What I learned from reading Stephen King On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King.
What is writing?
Telepathy, of course.
My name is Stephen King.
I'm writing the first draft of this part on my desk on a snowy morning in December of 1997.
There are things on my mind.
Some are worries, some are good things.
But right now all that stuff is up top.
I'm in another place.
This book is scheduled to be published in the late summer or early fall of 2000.
If that's how things work out, then you are somewhere downstream on the timeline from me.
But you are quite likely in your own far seeing place, the one where you go to receive telepathic messages.
Not that you have to be there.
Books are a uniquely portable magic.
I usually listen to one in the car and carry another wherever I go.
You just never know when you'll want an escape hatch.
A mile long line at a tolbooth plaza, the 15 minutes you have to spend in the hall of some boring college building waiting for your advisor, airport boarding lounges, laundromats on a rainy afternoon, and the absolute worst, which is a doctor's office when the guy is running late and you have to wait a half hour in order to have something sensitive mauled.
At such times, I find a book vital.
If I have to spend time in purgatory before going to one place or another, I guess I'll be alright as long as there's a lending library.
So I read where I can.
But I have a favorite place, and you probably do too.