Out of nowhere, Buddhapuss Books experienced a nice bump in orders this weekend. Yah! Just finished packing, before a jaunt to the post office.

Work on the book formerly known as Velocity continues in a blind, almost fury like pace. Each day I sit down, write, and rise in the afternoon to find lots of new words on the page.

My output varies daily, and though I remain short of the 2,000 words a day Stephen King espouses, many times I graze the 1,000 a day he suggests for novices. Alas, though, it is not much more than 1,000.

The manuscript is roughly 66,000 words, and there’s lots of story left to tell. Since I’m dead serious about the 100,000 benchmark, I stand at the cusp of the 2/3 of the way there point. Slicing and dicing during the revision process will push the book slightly over or below the target.

I’m curious to see what autumn, and its cooler temperatures, does for my output levels. The last heat blast certainly slackened my pace. I believe surroundings can influence the creative process. For instance, it’s hard to write near a jackhammer grinding asphalt. Conversely, when the weather is comfortable, my synapses fire more effectively and I generally work faster. Or so it seems.

Around the campfire in Delaware last weekend, I read On Writing by Stephen King, and it spurned an epiphany about the craft. The first one hundred pages of the book is a memoir, the remainder deals with the business of writing. My focus here is a response to the first hundred pages. I’ll comment on the second part of the book later.

Stephen King sipped, popped and snorted his poisons of choice for the first half of his writing career. Unlike many rock stars, and he is/was a rock star in the writing world, his dependencies did not obstruct his success, or slow his output. He shipped far more books stoned than he ever did clean. Actually, his ‘slump’ in sales since sobriety could be yet another blog. Today my focus is more on the role of family and the writing process, and why they matter so much.

See, that the publisher tolerated his indulgences is not surprising. At the level he plays at, shipping three major works ( or more ) a year, with the expectation of bestseller status for all of them, is a license to print money. Brand equity matters in books, like it does in every other business, and he had more than most anyone. Stephen King equaled guaranteed massive sales. So long as he continued production, the publisher shipped what he submitted. No one dared tell him to quit, besides his family.

For me, the greatest lesson of the first half of the book: family is what keeps a writer in check, and where necessary, sends a life line. He is lavish with praise for Tabitha King, and the intervention she led that began his journey back to sobriety.

Stephen King is smart enough to appreciate all he really has. Forty million bucks a year does not mean much if your wife boots your junkie ass from the house. It may have taken him a few years to grasp that, but he understands this now.

And so do I. Here’s a public thank you to the Wife for her patience, faith and support. Whatever levels I reach, it’s all cause of you. 😉