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One Night When My Longing For Her Was Like A Fire Burning Out Of Control In My Heart And My Head, I Wrote Her A Letter That Just Seemed To Go On And On. I Poured Out My Whole Heart In It, Never Looking Back To See What I'd Said Because I Was Afraid Cowardice Would Make Me Stop. I Didn't Stop, And When A Voice In My Head Clamored That It Would Be Madness To Mail Such A Letter, That I Would Be Giving Her My Naked Heart To Hold In Her Hand, I Ignored It With A Child's Breathless Disregard Of The Consequences.

-Stephen King

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One Night When My

Stephen King

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One Night When My Longing For Her Was Like A Fire Burning Out Of Control In My Heart And My Head, I Wrote Her A Letter That Just Seemed To Go On And On. I Poured Out My Whole Heart In It, Never Looking Back To See What I'd Said Because I Was Afraid Cowardice Would Make Me Stop. I Didn't Stop, And When A Voice In My Head Clamored That It Would Be Madness To Mail Such A Letter, That I Would Be Giving Her My Naked Heart To Hold In Her Hand, I Ignored It With A Child's Breathless Disregard Of The Consequences.

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It’s Hard To Let Go. Even When What You’re Holding Onto Is Full Of Thorns, It’s Hard To Let Go. Maybe Especially Then.

Bad Writing Is More Than A Matter Of (expletive Deleted) Syntax And Faulty Observation; Bad Writing Usually Arises From A Stubborn Refusal To Tell Stories About What People Actually Do To Face The Fact, Let Us Say, That Murderers Sometimes Help Old Ladies Cross The Street.

I Love The Movies, And When I Go To See A Movie That's Been Made From One Of My Books, I Know That It Isn't Going To Be Exactly Like My Novel Because A Lot Of Other People Have Interpreted It. But I Also Know It Has An Idea That I'll Like Because That Idea Occurred To Me, And I Spent A Year, Or A Year And A Half Of My Life Working On It.

Any Parting Could Be Forever, And We Don't Know.

...for The First Time In My Life, Writing Was Hard. The Problem Was The Teaching...by Most Friday Afternoons I Felt As If I'd Spent The Week With Jumper Cables Clamped To My Brain.

They Were Still All Beautiful And There Was Still Enchantment And Wonder, But She Had Crossed A Line And Now The Fairy Tale Was Green With Corruption And Evil.

Fear Can Hold You Prisoner. Hope Can Set You Free.

Busy As A One Legged Man In An Ass Kicking Contest.

French Is The Language That Turns Dirt Into Romance.

Sometimes Stories Cry Out To Be Told In Such Loud Voices That You Write Them Just To Shut Them Up.

Calling It A Simple Schoolgirl Crush Was Like Saying A Rolls-royce Was A Vehicle With Four Wheels, Something Like A Hay-wagon. She Did Not Giggle Wildly And Blush When She Saw Him, Nor Did She Chalk His Name On Trees Or Write It On The Walls Of The Kissing Bridge. She Simply Lived With His Face In Her Heart All The Time, A Kind Of Sweet, Hurtful Ache. She Would Have Died For Him.

I See Things, That's All. Write Enough Stories And Every Shadow On The Floor Looks Like A Footprint; Every Line In The Dirt Like A Secret Message.

Friends Come In And Out Of Our Lives, Like Busboys In A Restaurant.

Wendy? Darling? Light, Of My Life. I'm Not Gonna Hurt Ya. I'm Just Going To Bash Your Brains In.

There Were No Horror Movies Or Horror Books To Speak Of In The '40s. I Picked The '50s Because That Pretty Well Spans My Life As An Appreciator - As Somebody Who's Been Involved With This Mass Cult Of Horror, From Radio And Movies And Saturday Matinees And Books. In The '40s There Really Wasn't That Much. People Don't Want To Read About Horrible Things In Horrible Times. So, In The '40s, There Was Val Lutin With The Cat People And The Curse Of The Cat People And There Wasn't Much Else.

Kids Know They Can't Make It Alone, Yet At The Same Time, Built Into Each One Of Us, Is A Survival Ethic. It Says, "nobody Cares And You Have To Look Out For Yourself And If You Don't, You'll Die." These Two Things Work Against Each Other. I Think Most Kids Are Very Frightened Of Their Parents, And That's What All Fairy Tales Reflect: Parents Will Fail You And You'll Be Left On Your Own. But, Of Course, Everything Comes Out Right In The End And The Parents Take You Back.

Books And Movies Are Like Apples And Oranges. They Both Are Fruit, But Taste Completely Different.

You Couldn't Not Like Someone Who Liked The Guitar.

If There's One American Belief I Hold Above All Others, It's That Those Who Would Set Themselves Up In Judgment On Matters Of What Is "right" And What Is "best" Should Be Given No Rest; That They Should Have To Defend Their Behavior Most Stringently. ... As A Nation, We've Been Through Too Many Fights To Preserve Our Rights Of Free Thought To Let Them Go Just Because Some Prude With A Highlighter Doesn't Approve Of Them

It Occured To Her That Pleasure, No Matter How Deep, Was A Ghostly, Ephemeral Thing. Love Might Make The World Go Round, But She Was Convinced It Ws The Cries Of The Badly Wounded Andf Deeply Afflicted Which Spun The Universe On The Great Glass Pole Of It's Axis.

I Simply Think That There Are Things In This World That Are Relics. We Have Unsettling Remnants Of Atlantis. They Have Found Things Off Bermuda, Great Walls And Things Of That Sort. This Seems To Indicate That There Were Races And Cultures That Went Before Us. And To Me, That's An Unsettling Idea.

The Late Afternoon Sunlight, Warm As Oil, Sweet As Childhood.

I've Been Typed As A Horror Writer, And I've Always Said To People, "i Don't Care What You Call Me As Long As The Checks Don't Bounce And The Family Gets Fed."

Sorry Is The Kool-aid Of Human Emotions. It's What You Say When You Spill A Cup Of Coffee Or Throw A Gutter Ball When You're Bowling With The Girls In The League. True Sorrow Is As Rare As True Love.

What Do You Really Want To Know? Am I Sorry For What I Did? There's Not A Day Goes By I Don't Feel Regret. Not Because I'm In Here, But Because You Think I Should Be. I Look Back On The Way I Was. A Young, Stupid Kid That Committed That Terrible Crime. I Want To Talk To Him. I Want To Try To Talk Some Sense To Him. Tell Him The Way Things Are. But I Can't. That Kid's Long Gone, And This Old Man Is All That's Left.

I've Killed Enough Of The World's Trees.

I Have An Idea Of How The Book Will Finish Up, But It Very Rarely Finishes Up The Way That I Think It's Going To.

She Couldn't Be On His Wavelength All The Time. That's All. When You Could Recognize That And Deal With It, You Were On Your Way To An Adult Relationship.

God Pisses Down The Back Of Your Neck Every Day But Only Drowns You Once.

Dark Tower Series

The Scholar's Greatest Weakness: Calling Procrastination Research.

Procrastination

When The Time Is Gone, You Can Never Get It Back.

The Boat Dipped And Swayed And Sometimes Took On Water, But It Did Not Sink; The Two Brothers Had Waterproofed It Well. I Do Not Know Where It Finally Fetched Up, If It Ever Did; Perhaps It Reached The Sea And Sails There Forever, Like A Magic Boat In A Fairytale. All I Know Is That It Was Still Afloat And Still Running On The Breast Of The Flood When It Passed The Incorporated Town Limits Of Derry, Maine, And There It Passes Out Of This Tale Forever.

But Sorry Is The Kool-aid Of Human Emotions. [...] True Sorrow Is As Rare As True Love.

"you Need Hedges.""hedges," I Said, Bemused. "yes, Edgar." He Looked Surprised And A Little Disappointed, As If I Had Failed To Understand A Very Simple Concept. "hedges Against The Night."

Story Is Honorable And Trustworthy; Plot Is Shifty, And Best Kept Under House Arrest.

The Road To Hell Is Paved With Adverbs.

Writers Are Often The Worst Judges Of What They Have Written.

The Monster Nevers Dies.

Everyone Needs A Hobby, He Said. And Everyone Needs A Miracle Or Two, Just To Prove Life Is More Than Just One Long Trudge From The Cradle To The Grave.

You Couldn't Get Hold Of The Things You'd Done And Turn Them Right Again. Such A Power Might Be Given To The Gods, But It Was Not Given To Women And Men, And That Was Probably A Good Thing. Had It Been Otherwise, People Would Probably Die Of Old Age Still Trying To Rewrite Their Teens.

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