On Writing- First Impressions

Well, I have no idea what the heck I'm supposed to write about in a blog, so I'll just write something. I got the book On Writing over the "Amazon Whispernet," which is the thing that sends electronic books to your Kindle. Much more convenient than having to find the book or order it online and wait for it to get there. The e-book form is also more convenient because it's lighter and more compact. I can also take notes and highlight passages right in the book. The downside is it's difficult to tell which page you're on, to give as a reference point to anyone who doesn't have a Kindle. I got the book right before I went on a camping trip with my family, most of which involved driving to different locations, setting up the tent, walking a few miles, eating stuff, going to bed, and repeating the next morning. Not that it wasn't fun, but, yeah...

So, about the book. I started reading our first night on the camping trip (not on the car ride, because reading the car makes me sick, unfortunately...) It was dark out, the fire was burning low, and I had just eaten dinner... You know what, this is all irrelevant anyways. I'll cut to the chase (because reading a book is just oh so fun to read about....) I read the book, finished in five days, and got back home. All this time I didn't have internet, so I couldn't actually blog as I read, which I would have preferred to do. Now I'll just cut these blogs into sections. This blog will be about my general impression of the book. The next blogs will be about specific parts of the book, in chronological order (in the book, not in real life, because parts of the book skip around the timeline). Voila. A plan.

Okay, my impression of the book. Overall, very well done. Informative, but not telling you DO THIS OR YOU SHALL PERISH. There are some parts that tell you pretty much what you SHOULD do, but the author, Stephan King, says even he doesn't follow these rules (guidelines...) religiously. Also, the book was an interesting read. The author imbued the book with enough personality that it didn't feel like an instruction manual. This may be because about forty percent of the book is almost completely autobiographical, and much of the rest has small autobiographical snippets thrown in to give his advice some perspective. Perspective is always useful (unless you're in the Total Perspective Vortex. This is a Douglas Adams reference. If you don't get it you should definitely read his books. They're great. Okay, back from the tangent now.) He mentioned quite a few things that I realize I need to focus on, such as too much description. I will touch more on this in my 'details' blogs.

The organization of the book flows nicely as well, with the life of a writer leading up to the accumulated writing wisdom of the writer. Showing how different aspects of the writers life helped influence his writing and help him grow was a nice touch, instead of focusing on all the niggly little nuisances of grammar and such. I also love the use of humor to lighten the heavieness of the subject of writing and what to do and what not to do.

So, that was my impression of the book. The next blog I post will delve more into the book and mention more specific details and have a great deal more focus.

~Cafferty Frattarelli

On Writing: The Challenge!!

Matthew Erbst

6/27/11

English AP

The Final One! I did this mainly for fun and does not even really count as a blog, so enjoy.

On Writing: The Challenge!!

Ok, so partway through the book, Stephen King presents the reader with a writing challenge to make a short story about a women whose abusive husband had been sent to a prison. It continues that she had gotten home (by herself), and began smelling his hair-tonic while on the news, there was a story about a recent prison break where one convict was not recovered. At that moment, she began to hear his footfalls coming down the stairs. Now I know King wants us to write out the whole story, but I am just going to continue from when she hears his footfalls. Also, I am not going to switch the sexes because I have a pretty good shape of what I am going to write and it will not work as well with the antagonist as female. Oh yeah, Jane has a daughter named Nell who is at a sleepover at another house.

Jane wanted to move, to jump up and run, to scream, to get away, but she could not. Every footfall echoed in her mind, an eerie and terrifying sound akin to the single call of a crow reveling in a fresh slaughter.

Oh God Oh God. He was out of my life. I was happy again. I could live again. Why did he have to come back? Why...Why does he hate me so much? Why didn't he just run away, escape somewhere so I never would have to think about that monster again, so I would never have to think of the man...the thing that hurt me, that hurt Nell. Oh God he is going to kill me, kill me for calling the cops, sending him to jail.

The footfalls continued. Jane was frozen in fear, a single bead of sweat rolling down her forehead. The footfalls paused for a second. Silence. A harsh, smothering, velvet silence that filled the air, louder than a gunshot. The TV still flashed in front of Jane, completely forgotten. Then there was a muffled sound, the sound of a boot coming down onto the soft carpet of the hallway. Then another. And another.

One more She thought, one more and he will be in the doorway. Shaking in fear, Jane reached up and turned on the lamp above her. With a brilliant flash, it illuminated the room for merely a second, a second before the light went out, before all the electricity in the house failed, right as the final step fell and a shadow that was unmistakeably Dick was seen.

Jane was no longer frozen, some animal instinct buried in the depths of her brain, something harking back to the dawn of humanity, was sparked by that all to familiar shape and she ran, ran like primordial man had run before. She dashed across the kitchen, seizing the back door handle in a fury. She tore at it with no satisfaction

Locked!! Dammit! DAMMIT!!

And yet, that same muffled sound continued, even and slow, but ever closer, each one a toll of bell in Jane's mind. She tried to scream, but no sound seemed to come. It felt as if she was a fish pulled out of water by a hungry predator, unable to breath, death looming over her. Thick, viscous tears began to roll down her face as she curled up at the doorway, all hope gone. Yet there was still I fire within her.

I will not die! Nell...she needs me...NELL!

Mind alive once again, she scanned the kitchen. It was as if her entire body hummed with electricity, vital processes shooting into overdrive. A shaft of light trickled in from the street light, illuminating the room ever so slightly.

Knives? Pots? Damn! All out of reach!

But then cutting through the fear was a sharp, unmistakeable sound.

The teapot!

It was one of the old, cast iron things. Heavy and solid enough to shatter bone and nearly red hot. In one bound Jane reached the stove and snatched it by the handle. She turned, quickly pinwheeling one arm as she whipped the other one around, slingshotting the teapot towards the shadow that had just appeared in the doorway. It sailed through the air, rocketing towards its target. With a solid thump, it collided with the shape, creating a sound like meat being pulverized.

A trill of elation rocketed through Jane as she saw the shadow fall. She heard the sick sizzle of flesh, but there was no scream, no raw throated song of pain. She stood frozen for a moment staring at the inscrutable shape on the floor, but then it began to rise, coming slowly to its feet. Now Jane screamed, screamed like she had never screamed before. She ran past the shape to the front door.

LOCKED! WHY IS IT LOCKED!

She sprinted to the stairs, taking two at the time to the second floor. She stood frozen at the top until instinct took over and she dived through the nearest open door. What cruel irony. She was back in her marriage bedroom. The room she had shared with Dick nearly every night, the room that she had feared entering almost every night. Ever since Dick had been sent to jail, she had avoided this room, actually keeping it locked and sleeping in the guest room. It was too late to change her decision. She closed the door softly, fearing any sound may attract Dick. She then locked and went to the window.

Locked, but I could break it! She disregarded the thought. While she was only one story up, her house overlooked an embankment. It was dry and the drop would surely break her legs, if not killing her, and she would be just as vulnerable. “JANE.....”

That simple echo struck an old fear, it was the same singsong voice he would use when he was looking for her, and an old reflex took over and she hid in the closet... the same one she would use to hide in when Dick thirsted for violence.

I'm going to die! The tears had reached torrential levels. Yet what was funny, so sadistically funny that Jane nearly laughed, was that she had this exact nightmare every night. While she may have been out of his life, he had not been out of hers. She had not been free of his influence. She had not yet truly lived.

The steps grew ever closer. “Hahahahaha”A ghastly, maniacal laugh filled the air. The door, the door she had locked, opened without a turn of a handle. Another velvet silence filled the air. Then the footsteps approached the closet. As the shape approached the door, the rank smell of Dick's hair tonic filled Jane's nose and a veritable tidal wave of anger washed over her.

NOT AGAIN!

Just as the handle began to turn, Jane kicked the door as hard as she could. The force was enough to knock the shape down and she leaped. She tore like a ferocious animal, some creature that man had long distanced itself from. As the form began to rise, she reached out for something, anything. (Dick's Tie) In one quick move she rapped it around the figures neck from behind. She pulled as hard as she could, years of repressed anger boiling over in one marvelous moment. While the other actions had been out of fear or anger, this was pure vengeance. She relished in the gurgle of a body desperately trying to get air, a feeling she had felt so many times. And then she pulled harder then ever before, harder than she thought she could. There was the sharp crack of the windpipe breaking...and then all was quite, the shape limp before her.

In a daze, Jane staggered downstairs, settling into the chair that she had been in only minutes before. She breathed a long sigh. And then began to cry. They were tears of sadness, the sadness of taking a life, especially one of a man she had once loved. But then a laugh built in her throat, for she was free, finally free.

Epilogue:

At that moment, the TV and all the lights snapped back. “An update on our top story, the final escaped convict has been captured and returned to Alimino State Prison, the prisoner was found hiding in...”

Wait...what?

Jane staggered to a standing position and glanced into the kitchen. The teapot was still on the stove, not even boiling yet. She entered the kitchen and grabbed a knife, preparing for what she might find upstairs. She went up the stairs, barely noticing that she was doing so. She looked towards the door.

I don't remember closing it.

She stood in front of the door, knife in one hand, knob in the other. She took a deep breath and went to open the door.

Locked?

Growing more confused, Jane searched the house for the key to the bedroom. Once finding it, she stood in front of the door again and slowly turned the handle of the newly unlocked door and saw...nothing. The room was empty, everything covered in a thick layer of undisturbed dust. The closest was closed, also undisturbed. Then Jane truly laughed, laughed from head to toe, a laugh that filled her up as she left the room. However, as she was beginning to close the door and lock it, she decided to leave it open.

We could use an extra room.

I know its not literary gold or silver, or even bronze for that matter. I know I had to shoehorn in some background information because I did not write out the whole story. I know that there are some adverbs I couldn't bear to kill. If this were a competition, this story would get the crummy little participation ribbon for coming in last place. Although, in the short time I took to write it, I enjoyed myself, and I think that is good enough.

On Writing: Miscellaneous Topics

Matthew Erbst

6/27/11

English AP

It said a minimum of four!

On Writing: Miscellaneous Topics

These are just a things that interested me throughout the book. They are not enough to do a whole blog about like the other subjects, but they warrant some attention.

Adverbs: Stephen King hates, hates, HATES adverbs. He even declares that the “road to hell is paved with adverbs.” (125) and that he will “shout it [this hate] from the rooftops.” (125). His main reason for this hate is that adverbs, at least to him, weaken a sentence or are completely redundant. While I believe he may be a bit too strong on this topic, I share his feelings. Adverbs often drastically weaken a sentence by hugely limiting the need for proper storytelling and glaringly disconnecting the reader from what they are zestfully reading. A good example is the previous sentence that I peppered with the hateful grammatical form. (Zestfully almost made me ill)

Passive Voice: King believes that it removes energy from the story and sounds too businesslike for fiction. I agree completely, although I must admit that I succumb to it often.

Plot: Simply put, Stephen King does not believe in plot. His main basis for his belief is that our mortal lives are largely plotless. While writing a story, I do think characters should have a level of free reign to make them seem realistic, but without a general direction the story is going, there may come a situation where there can be no more progression, because many human lives end up like that. A good example is one that Stephen King himself talked about quite a bit, The Stand. As King said, he had reached a point where he simply couldn't continue the story until he came up with a very theatrical a plot-like solution, a bomb. While this may not be the same as having a preplanned plot from the beginning, it bears a semblance to plot. Yet if Stephen King's no plot method works for him most of the time, more power to him and those whom follow it, but I don't see it as a rule that must be followed. Ultimately, I think it should be a personal choice for the writer of what feels more comfortable and what works better when it comes to whether to use plot or not.

On Writing: What is On Writing

Matthew Erbst

6/27/11

English AP

Number 4!

On Writing: What is On Writing

On Writing is an informative, funny, fantastic book, yet as I reflect back upon On Writing, I am perplexed on what this book actually is. There are many things I could call it, but none of them would seem quite correct.

If one looks at the cover, they will see A Memoir Of The Craft. Yet On Writing is not a memoir, at least not completely. Yes, two-thirds of the book is autobiographical, recounting humorous and saddening tales from King's long career, but these tales do not seem to be the focus of the book, at least not in a direct sense. Therefore, it is not a memoir. Is it a guide on writing? No. While there are writing tips on how to develop a story and general writing advice, it is not a guide on writing because it only gives that, tips and advice, not an actual concrete format. King ends up leaving most of the choice in the hands of the reader.

Ultimately, I would say On Writing is a written conversation with King himself (This of course relates to King's theory that writing is telepathy). Most importantly though is that in this conversation, he is not telling you what to write, nor is he teaching you how to write. What King is doing is showing you how to become a writer and urging you to do so through his own personal stories. He does not put much weight in what you write, as long as you put your soul into it and enjoy it, hard work as it may be.