My Imaginary Talk With Stephen King.

A blustery day at the ToT Lot with the EmmyDozer like any other.  

She is wearing her Black Marshmallow Puff Coat and Pink Jester Hat.  She carries a Princess Sippy Cup and Hello Kitty Happy Meal Toy.  She drops both to pick up a large stick that she then points to the sky, says something in what I can only imagine translates into a phrase that would offend someone from Germany, and begins to stir up a pile of leaves.

A wonderful day indeed.

I sit down, because I am dog tired from work, sickness and lack of sleep.  I open my current read which happens to be World War Z by Max Brooks.  I'm really digging it if you must know because he, unlike myself, is a fantastic writer not unlike Mr. Neil Gaiman whose Good Omens I finished a few days past.  

I sit reading about my most hated enemy and greatest fear (Minus Women), Zombies, whilst watching the 'Dozer enjoying herself and wiping snot on anything in sight from the corner of my eyes.  You know, like a good parent that still watches their bloody child even in a fenced in environment because God only knows what the Filth have left laying around in that park (Read: Broken Beer bottle that Emmy discovered two seconds before I did).  

Anyway, as I sat reading about the most horrible thing that could ever happen in the history of the world I began to drift.  My first thoughts were of the pork roast sitting at home in the crock pot on the counter because I am a chubby fellow and I loves me a good roast.  Deal with it.  I'm trying to slim down and the first step in that process was to walk away from Damnable Azeroth after SEVEN BLOODY YEARS and X Amount of money spent on a monthly subscription.  Keep your Pandas, you sons of bitches, I am done.

Ahem.  

In my mindscape a man sits down next to me and lights a Chesterfield.  Now, I don't think he smokes anymore but I feel that this was my brain punishing me for the years that I did and making me sick to my stomach even in my own psyche.  If he smokes, good for him.  He got hit by a van once.  He can do whatever the hell he wants.

He appears in his thirties in my minds eye.  Why?  Because its my imagination I suppose.  You don't like it, write your senator.  He looks at what I'm reading and snickers.  He mumbles something about my choice to read that over The Stand which he knows is next on my pile.  He knows this because Tyler Durden knows this.  

"Cute kid" he says.

"Uhm...thanks." I respond.  "Please don't do anything horrible to her.  I understand that this is in my head but somehow I don't doubt that you could hijack my Brain Pen and make her into some kind of energy vampire clown thing.  Now, I know that sounds awesome but for posterity, please hold back."

He laughs at me.  It's a good, deep laugh.  He coughs at the end.

"You should quit that shit, man" sayeth I, "it's poison."

"It's your image of me, boss.  It's like the Matrix.  The first one.  Not the two shitty ones that followed." he says to me through a toothy grin.

"Gotcha.  So whats up?  Why are you here?  I didn't die or something did I?  Are we on our way to the Tower???" I said with the candor of a schoolgirl.

"No.  What?  Jesus man.  Why don't you just chill out for a second." he responded,  "I'm here to tell you to stop writing.  Because you suck at it.  And you will never be me.  Because that is clearly what you want."

"Nuh-uh.  I want to be Warren Ellis.  I can find a ton of creative ways to say the F-Word and make up a Bunch of BS about InnerSpace and MacroVirus nonsense."  I said, holding back a little anger.  

"Shuddup.  You're a worse liar than a writer." he chuckled.

I nodded at the man.  He knows whats up.  He is me after all.  I don't feel right about this thought.  Not even a little bit.  So of course, like any adult, I argue with myself in my own head.  

The EmmyDozer in my head has become the EmmyNaut and is blitzing her way through a city that my mind has built for her.  As I watch her tear down the St. Louis Arch and straighten it so that she has a giant metal stick to now dig through piles of leaves.  She is now wearing Bright Neon Pink Body Armor is currently 20ft tall.  She is speaking fluent Russian.  I am proud.  The military are firing rockets at her.  The rockets are Ice Cream Cones.  She is smiling.

Imaginary Stephen King is smiling.  He is amused.  Good.  I'm glad that I can make my own subconscious happy in some regard.

"Something special about you, kid." he says, "Now if only you had talent."

"Uhm...what about this whole thing going down right here in front of us?"  I responded.

"Child's Play" he grinned.

It is now snowing on the 'Dozer,  She is building a giant snowman that she has named "Frosty" (Duh).  She is teaching it to speak French.  It is struggling.  She smiles at it.  She builds a small family for Frosty.  She builds a small SnowDozer.  

There is much laughter.

"It's such a bummer that my own brain thinks I suck at something I feel that I'm good at."  I said, sadly.

"Don't be such a wuss about the whole thing.  Just keep trying if you feel that's what you need to do.  Maybe some day you won't be terrible.  Hell, I was bad at some point."

"Really?"

"No, I'm Stephen King.  Taste the Beast."

And with that he smiled at me, waved to the 'Dozer and walked in the Ether.

I'm sure that he would never in a million years say Taste the Beast but in my head he did.  

That man is my hero.  He has written so many wonderful stories.  Someday, maybe god willing, I can write something even half as good as him.  

Until then, I'll just keep trying.

As long as at least one of you keeps reading.

*Also, if somehow Mr. King ever reads this PLEASE DON'T SUE ME.  Thank You.*