JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 16 из 425“Did you see that first press release from Random House?” I knew she had. “They’re just about calling me V. C. Andrews with a prick, for God’s sake.”
“Well,” she said, lightly grabbing the object in question, “you do have a prick. As far as what they’re calling you… Mike, when I was in third grade, Patty Banning used to call me a booger-hooker. But I wasn’t.”
“Perception is everything.”
“Bullshit.” She was still holding my dick and now gave it a formidable squeeze that hurt a little and felt absolutely wonderful at the same time. That crazy old trouser mouse never really cared what it got in those days, as long as there was a lot of it. “Happiness is everything.
Are you happy when you write, Mike?”
“Sure.” It was what she knew, anyway.
“Sknd does your conscience bother you when you write?”
“When I write, there’s nothing I’d rather do except this,” I said, and rolled on top of her.
“Oh dear,” she said in that prissy little voice that always cracked me up. “There’s a penis between us.”
And as we made love, I realized a wonderful thing or two: that she had meant it when she said she really liked my book (hell, I’d known she liked it just from the way she sat in the wing chair reading it, with a lock of hair falling over her brow and her bare legs tucked beneath her), and that I didn’t need to be ashamed of what I had written… not in her eyes, at least. And one other wonderful thing: her perception, joined with my own to make the true binocular vision nothing but marriage allows, was the only perception that mattered.
Thank God she was a Maugham fan.
I was V. C. Andrews with a prick for ten years… fourteen, if you add in the post-Johanna years. The first five were with Random; then my agent got a huge offer from Putnam and I jumped.
You’ve seen my name on a lot of bestseller lists. . if, that is, your Sunday paper carries a list that goes up to fifteen instead of just listing the top ten. I was never a Clancy, Ludlum, or Grisham, but I moved a fair number of hardcovers (V. C. Andrews never did, Harold Oblowski, my agent, told me once; the lady was pretty much a paperback phenomenon) and once got as high as number five on the ’mes list… that was with my second book, The Red-Shirt Man. Ironically, one of the books that kept me from going higher was Sted Machine, by Thad Beaumont (writing as George Stark). The Beaumonts had a summer place in Castle Rock back in those days, not even fifty miles south of our place on Dark Score Lake. Thad’s dead now. Suicide.
“Well,” she said, lightly grabbing the object in question, “you do have a prick. As far as what they’re calling you… Mike, when I was in third grade, Patty Banning used to call me a booger-hooker. But I wasn’t.”
“Perception is everything.”
“Bullshit.” She was still holding my dick and now gave it a formidable squeeze that hurt a little and felt absolutely wonderful at the same time. That crazy old trouser mouse never really cared what it got in those days, as long as there was a lot of it. “Happiness is everything.
Are you happy when you write, Mike?”
“Sure.” It was what she knew, anyway.
“Sknd does your conscience bother you when you write?”
“When I write, there’s nothing I’d rather do except this,” I said, and rolled on top of her.
“Oh dear,” she said in that prissy little voice that always cracked me up. “There’s a penis between us.”
And as we made love, I realized a wonderful thing or two: that she had meant it when she said she really liked my book (hell, I’d known she liked it just from the way she sat in the wing chair reading it, with a lock of hair falling over her brow and her bare legs tucked beneath her), and that I didn’t need to be ashamed of what I had written… not in her eyes, at least. And one other wonderful thing: her perception, joined with my own to make the true binocular vision nothing but marriage allows, was the only perception that mattered.
Thank God she was a Maugham fan.
I was V. C. Andrews with a prick for ten years… fourteen, if you add in the post-Johanna years. The first five were with Random; then my agent got a huge offer from Putnam and I jumped.
You’ve seen my name on a lot of bestseller lists. . if, that is, your Sunday paper carries a list that goes up to fifteen instead of just listing the top ten. I was never a Clancy, Ludlum, or Grisham, but I moved a fair number of hardcovers (V. C. Andrews never did, Harold Oblowski, my agent, told me once; the lady was pretty much a paperback phenomenon) and once got as high as number five on the ’mes list… that was with my second book, The Red-Shirt Man. Ironically, one of the books that kept me from going higher was Sted Machine, by Thad Beaumont (writing as George Stark). The Beaumonts had a summer place in Castle Rock back in those days, not even fifty miles south of our place on Dark Score Lake. Thad’s dead now. Suicide.