Trying

"Are these stories any good? I hope so...

I loved writing these, I know that. And I hope you like reading them, I know that, too. I hope they take you away. And as long as I remember how to do it, I'll keep at it.

And now, let me get out of your way. But before I go, I want to thank you for coming. Would I still do what I do if you didn't? Yes, indeed I would. Because it makes me happy when the words fall together and the picture comes and the make-believe people do things that delight me. But it's better with you, Constant Reader.

Always better with you."

-- from Stephen King's Introduction to Just After Sunset, his latest collection of short stories

--

I bought the book this morning, a rare purchase of reading material from a Wal-Mart. I needed something to pass the time while my car was getting its oil changed and its tires rotated.

Say what you will about Stephen King. He's one of my favorite living writers, precisely for passages like the one above. From a purely literary perspective, he's no match to McCarthy or Roth, but whatever respect I lose for him when his pop-horror duds hit the market (come on, no one read Cell, probably because of the cover illustration), I more than make up for with admiration when I read his addresses to Constant Readers.

And especially with a dynamite book like On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, you gotta respect the guy's passion for what he does. Pretension and bestsellers aside, at least he's a pop writer who's trying.

--

Today, at a Wendy's, I waited to order. A group of teenagers in front of me kept changing their long order, so I had lots of time to get bored and do some good ol' fashioned (slightly creepy, definitely geeky) people-watching.

And listening. Behind me, an old woman and her brother (father? son? husband?) stood side by side, dressed in almost identical torn jeans and checkered shirts. It was raining heavily outside, still is, and these folks looked like they had walked through the thickest of the shit: drenched, their long gray hairs tawnied and twisted down their cheeks and across their foreheads. They had a conversation about books:

Man: "Went to the library again."
Woman: "Why?"
"Got books. What else?"
"Didn't you already?"
"Yep. Had about ten out. Now I have ten, plus some."
"Pay those fines?"
"What fines?"
"Got a notice at the house."
"Damn. How much?"
"I didn't look."
"Damn."
"What books?"
"That I got? A few I've wanted to read for a while. One of them's in Russian. Can't read it."
"Why'd you get a book you can't read?"
"It's fun."
"But you can't read it."
"Yeah, but I look at the pages and I try to read it."
"Whatever. Waste your time..."
"I imagine I know what's going on. I look for names."
"How do you know what's a name and what's just words in Russian?"
"That's what makes it fun. Trying."
"Are all of the books you got in Russian?"
"No."
"Do you actually read the ones in English?"
"Sometimes."
"Idiot."
"Hey, at least I read."
"I read."
"No you don't."

And then it was my turn to order.