I Write; Therefore, I Read

I never cared for Stephen King.

I knew he was an incredibly prolific author, the adopted son of Maine and progenitor of my clown nightmares. That's where I was content to leave my familiarity with him; once I have been reduced to tears of terror and snorts of self-aware shame in a public showing of the film It (because my sister heard it was "really good!" and didn't want to go alone), I'm happy to acknowledge this genre might not be for me. But after hearing that I should read his memoir On Writing from multiple published authors, I decided to listen to them over the din of my clown-induced sobs and give it a go.

I read two hundred pages in three hours.

Yes, as a teacher I've honed my ability to skim through student essays, and yes, I've been starved for reading material beyond dispassionate history textbooks, but this memoir was darn good. Aside from his vivid storytelling ability (Indeed, the first chunk of the book is about his childhood, which I never thought I would care to hear about, but he hooked me! Maybe that's why he's a famous author.), he just gives some practical, down-to-earth advice about writing. The one that sticks out most in my mind is this: to be a writer, you have to read a lot. No exceptions.

And there it was, my carte blanche to kick back and drift through Frank Herbert, Kurt Vonnegut, J. K. Rowling (a tenth time)! To produce something creative, you must replenish your own font. And what a breakthrough that was, to be given permission by Stephen King himself to read for pleasure despite a demanding day job and home life. I realized I had written off reading books for fun as something I used to do, back in my college days, when I still had this since-forgotten thing called "time." No more.

Guiltless, I dove into a new genre: treatises on grammar. Stephen King had quoted many times the seminal work on the English language, Strunk and White's The Elements of Style. Though I've read its entertaining knock-off cousin, The Elephants of Style, and though its rules have been hammered into me by persnickety, beloved high school English teachers, I had never gone straight to the source.

I love it. I love it so much, I'm reading "the little book" slowly to let its wisdom marinate my soul. I realize many would assume a list of grammar rules is not the height of entertainment, but Strunk is sassy in a way that only tight-assed, rule-abiding nerds can be. Much as a Lord of the Rings fan would split hairs over the proper pronunciation of the Black Speech of Mordor, Strunk berates the philistines who split infinitives. He makes you want to learn the elements of style just so you can earn his approval and be in on the joke.

Strunk's lessons fluidly infiltrated my writing. Not blog posts, mind you, but professional emails—emails to my students. In response to homework or essay queries, I abandoned my generally warm tone for "one must avoid the passive voice" and advised they "omit needless words." Perhaps it wasn't the best approach during a time of social isolation, but it wasn't intentional, and that's my point. If my writing can so easily absorb the style of a glorified grammar book, how much more beneficial would an actual book be?

So, because of Stephen King, I now consider reading an essential part of my day. Like eating, sleeping, and walking my dog, reading is a must. One must read if one wishes to write.

And with that, I give myself permission to explore a new land free from pandemics but doubtless ridden with some fantastical pestilence that only our hero can overcome.

Thanks, Stephen King!

Dog-Worthy

My dog's sighs are definitive.

When she heaves out a gusty breath, she is over it: it is long past bedtime, or she should have gone on her afternoon walk thirty minutes ago, or heaven knows we are eating right in front of her to torture her.

Each sigh signals utter resignation. She has given up the fight, and this—whatever the status quo—is her life now. Forever.

Her current doom is to cuddle with my boyfriend on the couch while Bob Ross paints softly in the background. Every time I stir, she snaps awake and stares up at me with longing. And every time I don't move toward the bedroom, she drops her head slowly back down on the couch, punctuating her disappointment with a sigh: she wants to go to sleep, goddammit.

And to do that properly, she requires complete darkness, absolute silence, her bed. Anything less cheapens it.

After the fourth or fifth lamentation, she starts to feel like my conscience. I know I should be going to bed earlier than this. Do I really need to prolong my losing streak in Hearthstone? Will Reddit implode if I don't read every new r/aww post? What have I gained from staying up so late, apart from my dog's judgment?

And it usually works. If I won't do it for myself, I can at least do it for my dog. That's what her sighs say, I'm sure. On occasion, she won't even wait for me. She will trot into the dark, quiet bedroom and plop down on her cushion emphatically, forcing me to contend with the reality that in my household, my dog sets the example.

Once we have both tucked ourselves in (as we have now, because dog guilt trips work), she is content. What had been huffs of hopelessness give way to delicate snores of approval. I have made the responsible choice.

My dog lets me know what she's thinking many ways other than sighing. I could (and will) write a parvum opus about her expressive ears, for instance. But her sighs are what push me to be a better person. When I hear her let one out, I know I have some thinking to do about how I have displeased her so. And usually, whatever corrective action I take for her sake benefits me too: I take her on that walk, I put back those chips, I go the eff to bed.

I love my dog simply because she is my dog (the best dog), and these transcendent moments of understanding between us, however melodramatic or judging, only strengthen that love. I like to think that she loves me not because I feed, pet, and play with her (even let her sleep, sometimes), but because I am her human. And because I am her human, I get grief for the errors of my ways. Because I am her human, I strive to be worthy of her. And because I am her human, I want to be able to say at the end of the day, especially if we haven't officially put an end to that day, that I took care of her to the best of my ability.

Now if I could just live the rest of my life the way my dog thinks I should, I'll be set.