Two summers ago my wife and I took our family on a vacation that took us from Michigan to Montreal and, eventually, to Bar Harbor, Maine. Our vacations are really like extended road trips and we love finding out of the way places to visit along the way.
Typically we set our course with main destinations in mind and use an app called Roadtrippers to pinpoint quirky out-of-the-way places along the way. On our way to Bar Harbor, we were looking for somewhere we could stop, stretch our legs, and fuel up before reaching our final destination. It happened that Bangor, Maine was the easiest place for us to stop before the final 40 minute or so drive to Bar Harbor, so I popped the name of the city into the app.
There was plenty to see in Bangor: a larger-than-life statue of Paul Bunyan, the beautiful Penobscot River walkway, and the Mount Hope Cemetery - I know our leg-stretcher ideas are a bit quirky.
However, there was one attraction on the map that intrigued me the most - Stephen King’s House. Sure, I knew he lived in Bangor, but this was the KING of horror and I simply did not believe it was really where he lived.
Since his “home” was only a few miles from the Paul Bunyan statue, I convinced my family to humor me by driving by - so we did.
We found the house and drove by like creepers - the home was not what I expected at all. It was, well, normal in the sense that I had a hard time believing that Stephen King would live so modestly. The only thing that seemed off was the over-the-top black fence adorned with spiders, vampire bats, and various garish figures that surrounded the property.
I laughed a little in disbelief and decided to hop out of the car to snap a few photos of “Stephen King’s House,” and I wasn’t alone. There was a small group of goth kids hanging around the fence talking in hushed voices and, being short on time, I struck up a quick conversation - easy for a teacher to do, I suppose.
“Hey, guys,” I said, feeling super touristy and dad-like, “is this really Stephen King’s house?”
The older of the three looked at me through his jet-black hair and said, “Yeah...it is.”
I laughed a bit, “Really? Don’t you think it’s a bit much with all of these horror motifs welded into the fence?”
He looked to his friends, then back to me pointing down the sidewalk, “He just took his dog for a walk, man. We’re waiting for him to come back.”
“Seriously!? You actually saw him leave his house?”
“Yeah, he left about ten minutes ago.”
Stunned, and not believing my luck, I said, “Did you talk to him?”
The goth kids huddled closer to each other and the older one started in again, “No way, man, we don’t even know what to say. I mean, what can you say to your idol?”
Without thinking, I blurted out, “‘Hello’ usually works pretty well,” and I ran back to the car to tell my wife and kids about our luck. They couldn’t care less. My children each groaned at the thought of meeting a famous author and said, “Nah” in unison. My wife checked the time on her phone. “We have some time,” she said, “I know you’re excited - we can wait - just don’t be too much of a fan boy,” she smirked.
I ran back across the street to take pictures of the house on West Broadway with the goth kids.
After a few minutes, sure enough, there was Stephen King walking his corgi, Molly, aka “the Thing of Evil” down the sidewalk. The scene was just as normal as, well, a man walking his dog through his neighborhood.
As he came closer, I realized I had one shot at meeting the King of Horror. The opportunity was unexpected and my mind raced with thoughts like “he will think I’m crazy,” “you will make a fool of yourself,” and “who do you think you are to just talk to Stephen King?”
I decided to push all of those doubts aside and just go for it.
“Hello? Mr. King? I’m sure you hear this often, but I am a big fan of your work,” I reached out my arm to see if he would shake my hand. He did and said in his deep voice, “Hi. Call me Steve.” We chatted for a few minutes about his dog, took a selfie, and he excused himself. It was a fantastic moment.
As I jogged back to my family, I took a look back at Steve’s house and noticed the goth kids were still huddled in the same place and Steve was halfway down his driveway. They missed their chance to speak with their hero.
Writing is like that when we let our fears get the better of us. In the moment when we are deciding whether or not to hit the submit button questions buzz in our minds. We wonder if what we’ve done is any good. We wonder why anyone would care. We worry about what might happen if our idols find out how we really write.
The reality is we make our writing fears much larger than they ought to be. Writing is a craft that no one is able to master. There is always more to learn and more ways to grow as a writer.
Do not let your fear of writing stop you from doing what you love. You have something to say that benefits the world. Seek out invitations to write, no matter how small (or large) they may seem. Take a seat in the author’s chair and share your perspective.
When in doubt, push through the fears and insecurities you have as a writer - we all have them. Reach out to others and, if you’re not sure what to say, “hello” usually works pretty well.
Go for it, friends, we can’t wait to read what you write.
Andy Schoenborn is a high school English teacher in Michigan at Mt. Pleasant Public Schools. He focuses his work on progressive literacy methods including student-centered critical thinking, digital collaboration, and professional development. As a past-president of the Michigan Council of Teachers of English and National Writing Project teacher consultant for Central Michigan University’s Chippewa River Writing Project he frequently conducts workshops related to literacy and technology. Read his thoughts on literacy in the elafieldbook.wordpress.com and follow him on Twitter @aschoenborn.
Great story...great connection!
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