even to me. Maybe that’s why its true.

I read “It” and “Misery” at an early, more impressionable age, and the “Paul Sheldon in Pain” inner monologues from the latter I have yet to see equaled in any other writer. “It” is it’s own legend, and something you simply have to read rather than hear about.

I wonder what King thinks about a scene at a concert I went to years ago where a drunk teenager was shouting “PENNYWIIIIISE” repeatedly for 30 minutes before the band even took the stage; and this chanted name coming directly from the inspiration of King’s insidious, shapeshifting clown space-demon, naming a Hermosa Beach youth who forged a generation of punk rock. I can still imagine a surfer saying to Jim Lindberg “You’ve gotta read this book.”

On Writing seems to be like a barrels-down clarion blast in a solid compaction called in the likeness of the Oracle of Delphi’s utterances of intuitive Knowing(again I will say this), however, King makes clear with his surety and the proof of his actual works of fiction that something else is going on than hallucinogenic inducing mists from the ground. That he is speaking, from certain facts and certain laws, on his own terms that he has discovered and is revealing to his readers, and not just gas vents of the oracle. But I would say this book is oracular, and he does divulge his struggles with alcohol and drugs in the past, fittingly enough.

His statements and dartboard throws seem more often to be bullseyes in that his spirit of teaching/memoir cannot help but feel trustworthy. You might say “there are many other writers” or “he’s a pulp author”, especially on skeptical points, but I can say salt grains are not needed nor any kind of salt. This book is propelled by the same wit and intellectual candor that propels what I think of as fictional literary landmarks, in other words, a record that proves itself. He is right, and on point, and this memoir is indispensable to fledgling authors.

This is a book that I must implore more of the author than I yet know- I have The Institute and the Outsider on to-reads after not reading his works (save On Writing) for almost 15 years.
On Writing will be on my shelf to stay, as it’s one of those books that is very apt to be re-read – especially in fuller light when reading his actual novels, and especially if you are an aspiring author like myself as well.



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