Vanderbrew

As I’m currently listening to Bag of Bones I’ve been thinking more about Stephen King’s writing and writing in general. It’s my opinion that Stephen King is a much better writer than many people give him credit for. Amber she suggested that it could be due to his particular subject matter and that makes sense, but I think that many people are missing out if they’re avoiding him for that reason.

Bag of Bones is a scary book at times and I find that it definitely keeps me on the edge of my proverbial seat but the writing is really, really good. I think that part of what makes his writing so enjoyable for me is the shear panorama of his imagery. I’ve done a lot of reading in my life and often when I’m reading something I know what an author will say before I read it because it’s just a common phrase. Not common enough to be trite or banal, but I’ve seen it before, or I’ve thought of it and I just kind of stay on the tracks of the book, gliding along while my mind smacks mindlessly on a piece of gum. With King however, I find that I’ll be reading (or listening) along and he won’t paint the picture how I expect him to. He zigs when many others would have zagged. I take a moment and the picture unfolds in my mind in a new and unexpected manner. This makes the story more real and keeps me more involved in it at the front of my mind rather than shuffling it along to the back while I think about other things.

Another thing about King (though it might be more this particular book than the author in general) is that he makes me want to write. It may be because he crafts something special but attainable. Yes, he’s a good writer. No, he’s not Faulkner, but he’s good. I can read what he writes, and grasp it, and aspire to it. It’s not so plain that there’s no pull and it’s not so vaunted that it’s completely out of my reach.

“Dear me, I am terribly sorry for bleeding all over your floor like this.”

As I looked out at the desolation in front of me, the words of a song drifted through my mind on the tattered winds of memory.

After Oshka fell from his horse for the third time, the villagers began to wonder about the qualifications of their hero.

So, I’ve been exchanging emails with Ernie today and one of the things I sent him was a link to a short story I wrote back in 2003. I haven’t read it for a number of years and I read back over part of it today after I sent the link out. While I was reading it, I realized something - I’m a good writer.

Now, I know that that doesn’t exactly sound modest and I may be a bit biased, but really, I think I’m quite good at it. I completely recognize that the story was mostly a first draft and definitely requires some polish, but the nuts and bolts are there and, if anything, I think I’m a better writer now than I was 4 years ago. Moreover, reading some stuff I’ve written makes me want to write more.

So, now that I’ve got you all pumped up and interested (neat trick, huh ;-)) here’s the short story I wrote:
Joes’s Short Life

PS - Please ignore the gratuitous panhandling after the story. I can’t find the original document to republish the PDF and I’m a different person today with different goals and aspirations.

PPS - Thanks, Ernie, for re-awakening this.

Ragar’s rebellion began when he sheathed his sword in his father’s sleeping form.

Autumn leaves crunched beneath Fred’s sneakers as he paused before the home he was barred from.

Terror coursed through Jonah’s veins as the torches of the approaching mob threw scattered shadows on the ramshackle buildings.

Old design was stale.
Wanted to try something new.
How do you like it?

Graceful sheep stream down
The mountainside like water.
Cows watch below - Mooooooo.