-Stephen King-
Many times (usually about forty thousand words into writing a book) I get the feeling that whatever I am writing is the worst thing that was ever vomited out on a page, and represents the low point in English literature.
When I reach the doldrums, I begin to wonder why I write novels. Why am I spending all of my free time grinding out thousands of words worth of nonsense when I could be fishing? This happens so consistently that I have developed a defense against the blues, and I thought I would share it today with the three people who actually read this blog.
Books have been one of the subtle blessings in my life. No novel will fill the pantry or the gas tank. There has never been a story that was so good that it cured some horrifying disease. But the major crises of life have their own solutions. What sometimes lacks treatment are the tiny stresses and disappointments that snowball over the course of the day or the week.
It was these tiny stresses that books relieved when I was a young man. When the American luxury problems piled up, and I began to feel overwhelmed, I could pick up a book and go somewhere else for awhile. Finding a date for prom doesn't matter when Gus is riding out to save Lorena. Trying to pass a test that I haven't the time to study for is irrelevant when James Bond has been taken captive by Dr. No. The family problems which shall not be named could be put off till after Gotrek Gurnisson has stemmed the tide of beastmen swarming over Altdorf.
Considering how great this blessing has been for me, I like to think that my work can offer some small bit of relief to those who enjoy my novels. I have derived so much comfort from the authors that I love, I am proud to do the same for others. So as you struggle against the current of life this week, take the time once in a while to step back and open a book. As for me, I had better go and check on Thuvia The Maid of Mars, she was in a pretty tough spot when I left her.
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