I hardly ever reread books. Even if it’s a super favorite, I will pass over rereading a book because holy library, Batman!, there are so many books to read.
I made an exception and am rereading Stephen King’s On Writing. Or, rather, relistening to it. King reads the book, which is part autobiography, part plain talk about the bidness of putting pen to paper. Not all the economics of it, but the work of story, plot, and the glorious words.
I will admit that this is the only King book I’ve ever read. I think his others would scare me too much. But I so appreciate his straightforward approach, and think he’d be a good neighbor, or a good friend of your dad’s. You know.
One of the things King talks about is avoiding bullshit – bullshit characters, bullshit dialogue, bullshit in general. Avoid tired metaphors. Be authentic.
So, it’s especially painful that I’ve had Bon Jovi’s “Bed of roses” stuck in my head for most of the week.
Now, I love, love, love me some Bon Jovi. But can we all agree that “With an iron-clad fist, I wake up to French kiss the morning” is the single worst, most bullshit-laden line ever written anywhere, for any medium, at any time ever?
I know Stephen King doesn’t approve.