Hello, I am Araignee,
Interested in French as a little girl reading Stephen King's novels, I am now fluent in it. Married to a Frenchman. However, life is only slightly less complicated than it was in my childhood. I won't describe my childhood, saving that for my fourth book.
I refused to write in my teens, having stopped when I was 9, convinced I should become a professional, instead. Infected by a bacteria which destroyed a sizeable amount of my long and short term memory in 2011, I "woke up" to find myself a writer, taking after Mr. King, who I always imagined reading to me from my bedside as a child.
When I was a little girl, my father was a rather frightening man who more closely resembled the character, Jack, in "The Shining". So, instead of dealing with that which I could not fix, I, instead, imagined Mr. King as my father, reading me his books at night so that I would fall asleep. Sleep came to me with great difficulty, even as a child. Of course, the daughter of a monster might find it naturally challenging to sleep, given all of the questions such a conundrum of genetics might place in her mind.
So, here I am. I have been terrified that Mr. King might not be here before I wrote something worthwhile to read. I have now succeeded at writing a novelette which is worthwhile.
What does one do in such a situation to let the King know that the time has come? I am ready to eat a lobster with butter in Maine while I discuss writing with the Grand Master. Fan mail? I could not put my admiration in but one letter. Comment faire, je vous demande, comment arriver a une solution aussi simple, que ca?
So, I have, instead, offered a lifetime of admiration. I wrote my Honor's Thesis on "The Evolution of Stephen King". I impressed my professors, but really, only Stephen King was important to me, the man who had sat on my bed, reading "Salem's Lot" to me, at ten years of age, in the dim orange light from my heated blanket.
I do not want to change his life, but to enhance it. He has so greatly enhanced mine, and while, I will never, I imagine, write as prolifically as he has, I hope but to enhance his life a tiny amount with my writing.
Interested in French as a little girl reading Stephen King's novels, I am now fluent in it. Married to a Frenchman. However, life is only slightly less complicated than it was in my childhood. I won't describe my childhood, saving that for my fourth book.
I refused to write in my teens, having stopped when I was 9, convinced I should become a professional, instead. Infected by a bacteria which destroyed a sizeable amount of my long and short term memory in 2011, I "woke up" to find myself a writer, taking after Mr. King, who I always imagined reading to me from my bedside as a child.
When I was a little girl, my father was a rather frightening man who more closely resembled the character, Jack, in "The Shining". So, instead of dealing with that which I could not fix, I, instead, imagined Mr. King as my father, reading me his books at night so that I would fall asleep. Sleep came to me with great difficulty, even as a child. Of course, the daughter of a monster might find it naturally challenging to sleep, given all of the questions such a conundrum of genetics might place in her mind.
So, here I am. I have been terrified that Mr. King might not be here before I wrote something worthwhile to read. I have now succeeded at writing a novelette which is worthwhile.
What does one do in such a situation to let the King know that the time has come? I am ready to eat a lobster with butter in Maine while I discuss writing with the Grand Master. Fan mail? I could not put my admiration in but one letter. Comment faire, je vous demande, comment arriver a une solution aussi simple, que ca?
So, I have, instead, offered a lifetime of admiration. I wrote my Honor's Thesis on "The Evolution of Stephen King". I impressed my professors, but really, only Stephen King was important to me, the man who had sat on my bed, reading "Salem's Lot" to me, at ten years of age, in the dim orange light from my heated blanket.
I do not want to change his life, but to enhance it. He has so greatly enhanced mine, and while, I will never, I imagine, write as prolifically as he has, I hope but to enhance his life a tiny amount with my writing.
