Bag of Bones   ::   Кинг Стивен

Just as, if you publish too much, there are readers who’ll say,“Phew, I’ve had enough of this guy for awhile, it’s all starting to taste like beans.” I tell you all this so you’ll understand how I could spend four years using my computer as the world’s most expensive Scrabble board, and no one ever suspected. Writer’s block? What writer’s block? We don’t got no steenkin writer’s block. How could anyone think such a thing when there was a new Michael Noonan suspense novel appearing each fall just like clockwork, perfect for your late-summer pleasure reading, folks, and by the way, don’t forget that the holidays are coming and that all your relatives would also probably enjoy the new Noonan, which can he had at Borders at a thirty percent discount, oy way, such a deal. The secret is simple, and I am not the only popular novelist in America who knows it—if the rumors are correct, Danielle Steel (to name just one) has been using the Noonan Formula for decades. You see, although I have published a book a year starting with Being Two in 1984, I wrote two books in four of those ten years, publishing one and ratholing the other. I don’t remember ever talking about this with Jo, and since she never asked, I always assumed she understood what I was doing: saving up nuts. It wasn’t writer’s block I was thinking of, though. Shit, I was just having fun. By February of 1995, after crashing and burning with at least two good ideas (that particular function—the Eureka. Thing—has never stopped, which creates its own special version of hell), I could no longer deny the obvious: I was in the worst sort of trouble a writer can get into, barring Alzheimer’s or a cataclysmic stroke. Still, I had four cardboard manuscript boxes in the big safe-deposit box I keep up at Fidelity Union. They were marked Promise, Threat, Darcy, and %p. Around Valentine’s Day, my agent called, moderately nervous—I usually delivered my latest masterpiece to him by January, and here it was already half-past February. They would have to crash production to get this year’s Mike Noonan out in time for the annual Christmas buying orgy. Was everything all right? This was my first chance to say things were a country mile from all but Mr. Harold Oblowski of 225 Park Avenue wasn’t the sort of man you said such things to. He was a fine agent, both liked and, loathed in publishing circles (sometimes by the same people at the same time), but he didn’t adapt well to bad news from the dark and oil.treaked levels where the goods were actually produced. He would have ireaked and been on the next plane to Derry, ready to give me creative mouth-to-mouth, adamant in his resolve not to leave until he had yanked me out of my fugue.