Stephen King is not my favorite author.

(Please insert collective gasp of horror and holster your spitballs until I have explained myself.)

Stephen King is not my favorite author, but I am a fervent fan of several of his books. For example, The Stand is a summer staple; I sit on my porch nearly every summer and read it, savoring each experience with those characters I love (and loathe) so well.

Still, I don't go out and buy every book Mr. King writes. If it interests me, I'll read it. If not, I'll let it pass until the next book comes out.

Then, my sister gave me one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. Knowing that I'm a writer trapped in an English teacher's life, she gave me a copy of On Writing. She'd had it given to her years ago but didn't make it past the first couple of pages. She has no desire to write and just didn't find the book of much use. Along with a notebook and some really nice pens, she gave me the book as a gift with the hope that I would like it and find it useful.

I started reading it a couple of days ago. I'm not yet finished with it, but it has already changed me. I have been moved to tears by this book. Initially by Mr. King recounting that moment when he told his wife about his first big success and presented her with a hair dryer. Later...by everything.

As I move through the second part of the book, I've been moved to tears on several occasions because it's like I'm reading my own thoughts, feelings, and philosophies. I love to write, have loved to write since I was old enough to put two words together and create a sentence. In recent years, I've even finished a couple of writing projects. Lately, writing is my lifeblood. I have to write, much like W. Somerset Maugham described ("We don't write because we want to; we write because we have to.").

As I read On Writing, I realize more and more that I am a writer. I realize that I can write, that I'm not bad and I'm probably more than competent. I realize that I'm going to write, even if nothing goes beyond my computer and the bookshelves of various family members.

And shockingly, I realize that I'm a part of an old cliche, that Mr. King and I just may be kindred spirits.

Now, how did that happen?

(P.S. Mr. King? If you should happen to come across this post, thank you for the positive impact that you've suddenly had upon my life. And I'm sorry that I threw out my copy of Salem's Lot. It's just that I was only twelve and the cover scared me.)