On culminating with Stephen King
SK: Too short.
ME: What? The… Oh, you mean the story? Well, you know, I wrote it in like two days.
SK: I would have written a novella in two days.
ME: But I don’t want to write something long, just something that people can read in 20 minutes, get the blood pumping and make things swell…um…It’s uncomfortable talking male anatomy with you.
SK: Who cares about male anatomy? When is the monster going to come out?
ME: What monster? You mean the monster from the guy’s pants?
SK: No, no…The monster from under the woman’s bed. That will get the blood pumping.
ME: But that would ruin the erotic moment. Things must throb and thrust and all that to have a culminating moment.
SK: The heart throbs when it’s pulled from the chest. You have your culmination in the woman’s death.
ME: You’ve killed my story and my readers’s mood.
SK: Start writing real stuff.
ME: Frankly, I think the monster will have to be in the bushes with the guy. But he’s so good-looking, and in joggers – or is it shorts? – and I don’t have the heart to kill him while he’s watching a woman masturbate.
SK: That’s why the monster comes from under her bed and rips her heart out while he watches.
ME: No way!! Why does the woman have to die? I wish Walt Whitman was alive. He’d understand my erotica.
WALT WHITMAN materialized out of thin air: Who says I’m not alive?
ME (screaming and running away): You guys have ruined my Sunday!!!
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