Читаю сейчас сборник Кинга 'Different Seasons'. В одной повести рассказчик сам зарабатывает на жизнь писательским трудом, и делится таким откровением:
The act of writing itself is done in secret, like masturbation — oh, I haven one friend who has done things like write stories in the display windows of bookshops and department stores, but this is a man who is nearly crazy with courage, the kind of man you'd like to have with you if you just happened to fall down with a heart attack in a city where no one knew you. For me, it always wants to be sex and always falls short — it's always the adolescent handjob in the bathroom with the door locked.
Кинг всё-таки молодец, заглянул в самую душу графомана писателя и тех, кто себя таковыми мнит.
