As found on my substack page.
I was recently reading Stephen King’s writer’s manual, On Writing—in which the horror/thriller novelist spills his great writing beans for any aspiring author.

One section that resonated with me immensely covered the utility of having someone in particular in mind while you’re writing—someone you’re writing for, almost as though the story was a letter. I couldn’t help but begin to grin to myself and wag my finger toward and away from the page.       “Ah, Stevie boy—it is as if you already know me.” When it comes to non-fiction writing, I pretty much write for myself. I am usually imparting some knowledge to my past self or perhaps a future self that has forgotten a life-enhancing truth.

But when I write fiction—which is very new for me—yes, I still somewhat write for myself from phrase-to-phrase by the seat of my pants. I have no idea what is going to happen, as though I’m the one reading it.

But I’m really writing for the biggest story buff I know—my wife.

My wife immerses herself in stories like few people I've ever met. Whether a graphic novel, anime series, Korean drama, or a story told in person (even the gist of a movie), she is the queen of suspending her own reality in service of becoming one with the story. She is the ultimate investor.

So, as I've begun to let the gravity of an unfolding story lead me along, perhaps my greatest motivation is to build worlds for my wife—places for her to step inside, meet characters, ride along with them, gasp, nod, tsk, and yell at the page—which she's been known to do.

And I can't wait to do it all over again.

My wife, reading a story I freestyled about an unknown flying intelligence attacking a rural neighborhood.

The first draft of this piece using my “new” 75-year-old Smith Corona Clipper.

Thanks for reading Essays by Ken Lane. Subscribe for free to receive new posts.

Ver todos los episodios