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. …”
The road to hell is paved with adverbs.
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.