Stephen King is not a writer that ever attracted my interest. His genre, horror, is not a literary interest of mine, and for me, horror works better on a movie screen than in a book. I am a literary snob, I'll admit it: my bookshelf is full of Faulkner, Twain, Mailer, Cervantes, Shakespeare, Rushdie, Cheever -- you get the idea. I will stoop to a Game of Thrones or a Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas every once in a while, but that's about it.
Yes, I am a snob, my mind too imbibed in the rarefied concepts of high art, too discerning to be caught with a copy of Carrie or Tommyknockers, at least not in broad daylight.
But a few years back, I picked up an anthology of short stories that King had edited and written the forward to, and in his brief introduction, I found a better writer than I expected. I don't know what I expected, Bubba of the Boonies scribbling on leftover grocery bags maybe, but I found his writing lucid and sharp. The type of writing I might like. Then I kept coming across one title of his, On Writing, and, since writing is a particular interest of mine (and the book is held in high regard by many highbrow writing instructors), I decided to give it a shot.
Definitely worth it. King, to my pleasant surprise, is funny, sharp, and offers writers helpful advice. He doesn't waste time with topics well-covered elsewhere, admitting that writing is almost impossible to teach, and that a book about writing should therefore necessarily be short. "Most books about writing are filled with bullshit…I figured the shorter the book, the less the bullshit."
Although King knows he has sold a bazillion books, he is honest about his writing ability. He does not consider himself a genius, nor does he consider himself a literary lowlife. He sees himself a strong, but not an elite writer, who produces work that sells well because he works hard at it and doesn't settle for a shabby product. In other words, a writer who deserves some respect, but neither self-important nor self-doubting enough to feel the need to ask for it.
He has this to say about literary talent:
Above [the really good writers] are the Shakespeares, the Faulkners, the Yeatses, the Shaws, and the Eudora Weltys. They are the geniuses, divine accidents, gifted in a way which is beyond our ability to understand, let alone attain. Shit, most geniuses aren't able to understand themselves, and many of them lead miserable lives, realizing (at least on some level) that they are nothing but fortunate freaks, the intellectual version of runway models who just happen to be born with the right cheekbones and with breasts which fit the image of an age.
Not the way I was taught, but I like it. While I don't completely agree, thinking instead that great writers are unafraid to plumb depths most of us fear to go and therefore deserve some credit of their efforts, King's point is fair. Extraordinary writers did not do anything to earn their talents that lesser writers haven't, and we shouldn't reflexively extoll them for simply being what they are.
Most university English departments, and that includes the one I studied at, could do very well to take that idea seriously.
As a post note: Encourgaged by On Writing, I picked up a copy of The Shining recently and added it to my reading backlist. I will keep you posted.