Stephen King On Writing Audiobook Novels & Stories

I want to write the story of a man who understood exactly what he was doing and who he was doing it for, and who did it anyway, and who was right. I write the first page in one sitting. It is not the first page of the book in its final form; it is the first page I write, which is the one where you discover whether the voice is there or whether you are going to have to build it, and the voice is there from the first sentence, which surprises me and does not surprise me. I have been carrying this for a long time. The carrying has built the voice. When I surface from the first sitting it is after three in the afternoon and the light through the window has changed and my right hand aches and I h

"Oh. Yes. I’ve read it three times, but I find comfort in the end of the world sometimes. It makes my own feel... manageable." A genuine, boyish grin broke across his face. It was the first one I had seen that didn't feel like he wanted to hurt someone. "I’m more of a THE SHINING man, myself.” My heard perked up. “You’re serious?” “Why wouldn’t I be?” I laughed, a small, genuine sound that surprised both of us. "Nathaniel, you like Stephen King? I pictured the Valak men reading war manifestos or ledgers of their enemies."

“Yeah… Animorphs and Goosebumps in elementary school do not a reader make.” “Hey, those are quality pieces of literature!” I declare. “Says who?” “Says me!” I huff, crossing my arms. “And I’ve read other books too! I like Stephen King and Michael Crichton and Neil Gaiman and—“ “Okay, okay,” he surrenders, lifting his hands and cutting me off. “Seriously, though, why are you going to the library?” “I’m going to do some research.” “For what?” “New training methods. Double checking some of the warrior laws for the kingdom.”

He cocked his head to the side. “You’re a baffling one. I see why your book, something so serious, has a silly narrative voice,” he said, the softness in his voice gone, and not replaced by something hard. No, I was hearing his actual voice again. “You should narrate an audiobook. Your voice is really soothing. And was that an insult or a compliment?” I furrowed my brows. I could accept a lot of things, but my silly writer’s voice was something I would never let slide. Well, it wasn’t like I had much of a choice on whether or not to let it slide yet, so I would still be patient.

“Well, the check cleared, I’ll say that much.” “I hear you. Didn’t Stephen King say something once about how a bad movie version of one of his books can’t actually tarnish the book; that it’s still fine up on the shelf, something along those lines?” “Actually, I think he was quoting James M. Cain.” “I’ll take your word for it. You’re the writer, after all.” The young man held out his hand. “By the way, I’m Tobias Silver, but my friends call me—” “Let me guess, Toby?”

POV: Julian Vane-Moretti The night was supposed to be a period at the end of a very long sentence. But as I stood in the quiet of my private study in the Nexus, the city humming like a distant hive outside my window, I realized that for an Auditor, there is no such thing as a finished book. There is only a ledger that hasn't been turned to the next page yet.

The first song played, Passenger Seat by Stephen Speaks and I sang while writing story. I hissed. “Oh, please Rackie! It’s okay to be quiet the entire journey, just don’t startle me.” Master commented. I sigh. “Sorry, it’s because the flow of the story I am writing is lame.” I sadly said. He glance at me so I read the story out loud. *Cataclysm Teaser

I cleared my throat so hard it sounded like a dying goose. “So… any, uh… hobbies?” He blinked. Once. Slow. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. Like I’d just asked the king of lycans if he collects stamps. I was going to die. This was how I died. Except I didn't, because in the next moment, I heard him say, “I write poems,” he said, voice low, almost shy. “A lot.” The murder king writes poems. My brain short-circuited so hard I felt the smoke coming out my ears.

Byron took another sip of coffee, hoping the piping hot liquid would invigorate him, giving the last little bump of energy he needed to finish collecting the notes from his last session with Janice. He needed all the help he could get. How do I even write up that last part? He wondered, pressing play on his old-fashioned recorder (his lucky recorder) and for what seemed like the hundredth time, listened to the last few minutes of the latest interview. Sure, he could (and planned to) use her exact words in the book, but beyond that he was at a loss. It was such a strange direction, a strange curve in a road that had been straight and predictable until that point.

I carefully questioned immediately when I stepped into the room. “It’s the late king’s journal.” He replied and without hesitation, I asked further why the book would be empty if it’s a journal. He chuckled lightly before he replied. “Because you need the king’s blood for the words to appear.”