M. L. Hollowell

Joyce Carol Oates said the biggest enemy of writing is interruptions, and she manages to turn out a book every other week.

I'm at my desk, our formica-topped kitchen table, and I can imagine King doing the same thing when he was starting out.

I can picture his wife and kids creeping around, trying not to disturb him, because his job was to disturb others, right?

Walking on eggshells while he banged away at the book which would change their lives?

That's not exactly my experience.

I doubt King's wife and kids were swarming the kitchen when he was trying to write Carrie

If they had been, there would be no Carrie.

I'm typing at my laptop, next to which is an A5 notebook and Waterman fountain pen.

I keep having to move everything because the girls are setting the table for dinner.

Marielle, my wife... Have I told you about her yet?

I tell her... I'm on a roll...

What I'm writing, what you're reading, is precisely what's happening at this moment.

All I seem capable of recording is what's going on around me.

Transcription.

Marielle is asking me to reach down the colander from on top of the cupboard.

I might put it up there if you can't reach it.

I'm back.

The house is dark now.

Quiet and still, blessedly.

The only light is the desk lamp I plugged into an extension cord and placed on the table next to me.