Another love letter to Stephen

This is "another" love letter only becasue I'm sure I've written one before.
I must have because I'm listening to "On Writing" for the second time - so I must have written my "first" love letter to Steve after the first "listen." There is no way I could not.

I was sitting in construction on Interstate 78 ("the parking lot") Friday afternoon and Stephen's words of writing wisdom were echoing throughout the PT Cruiser. Since I had placed the car in park to save my foot from freezing up on the brake, I stopped the tape, got out a notebook (yes, I keep a notebook on the front seat with me - so what? I'm a writer)and began to jot down some of his advice.

When I finish the tape this week, I'm going to type up the most important bits of advice (at least the most important ones to me), print them out and tape them next to my monitor. I'm going to reduce them in size and paste them on a 3X5 card so I can carry them around. Hell - I may even tape them to my bathroom mirror so I read them every morning while I count the wrinkles.

So this is another love letter to Stephen.

Dear Stephen:
I love you for making me believe that I am a "real" writer - mainly because I'm already doing most of what you advise a real writer - or someone who wants to be a real writer - to do.
I love you because you transport me to different worlds - surround me with wonderful characters and tell suspenseful stories.
I love you because of "The Green Mile" and I love you inspite of "It."
But most of all, I love you for not turning into an overbearing pretenious son of a bitch who thinks that everything he writes is golden literature. In other words, man, you know who you are and what you do. You stayed true to yourself.
And you are so right - it's all about the story. Find the truth in your story - put your truth in your story - and it will be a good story.

I've gotta go, Steve.
My muse - the lady in the attic, reclining on her fainting couch, surrounded by roses (at least a few black ones - because my heart, like yours, looks into the open grave at times) - that muse is calling me. She knows my name all too well and comes to me at the damnest times, like an illicit lover trying to break up a marriage - she whispers to me to write my story instead of my work reports or policy and procedures.
So, Steve, when she calls me, nags at me, I must go.

Just know I love you.
Thank you for "on Writing."
Thank for "Carrie" and "'Salem's Lot" and "Cujo" and "The Shining" and "The Stand" and "The Dark Half" and every one of the other books I've loved.

Your friend,
Mitzi
PS I had some nasty "odiologist" drain my ears with a hypodermic needle several times - both ears - when I was six. And each time he lied and said it wouldn't hurt. I imagine him sitting in a examining chair (as I did) in Hell with some demon coming at him with a needle longer than my school ruler. But of course, it did save my hearing, so maybe it was worth it. Maybe. And maybe he shouldn't be in Hell - at least not for that.