Couple well known facts about me (well known to me, I mean): I am a troubled sleeper and I am a late bloomer. Troubled sleeper – I have always felt a strange responsibility to stay up and make sure nothing happens to anyone in the night. What I’d do if something bad were to happen you ask? Probably fall asleep from the anxiety and stress.

Late bloomer – count the ways. So, it adds up that I’m late to a book that I’m sure every other writer has read in all its various translations. I’ve never read a Stephen King book. I don’t like horror, fantasy, sci-fi, none of it. Couldn’t interest me less. Toss me a psychological thriller, a suspense, even a courtroom drama, but not horror. No sirree. Then I’d really never go to sleep.

Here’s the deal. This book is a goddamn page-turner. It’s a book on writing for chrissakes and I’m missing subway stops and pulling it out on check out lines, because I’m riveted. Riveted! By what? Learning how to write better? Reading about learning how to write better? No, this guy is just great fucking conversation. I want him to talk my ear off.

Too bad I finished it yesterday.

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