Ha! Take that, ye rational men of science!
Anyway, I keep a blank book by my bed, and have gotten so I write down a lot of dreams and dream elements w/o even fully waking up. This morning I'd written Remember the Turtle! And this: See the TURTLE of enormous girth! On his shell he holds the earth. His thought is slow but always kind; he holds us all within his mind. Not great poetry, I grant you, but not bad for a guy who was three-quarters asleep when he wrote it!
Tabby has been on my case about drinking too much again. I suppose she's right, but...
June 10th, 1986 (Lovell/Turtleback Lane)
Man, am I glad we bought this house! I was scared of the expense to begin with, but I've never written better than I have here. And - this is scary, but it's true - I think I want to go back to work on The Dark Tower story. In my heart, I thought I never would, but last night when I was going to the Center General for beer, I could almost hear Roland saying, "There are many worlds and many tales, but not much time."
I ended up turning around and coming back to the house. Can't remember the last time I spent a totally sober night, but this is one of that dying breed. It actually feels f**ked up not to be f**ked up. That's pretty sad, I guess.
June 13th, 1986
I woke up in the middle of the night, hung-over and needing to pee. While I was standing at the bowl, it was almost as if I could see Roland of Gilead. Telling me to start with the lobstrosities. I will.
I know just what they are.
June 15th, 1986
Started the new book today. Can't believe I'm actually writing about old long, tall, and ugly again, but it felt right from the first page. Hell, from the first word. I've decided it'll be almost like the classic fairy-tales in structure: Roland walks along the beach of the Western Sea, getting sicker & sicker as he goes, and there's a series of doors to our world. He'll draw a new character from behind each one. The first one will be a stone junkie named Eddie Dean...
July 16th, 1986
I can't believe this. I mean, I've got the manuscript on the desk right in front of me so I sorta have to, but I still can't. I have written !!300!! PAGES in the last month, and the copy is so clean it's positively squeaky. I've never felt like one of those writers who can actually take credit for their work, who say they plot every move and incident, but I've also never had a book that seemed to flow through me like this one has. It's pretty much taken over my life from Day One. And do you know, it seems to me that a lot of the other things I've written (especially It ) are like "practice shots" for this story. Certainly I've never picked something up after it lay fallow for fifteen years! I mean, sure, I did a little work on the stories Ed Ferman published in F&SF, and I did a little more when Don Grant published The Gunslinger, but nothing like what I'm up to now. I even dream about this story. I have days when I wish I could quit drinking, but I'll tell you something: I'm almost scared to stop. I know inspiration doesn't flow from the neck of a bottle, but there's something...
I'm scared, okay? I feel like there's something - Something - that doesn't want me to finish this book. That didn't even want me to start it. Now I know that's crazy ("Like something out of a Stephen King story," har-har), but at the same time it seems very real. Probably a good thing no one'll ever read this diary; very likely they'd put me away if they did. Anyone want to buy a used fruitcake?
I'm going to call it The Drawing of the Three, I think.
September 19th, 1986
It's done. The Drawing of the Three is done. I got drunk to celebrate. Stoned, too. And what's next? Well, It will be published in a month or so, and in two days I'll be thirty-nine. Man, I can hardly believe it. Seems just about a week ago that we were living in Bridgton and the kids were babies.
Ah, f**k. Time to quit. The writer's gettin' maudlin.
June 19th, 1987
Got my first author's copy of Drawing from Donald Grant today. It's a beautiful package. I've also decided to let NAL go ahead and do both Dark Tower books in paperback - give the people what they want. Why the hell not?
Of course, I got drunk to celebrate...only these days who needs an excuse?
It's a good book but in many ways it seems like I didn't write the damn thing at all, that it just flowed out of me, like the umbilical cord from a baby's navel. What I'm trying to say is that the wind blows, the cradle rocks, and sometimes it seems to me that none of this stuff is mine, that I'm nothing but Roland of Gilead's f**king secretary. I know that's stupid, but a part of me sort of believes it. Only maybe Roland's got his own boss. Ka?
I do tend to get depressed when I look at my life: the booze, the drugs, the cigarettes. As if I'm actually trying to kill myself. Or something else is...
October 19th, 1987