Stephen King
In his book, On Writing – A Memoir Of The Craft, Stephen King writes, “… I stopped in the lobby to thank the concierge again for letting me use Mr. Kipling’s beautiful desk. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” he replied. He was wearing a misty, reminiscent little smile, as if he had known the writer himself. “Kipling died there, actually. Of a stroke. While he was writing.”
I went back upstairs to catch a few hours’ sleep, thinking of how often we are given information we really could have done without. …”
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The road to hell is paved with adverbs.
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Like your bedroom, your writing room should be private, a place where you go to dream … The place can be humble, and it needs only one thing. A door you are willing to shut.
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