Stephen King
Stephen King
Stephen Edwin Kingis an American author of contemporary horror, supernatural fiction, suspense, science fiction, and fantasy. His books have sold more than 350 million copies, many of which have been adapted into feature films, miniseries, television shows, and comic books. King has published 54 novels, including seven under the pen name Richard Bachman, and six non-fiction books. He has written nearly 200 short stories, most of which have been collected in book collections. Many of his stories are set in...
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth21 September 1947
CityPortland, ME
People think that I must be a very strange person. This is not correct. I have the heart of a small boy. It is in a glass jar on my desk.
Yes, I've made a great deal of dough from my fiction, but I never set a single word down on paper with the thought of being paid for it ... I have written because it fulfilled me ... I did it for the buzz. I did it for the pure joy of the thing. And if you can do it for joy, you can do it forever.
Talent is a wonderful thing, but it won't carry a quitter.
Talent in cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work.
If you don't have time to read, then you have more time to write. Simple as that.
I think for many people there'll be no middle ground.
That whole program took on a life of its own.
But I think talent as a writer is hard-wired in, it's all there, at least the basic elements of it. You can't change it any more than you can choose whether to be right handed or left handed.
We know that they obtained these bodies in a fraudulent way and off the scale of acceptable practice.
I'm curious to see what sort of response there is and whether or not this is the future,
I'm delighted to know that my future with Scribner, Pocket Books and Simon & Schuster Audio is secure.
I want some sort of guarantee that Mr. Harmon is going to do his time in Montana.
...So do we pass the ghosts that haunt us later in our lives; they sit undramatically by the roadside like poor beggars, and we see them only from the corners of our eyes, if we see them at all. The idea that they have been waiting there for us rarely if ever crosses our minds. Yet they do wait, and when we have passed, they gather up their bundles of memory and fall in behind, treading in our footsteps and catching up, little by little.
The mind can calculate, but the spirit yearns, and the heart wants what the heart wants.