Heshy took On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King out of the library and asked me to read it. I did. Here’s a section I really liked:
Someone- I can’t remember who, for the life of me- once wrote that all novels are really letters aimed at one person. As it happens, I believe this. I think that every novelist has a single ideal reader; that at various points during the composition of a story, the writer is thinking, “I wonder what he/she will think when he/she reads this part?” For me that first reader is my wife, Tabitha.
She has always been an extremely sympathetic and supportive first reader. Her positive reaction to difficult books like Bag of Bones (my first novel with a new publisher after twenty good years with Viking that came to an end in a stupid squabble about money) and relatively controversial ones like Gerald’s Game meant the world to me. But she’s alsoo unflinching when she sees something she thinks is wrong. When she does, she lets me know loud and clear.
In her role as critic and first reader, Tabby often makes me think of a story I read about Alfred Hitchcock’s wife, Alma Reville. Ms. Reville was the equivalent of Hitch’s first reader, a sharp-eyed critic who was totally unimpressed with the suspense-master’s growing reputation as an auteur. Lucky for him. Hitch says he wants to fly, Alma say, “First eat your eggs.”
Not long after finishing Psycho, Hitchcock screened it for a few friends. They raved about it, declaring it to be a suspense masterpiece. Alma was quiet until they’d all had their say, then spoke very firmly: “You can’t send it out like that.”
There was a thunderstruck silence, except for Hitchcock himself, who only asked why not. “Because,” his wife responded, “Janet Leigh swallows when she’s supposed to be dead.” It was true. Hitchcock didn’t argue any more than I do when Tabby points out one of my lapses. She and I may argue about many aspects of a book, and there have been times when I’ve gone against her judgment on subjective matters, but when she catches me in a goof, I know it, and thank God I’ve got someone around who’ll tell me my fly’s unzipped before I go out in public that waay.
[…]
Do all opinions weight the same? Not for me. In the end I listen most closely to Tabby, because she’s the one I write for, the one I want to wow. If you’re writing primarily for one person besides yourself, I’d advise you to pay very close attention to that person’s opinion (I know one fellow who says he writes mostly for someone who’s been dead fifteen years, but the majority of us aren’t in that position.) And if what you hear makes sense, then make the changes. You can’t let the whole world into your story, but you can let in the ones that matter the most. And you should.
Call that one person you write for the Ideal Reader. He or she is going to be in your writing room all the time: in the flesh once you open the door and let the world back into shine on the bubble of your dream, in spirit during the sometimes troubling and often exhilarating days of the first draft, when the door is closed. And you know what? You’ll find yourself bending the story even before Ideal Reader glimpses so much as the first sentence. I.R. will help you get outside yourself a little, to actually read your work in progress as an audience would while you’re still working. This is perhaps the best way of all to make sure you stick to story, a way of playing to the audience even while there’s no audience there and you’re totally in charge.
When I write a scene that strikes me as funny (like the pie-eating contest in “The Body” or the execution rehearsal in The Green Mile), I am also imagining my I.R. finding it funny .I love it when Tabby laughs out of control- she puts her hands up as if to say I surrender and those big tears go rolling down her cheeks. I love it, that’s all, fucking adore it, and when I get hold of something with that potential, I twist it as hard as I can. During the actual writing of such a scene (door closed), the thought of making her laugh- or cry- is in the back of my mind. During the rewrite (door open), the question - is it funny enough yet? scary enough?- is right up front. I try to watch her when she gets to a particular scene, hoping for at least a smile, or - jackpot, baby!- that big belly-laugh with the hands up, waving in the air.
This isn’t always easy on her. I gave her the manuscript of my novella Hearts in Atlantis while we were in North Carolina, where we’d gone to see a Cleveland Rockers-Charlotte Sting WNBA game. We drove north to Virginia the following day, and it was during this drive that Tabby read my story. There are some funny parts in it- at least I thought so- and I kept peeking over at her to see if she was chuckling (or at least smiling). I didn’t think she’d notice, but of course she did. On my eighth or ninth peek (I guess it could have been my fifteenth),s he looked up and snapped: “Pay attention to your driving before you crack us up, will you? Stop being so goddam needy!”
I paid attention to my driving and stopped sneaking peeks (well…almost). About five minutes later, I heard a snort of laughter from my right. Just a little one, but it was enough for me. The truth is that most writers are needy. Especially between the first draft and the second, when the study door swings open and the light of the world shines in.
-pages 215-220
Cracks me up that the same husband-wife story that you can see with On ben Pelet and Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik also shows up for Hitchcock and Stephen King. I’m not surprised at all, just entertained.
Unlike King, I don’t take critiques well. But my ideal reader isn’t scared of me, and he can throw down with the best of them, so if we have to go a few rounds, it’s fine.
(And let’s be honest- he’s the only one who can consistently get me to do things I don’t want to do. Go Heshy.)
Here’s another quote from On Writing that I liked:
Talent renders the whole idea of rehearsal meaningless; when you find something at which you are talented, you do it (whatever it is) until your fingers bleed or your eyes are ready to fall out of your head. Even when no one is listening (or reading, or watching), every outing is a bravura performance, because you as the creator are happy. Perhaps even ecstatic. That goes for reading and writing as well as for playing a musical instrument, hitting a baseball, or running the four-forty. The sort of strenuous reading and writing program I advocate- four to six hours a day, every day- will not seem strenuous if you really enjoy doing these things and have an aptitude for them; in fact, you may be following such a program already. If you feel you need permission to do all the reading and writing your little heart desires, however, consider it hereby granted by yours truly.
-page 150
And then this just cracked me up.
Write what you like, then imbue it with life and make it unique by blending in your own personal knowledge of life, friendship, relationships, sex, and work. Especially work. People love to read about work. God knows why, but they do.
-page 161
Loved this.
Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it’s about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It’s about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy. Some of this book- perhaps too much- has been about how I learned to do it. Much of it has been about how you can do it better. The rest of it- and perhaps the best of it- is a permission slip: you can, you should, and if you’re brave enough to start, you will. Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink.
Drink and be filled up.
-pages 269-270