Every time I think about it, the number of years that have passed overwhelms me with something a little less than grief and a little more than wonder.
34 years. . . and counting.
And yet, when I tap into the power of that almighty muse that fueled my way through the autumn of 1992, I find that it is as strong today as it was back then.
What is most interesting about that experience is that, incredibly enough, what I wrote through the New England Nor’easters and blizzards was far from my finest work. That novel, Night Terrors, has yet to see the light (or dark) of day with any of my readers.
It’s not that it’s that bad; it’s just not that good.
That’s not the point, though. I needed to work through the challenges of writing my first 100K+ manuscript without the help of others. I spent at least 15 hours in a movie theater in South Natick, Massachusetts watching Jennifer 8 over and over, listening to the music, connecting with the storyline, leaning into the predictability after viewing number 3 to consider my own plot’s needs, vision, and yes – soundtrack. (We were still 8+ years away from the birth of iTunes, and the movie tunes were not yet out on CD.)
The small room I was renting in a farmhouse was all I needed while writing to stay close to the songs that played in my head and the words found between the covers of my well-loved copy of Stephen King’s Uncut Edition of The Stand.
I found inspiration. I defeated writer’s block. I emerged with a book at the pique of a power-killing blizzard in mid-December and realized, for the first time in my life, what it meant to write for a living.
Now, to be fair, I wasn’t under contract to write the book. In fact, it would be another seven years before I would receive my first publication payout for a story I sold to Baltimore’s Child.
The money was never the point. It wasn’t then, and it still isn’t today.
34 years later. . . .
What’s changed is – and I’m just going to say it – the absolute corruption of my once-almighty muse from technology, social media, and a world of unimaginable realities.
Back then, when I lived in New England, nothing got in the way of my imagination. The only what-ifs I considered were those of my own creative crafting. The world was not too much with me, to paraphrase Wordsworth. I had consumed Thoreau’s Simplify! Simplify! Simplify! elixir and sounded my Whitmanian Barbaric Yawp from my newly discovered rooftops.
And all of this surrounded by Christopher Young’s haunting piano music and the genius crafting of story with King’s Larry Underwood, Mother Abigail Freemantle, Stuart Redman, and the ever-lovable Frannie Goldsmith taking me with them on an 1,100-page trip of Captain-esque proportions.
Which brings me to today. Or, yesterday, to be precise.
This past week was trying in many ways, as have been many weeks lately, and my ever-faithful antidote of visiting Snug Books in Baltimore did not disappoint. Waiting for me on the special orders shelf was my long-ago preordered copy of Other Worlds Than These, Stephen King’s third book in the Talisman trilogy that just released five days prior. The original Talisman released 42 years ago – 1984 – when I was just exploring King’s earliest works – Carrie, The Shining, and Salem’s Lot.
When Kate, the bookseller, placed Other Worlds in my hands, I felt the rush of 1992 Rus surge within me, the sounds of a solo piano playing Jennifer‘s theme through my veins.
This is exactly what I need, I thought. I need Jennifer and Stephen to come to my rescue.
Not an app with daily creativity prompts. Not an online writing group. Not another digital entry into my phone whining about why I am not writing, what I need to do, and how I plan on doing it.
Jennifer and Stephen showed up. Knocking staccato notes on my muse’s dusty old door. Demanding that I come out and play some more like I used to all those (34) years ago in the tempestuous days in New England.
This time, this autumn, this Sunday in a small independent book store in Baltimore, I let that surge course through me willingly, and it was frighteningly delightful.
On the way home, my almighty muse wandered playfully on to old tot lots, discovering worlds under grainy sands where my oldest brother led me in fantastical stories so long ago.
What awaits me and my readers all these years later? What am I finally ready to discover that had been under my hard-sole shoes in these last 34 years?
This afternoon, I dusted off my first-edition copy of The Talisman and opened to page one.
“On September 15th, 1981, a boy named Jack Sawyer stood where the water and land come together. . . .”
And so I stand between my own two worlds of water and land, listening to those familiar sounds of Jennifer 8, playing with ideas and words and worlds, absolutely giddy with delight in anticipation of what awaits.
It’s never too late. Not even 34 years later.
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