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lUIlI!' 10 n lull stop, and one nanosccond l.ucr ,lIl1l'\pl.lIlllI'~ 11l11II"gill:irY cops exactly why I had to do what I did, or insisting th.u I did 111,1III I.H.I do it. 1 happened to mention this to a hypnotist I saw 1II;'IlY years ago, and he I' looked at me very nicely. At first I thought he was feeling around on the floor for the silent alarm button, but then be gave me the following exercise, which I still use to this day. Close your eyes and get quiet for a minute, until the chatter starts up. Then 14 isolate one of the voices and imagine the person speaking as a mouse.
Pick it up by the tail and drop it into a mason jar. Then isolate another voice, pick it up by the tail, drop it in the jar. And so on. Drop in any high-maintenance paren- tal units, drop in any contractors, lawyers, colleagues, children, anyone who is whining in your bead. Then put the lid on, and watch all these mouse people clawing at the glass, jabbering away, trying to make you feel like shit because you won't do what they want-won't give them more money, won't be more successful, won't see them more often.
Then imagine that there is a volume- control button on the bottle. Turn it all the way up for a minute, and listen to the stream of angry, neglected, guilt-mongering voices. Then turn it all the way down and watch the frantic mice lunge at the glass, trying to get to you. Leave it down, and get back to your shitty first draft. A writer friend of mine suggests opening the jar and shooting them all in the H head.
But I think he's a little angry, and I'm sure nothing like this would ever occur to you. What Writing 1;1 STEPHEN KING King,Stephen."WhatWritingIs."On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. NewYork:Poc~etBooks 2000.95-99. Print. ' Telepathy, of course.
It's amusing when you stop to think about it f1 h - or years 1peo~ e ave argued ab?ut ~hether. or not such a thing exists, folks like .1. B. Rhine have busted their brains trying to create a valid testing pro. I . d 11 h . . cess to ISO ate It, an ate tune It's been right there, lying out in the ope lik M Poe's Purloined Letter. All the arts depend upon telepathy to some de I e b r.
I b li h . . ff gree, ute I~ve t at wnting 0 ers the purest distillation. Perhaps I'm prejudiced, but even If I am we may as well stick with writing, since it's what we came he t think and talk about. re 0 My name is Stephen King. I'm writing the first draft of this part at my desk 2 (the o~e under the ~ave) on a snowy morning in December of 1997. There are thmgs on my mind. Some are worries (bad eyes Christmas shop . even started, wife under the weather ' pmg not with a virus), some are good things r:- (our younger son made a surprise visit I Books are a uniquely portable home from college, I got to play Vince magic.
Taylor'S "Brand New Cadillac" with The Wallflowers at a concert), but right now all that stuff is up top. I'm in another place, a basement place whe th I f b . h I' h re ereare ots o: ng t, ig ts and clear images. This is a place I've built for myself over the y.ea~s.It s a far-seelll~ place. I know it's a little strange, a little bit of a contradiction, that a far-seeing place should also be a basement I bh ' h .. . h U p.ace, utt at s ow It ISWit me. you construct your own far-seeing place y . h. . , oumlg t put It ill a treetop or on the roof of the World Trade Center or on the edge of the Grand Canyon. That's your little red wagon, as Robert McCam . f hi I mon says 111 one o. is nove s.
This book is scheduled to be published in the late sum- mer or early fall of 2000. If that's how things work out, then you are somewhere downstream on the timeline from me ... but you're quite likely in your own far-seeing place, the one where you go to receive telepathic messages. Not that you have to be there; books are a uniquely portable magic. I usually Listento one in the car (always unabridged; I think abridged audio-books are the pits), and carry another wherever I go. You just never know when you'll want an _j STEPHE~ ..KJNG rJj 30~ 3 I IUt I 1I'lI'lt" J escape hatch: mile-long lines at tollbooth plazas, the fifteen minutes you h.avc to spend in the hall of some boring college building ,:aitil.'~ for your advisor (who's got some yank-off in there threatening to commit sUICIdebec~u~ehelshe is flunking Custom Kurrnfurling 101) to come out so you can g~t his Signature on a drop-card, airport boarding lounges, laundromats on ral~y afte~noons, and the absolute worst, which is the doctor's office when the guy IS runrung late and you have to wait half an hour in order to have something sensitive mauled.
At such times I find a book vital. If I have to spend time 10 purgatory before going to one place or the other, I guess I'll be all right as long as there's a l~nd- ing library (if there is it's probably stocked with nothing but novels by Danielle Steel and Chicken Soup books, ha-ha, joke's on you, Steve). So I read where I can but I have a favorite place and probably you do,, . . . , too--a place where the light is good and the vibe IS usually strong. For me It s the blue chair in my study. For you it might be the couch on the sunporch, the rocker in the kitchen, or maybe it's propped up in your bed-reading in bed can be heaven, assuming you can get just the right amount of light on the page and aren't prone to spilling your coffee or cognac on the sheets. .
So let's assume that you're in your favorite receiving place just as I am In \ the place where I do my best transmitting. We'll have to perform our mentalist routine not just over distance but over time as well, yet that presents no real problem; if we can still read Dickens, Shakespeare, and (with the help of a footnote or two) Herodotus, I think we can manage the gap between 1997 and 2000. And here we go-actual telepathy in action. You'll notice I have nothing up my sleeves and that my lips never move. Neither, m?s~ likely, do yours.
Look-here's a table covered with a red cloth. On It IS a cage the size of a ,. small fish aquarium. In the cage is a white rabbit with a pink nose and pink rimmed eyes. In its front paws is a carrot-stub upon which it is contentedly munching. On its back, clearly marked in blue ink, is the numeral 8.
Do we see the same thing? We'd have to get together and compare notes to make absolutely sure, but I think we do. There will be necessary var~ations, or course: some receivers will see a cloth which is turkey red, some WIll see om' that's scarlet, while others may see still other shades. (To colorblind receivers, the red tablecloth is the dark gray of cigar ashes.) Some may see scalloped edges, some may see straight ones. Decorative souls may add a little lace, and welcome-my tablecloth is your tablecloth, knock yourself out. .,. Likewise the matter of the cage leaves quite a lot of room for individual interpretati~n.
For one thing, it is described in terms of rough. co~parjs~lI. which is useful only if you and I see the world and measure the things in rt WHit similar eyes. It's easy to become careless when making rough comparisons. but the alternative is a prissy attention to detail that takes all the fun out 01 writing. What am I going to say, "on the table is a cage three feet, six inches ill length, two feet in width, and fourteen inches high"? That's not prose, th:l.l\ an instruction manual. The paragraph also doesn't tell us what sort of rnatcrinl the cage is made of-wire mesh? steel rods? glass?-hllt docs il really rnaue t We all understand the cage is a see-through I1ICdiIlIH; Iwyolld thnt, we don't care.
The most interesting thing here isn't ~'VI'II 1111' 1,I11111dlll11\ rnhhi: III STEPHEN KING I WhaL Writing Is I.hecage, but the number on its back. Not a six, not a four, not nineteen-point- five. It's an eight. This is what we're looking at, and we all see it. I didn't tell you.
You didn't ask me. I never opened my mouth and you never opened yours. We're not even in the same year together, let alone the same room ... except we are together. We're close. We're having a meeting of the minds.
I sent you a table with a red doth on it, a cage, a rabbit, and the number 10 eight in blue ink. You got them all, especially that blue eight. We've engaged in an act of telepathy. No mythy-mountain shit, real telepathy. I'm not going to belabor the point, but before we go any further you have to understand that I'm not trying to be cute; there is a point to be made. f . lness can approach the act of writing with nervousness, excitement, hope- 11 u ness, or even despair-the sense that you can never completely put on the clenched and your eyes harrowed, ready to kick ass and take down names.
You can come to it because you want a girl to marry you or because you want to change the world. Come to it any way but lightly. Let me say it again: you must not come lightly to the blank page. I'm not as~~ng you to come reverently or unquestioningly; I'm not asking 12 you to be politically correct or cast aside your sense of humor (please God you have one). This isn't a popularity contest, it's not the moral Olympics, and it's not church.
But it's writing, damn it, not washing the car or putting on eyeliner. If you can take it seriously, we can do business. If you can't or won't, it's time for you to close the book and do something else. Wash the car, maybe. 13 Where do you get your ideas?
The question authors fear most ... Neil tackles it here. By Neil Gaiman (from neilgaiman.com/FAQs) Every profession has its pitfalls. Doctors, for example, are always being asked for free medical advice, lawyers are asked for legal information, morticians are told how interesting a profession that must be and then people change the subject fast. And writers are asked where we get our ideas from.
In the beginning, I used to tell people the not very funny answers, the flip ones: 'From the Idea- of-the-Month Club,' I'd say, or 'From a little ideas shop in Bognor Regis,' 'From a dusty old book full of ideas in my basement,' or even 'From Pete Atkins.' (The last is slightly esoteric, and may need a little explanation. Pete Atkins is a screenwriter and novelist friend of mine, and we decided a while ago that when asked, I would say that I got them from him, and he'd say he got them from me. It seemed to make sense at the time.) Then I got tired of the not very funny answers, and these days I tell people the truth: 'I make them up,' I tell them. 'Out of my head.' People don't like this answer.
I don't know why not. They look unhappy, as if I'm trying to slip a fast one past them. As if there's a huge secret, and, for reasons of my own, I'm not telling them how it's done. And of course I'm not. Firstly, I don't know myself where the ideas really come from, what makes them come, or whether one day they'll stop.
Secondly, I doubt anyone who asks really wants a three hour lecture on the creative process. And thirdly, the ideas aren't that important. Really they aren't. Everyone's got an idea for a book, a movie, a story, a TV series. Every published writer has had it - the people who come up to you and tell you that they've Got An Idea.
And boy, is it a Doozy. It's such a Doozy that they want to Cut You In On It. The proposal is always the same - they'll tell you the Idea (the hard bit), you write it down and turn it into a novel (the easy bit), the two of you can split the money fifty-fifty. I'm reasonably gracious with these people. I tell them, truly, that I have far too many ideas for things as it is, and far too little time.
And I wish them the best of luck. The Ideas aren't the hard bit. They're a small component of the whole. Creating believable people who do more or less what you tell them to is much harder. And hardest by far is the process of simply sitting down and putting one word after another to construct whatever it is you're trying to build: making it interesting, making it new.
But still, it's the question people want to know. In my case, they also want to know if I get them from my dreams. (Answer: no. Dream logic isn't story logic. Transcribe a dream, and you'll see. Or better yet, tell someone an important dream - 'Well, I was in this house that was also my old school, and there was this nurse and she was really an old witch and then she went away but there was a leaf and I couldn't look at it and I knew if I touched it then something dreadful would happen...' - and watch their eyes glaze over.) And I don't give straight answers.
Until recently. My daughter Holly, who is seven years of age, persuaded me to come in to give a talk to her class. Her teacher was really enthusiastic ('The children have all been making their own books recently, so perhaps you could come along and tell them about being a professional writer. And lots of little stories. They like the stories.') and in I came.
They sat on the floor, I had a chair, fifty seven-year-old-eyes gazed up at me. 'When I was your age, people told me not to make things up,' I told them. 'These days, they give me money for it.' For twenty minutes I talked, then they asked questions. And eventually one of them asked it. 'Where do you get your ideas?' And I realized I owed them an answer.
They weren't old enough to know any better. And it's a perfectly reasonable question, if you aren't asked it weekly. This is what I told them: You get ideas from daydreaming. You get ideas from being bored. You get ideas all the time.
The only difference between writers and other people is we notice when we're doing it. You get ideas when you ask yourself simple questions. The most important of the questions is just, What if...? (What if you woke up with wings? What if your sister turned into a mouse? What if you all found out that your teacher was planning to eat one of you at the end of term - but you didn't know who?) Another important question is, If only... (If only real life was like it is in Hollywood musicals.
If only I could shrink myself small as a button. If only a ghost would do my homework.) And then there are the others: I wonder... ('I wonder what she does when she's alone...') and If This Goes On... ('If this goes on telephones are going to start talking to each other, and cut out the middleman...') and Wouldn't it be interesting if... ('Wouldn't it be interesting if the world used to be ruled by cats?')... Those questions, and others like them, and the questions they, in their turn, pose ('Well, if cats used to rule the world, why don't they any more? And how do they feel about that?') are one of the places ideas come from. An idea doesn't have to be a plot notion, just a place to begin creating.
Plots often generate themselves when one begins to ask oneself questions about whatever the starting point is. Sometimes an idea is a person ('There's a boy who wants to know about magic'). Sometimes it's a place ('There's a castle at the end of time, which is the only place there is...'). Sometimes it's an image ('A woman, sifting in a dark room filled with empty faces.') Often ideas come from two things coming together that haven't come together before. ('If a person bitten by a werewolf turns into a wolf what would happen if a goldfish was bitten by a werewolf? What would happen if a chair was bitten by a werewolf?') All fiction is a process of imagining: whatever you write, in whatever genre or medium, your task is to make things up convincingly and interestingly and new.
And when you've an idea - which is, after all, merely something to hold on to as you begin - what then? Well, then you write. You put one word after another until it's finished - whatever it is. Sometimes it won't work, or not in the way you first imagined. Sometimes it doesn't work at all.
Sometimes you throw it out and start again. I remember, some years ago, coming up with a perfect idea for a Sandman story. It was about a succubus who gave writers and artists and songwriters ideas in exchange for some of their lives. I called it Sex and Violets. It seemed a straightforward story, and it was only when I came to write it I discovered it was like trying to hold fine sand: every time I thought I'd got hold of it, it would trickle through my fingers and vanish.
I wrote at the time: I've started this story twice, now, and got about half-way through it each time, only to watch it die on the screen. Sandman is, occasionally, a horror comic. But nothing I've written for it has ever gotten under my skin like this story I'm now going to have to wind up abandoning (with the deadline already a thing of the past). Probably because it cuts so close to home. It's the ideas - and the ability to put them down on paper, and turn them into stories - that make me a writer.
That mean I don't have to get up early in the morning and sit on a train with people I don't know, going to a job I despise. My idea of hell is a blank sheet of paper. Or a blank screen. And me, staring at it, unable to think of a single thing worth saying, a single character that people could believe in, a single story that hasn't been told before. Staring at a blank sheet of paper.
Forever. I wrote my way out of it, though. I got desperate (that's another flip and true answer I give to the where-do-you-get-your-ideas question. 'Desperation.' It's up there with 'Boredom' and 'Deadlines'. All these answers are true to a point.) and took my own terror, and the core idea, and crafted a story called Calliope, which explains, I think pretty definitively, where writers get their ideas from.
It's in a book called DREAM COUNTRY. You can read it if you like. And, somewhere in the writing of that story, I stopped being scared of the ideas going away. Where do I get my ideas from? I make them up. Out of my head.
Paper for above instructions
Exploring the Process and Philosophy of Writing: Insights from Stephen King and Neil GaimanIntroduction
Writing is a multidimensional art form that evokes both creativity and discipline. Authors Stephen King and Neil Gaiman share unique insights into the writing process—discussing everything from the conception of ideas to the challenges of the writing journey. Their reflections not only illuminate the craft of writing but also serve as guides for aspiring authors. This essay will analyze the musings of these two celebrated writers, focusing on their perspectives regarding the nature of writing, the source of ideas, and the significant challenges writers face.
The Essence of Writing According to King
In his memoir On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, Stephen King offers a powerful meditation on the nature of writing. King describes the writing process as requiring seriousness and commitment. He suggests that approaching the blank page lightly undermines the transformative power of writing (King, 2000). According to King, writing is not merely a hobby; it’s a vocation that deserves respect and reverence. His metaphor of placing nagging thoughts—likened to mice—in a jar serves as a technique for writers to isolate distractions and focus on their creative process. By envisioning the voices vying for attention as small creatures, writers can visualize and compartmentalize these thoughts, enabling them to concentrate on their writing (King, 2000).
King empowers writers to embrace their “shitty first drafts,” underscoring the importance of writing without self-judgment. He notes that the initial draft is merely a step towards the polished final product (King, 2000). As elaborated in his work, King’s belief is crucial—it demystifies the idea that a first draft must be flawless, encouraging writers to cultivate resilience and persistence.
The Role of Telepathy in Writing
An interesting metaphor King employs is the notion of telepathy in writing, wherein the author and the reader engage in a silent dialogue. He emphasizes that both writer and reader are engaging with the text across time and space, creating a shared experience that transcends their individual realities (King, 2000). This highlights the profound connection that literature can forge, allowing readers to gain insights into the author’s perspective, making the act of writing not only about storytelling but about fostering connection and empathy (Booth, 1988).
While some may dismiss the idea of telepathy as fanciful, this notion sheds light on the communicative power inherent in writing. King argues that ideas are distilled experiences and emotions that, when articulated well, resonate with others. This connection between writer and reader is what transforms mere words into impactful narratives.
Gaiman’s Perspective on Ideas and the Creative Process
Supplementing King’s ideas, Neil Gaiman addresses a common question asked of writers, “Where do you get your ideas?” Gaiman emphasizes that ideas are often the result of daydreaming, boredom, and asking questions (Gaiman, n.d.). He believes that the fundamental difference between writers and others is that writers actively notice these moments of inspiration and engage with them. By framing creativity as a responsive process, Gaiman underscores the idea that creativity is inherent in everyone but may be more readily accessed by those who conscious of their mental activity (Gaiman, n.d.).
He also introduces the power of inquiry in generating ideas. By asking “What if?” or “If only...,” writers can explore new possibilities that lay fertile ground for story creation (Gaiman, n.d.). Gaiman’s perspective highlights a practical approach to inspiring creativity, encouraging writers to embrace curiosity and imagination.
The Challenges Writers Face
Both King and Gaiman address the inherent struggles of writers, presenting a realistic view of the creative challenges they encounter. King candidly admits his fear of a blank page and the anxiety that can come with it, likening the experience to staring at a void (King, 2000). He notes that desperation can serve as a motivator, pushing writers to find their voice and ideas, a sentiment that resonates with many aspiring writers facing their insecurities.
Gaiman, on the other hand, speaks to the struggle of transforming an idea into a coherent story. He recounts his struggles with certain narratives that seemed promising in concept but proved to be challenging in execution (Gaiman, n.d.). This reflects the broader reality of the creative process, where the initial spark can sometimes dissipate during the attempt to flesh it out.
The Importance of Craft and Discipline
An essential theme woven throughout both writers’ insights is the importance of discipline and craft in writing. King’s message is clear that to become a successful writer, one must commit to the act of writing regularly, making it a daily ritual rather than a sporadic effort (King, 2000). He highlights the necessity of revising and improving one’s work, emphasizing that the first draft is merely a starting point, not the endpoint.
In a similar vein, Gaiman points out that the task of a writer is to put words to paper, one after another, and this process, while daunting, is essential for growth as a writer (Gaiman, n.d.). Both writers advocate for perseverance in the face of adversity and uncertainty. They remind aspiring authors that the journey of writing is fraught with difficulties, but that persistence and dedication are essential for success.
Conclusion
In summary, the insights from Stephen King and Neil Gaiman offer a rich tapestry of ideas surrounding the craft of writing. King’s reflective approach underscores the importance of seriousness, discipline, and the transformation of ideas into written narratives. Meanwhile, Gaiman emphasizes the freedom of creativity that comes from inquiry and imagination. Together, they paint a portrait of writing as a deeply personal yet universally resonant experience, highlighting the challenges, triumphs, and processes that define the journey of authorship.
Through their experiences, they encourage aspiring writers to embrace the complexities of the craft. Whether it’s compartmentalizing the internal voices or engaging in imaginative daydreaming, both authors remind us that writing is a profound and rewarding endeavor that requires heart, dedication, and skill.
References
1. Booth, W. C. (1988). The Rhetoric of Fiction. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
2. Gaiman, N. (n.d.). Where Do You Get Your Ideas?. Retrieved from https://neilgaiman.com/faq/where-do-you-get-your-ideas/
3. King, S. (2000). On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. New York: Pocket Books.
4. Elbow, P. (1998). Writing Without Teachers. New York: Oxford University Press.
5. McKee, R. (1997). Story: Substance, Structure, Style and the Principles of Screenwriting. New York: HarperCollins.
6. Zinsser, W. (2006). On Writing Well: The Classic Guide to Writing Nonfiction. New York: HarperCollins.
7. Rilke, R. M. (2009). Letters to a Young Poet. New York: Modern Library.
8. Lamott, A. (1994). Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. New York: Anchor Books.
9. Pressfield, S. (2012). The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles. New York: Black Irish Entertainment LLC.
10. Goldstein, J. (2018). Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within. New York: HarperOne.