Kindle edition.
One of my life’s mantras is “Life’s too short to read bad books.”
This is one of them.
I got about halfway through, and at the 22nd (I kid you not) time that Stephen King’s name was invoked, I finally got rid of it. Up to this point, I suffered through how my writing sucks, how it will take one million words before I write something good, to keep on trying, to put butt in chair, to not use “demanded” or “cajoled” instead of said, to be careful what I name my characters, and be forced to read one whiny writer’s blog post (and I could tell it was a blog post!) – and on, and on, and on it went.
We’re given the author’s name, their website – and you have to have a website to be a real author these days – and the fun little ### that means “The End”. How cute. Is that supposed to make me think you’re professionals? Why don’t you add some other proofreader’s marks and really impress me?
Don’t you think that the end of the page means “The End?”
This entire book was insulting. It didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. It was made for beginners, for people who wanted to listen to their own voices in the wilderness, a bunch of writers who go to too many conferences and sit around talking to themselves. They probably would be a great bunch of people to be in a writing group, and that’s what this book sounded like.
I skimmed through the rest, and Stephen King’s name was mentioned multiple times. I’m glad these guys are fans. Do I think I’ll be the next Stephen King? No. Am I aspiring to do that? No. I’ve got my book out there, I’m not pushing it (I’ll be honest), and I’m writing. I’m just writing.
Well, revising, right now, but that’s another story.
A writer is one who writes, end of story. It’s all luck whether one gets published or not.