Monday, September 24, 2007

Stephen King Has Saturn in Leo, Learn More ...

Stephen King 18 degrees - born September 21, 1947.

One of the best selling authors of all time and definitely the world's greatest horror story writer, Stephen King wrote The Shining at his first Saturn Return. The movie was made in 1978. King confesses in On Writing that he had problems with alcohol at the time he was writing The Shining, and he also developed a drug addiction in the 80s. In June 1999 King was struck by a van and seriously injured. King dis'd Kubrick's version of The Shining and put out his own miniseries later. His work has been described as "dramatically attenuated and thin on emotional substance, showing poor self esteem and easily threatened masculinity".

King's father deserted the family when he was three years old. He submitted his first story for publication when he was 13. His first novel, Carrie (1974), was a tale of a girl with telekinetic powers. King had thrown the first pages of the story in a garbage pail, but his wife rescued them and urged him to finish the work.

Danse Macabre, 1989, on writing: " It's not a dance of death at all, not really. There is a third lever here, as well. It is, at bottom, a dance of dreams. It's a way of awakening the child inside, who never dies but only sleeps ever more deeply. If the horror story is rehearsal for death, then its strict moralities make it also a reaffirmation of life and good will and simple imagination - just one more pipeline to the infinite."

For a real shot at the Saturn in Leo "World" ... the following comment was found on a King website after his accident: It has not escaped the collective attention of King faithful that the author's grisly weekend mishap sounds eerily familiar. As in Christine, Cujo and Misery familiar. King was struck by an out-of-control vehicle (like in Christine?) driven by a motorist who apparently had been distracted by a dog (as in Cujo?) Moreover, the impact of the crash threw King off the road--making him, temporarily at least, a stranded, hobbled writer (like Paul Sheldon in Misery?

"Misery? Cujo?/Which book is he living out?/Blame it on the dog...," a haiku-minded Netizen ponders on an Internet newsgroup (

This is a biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig problem for the Saturn in Leo crowd -- what's the line between fiction and reality? Yes, we are poor players that strut and fret our hour upon the stage, but who's the director? What's the difference between drama and melodrama? And what if we create from a destructive place?

At the end of On Writing, King talks of taking an afternoon stroll along the side of a country road, being hit by an out-of-control van, then waking up feeling like a character in one of his novels: "I’m lying in the ditch and there’s blood all over my face and my right leg hurts. I look down and see something I don’t like: my lap now appears to be on sideways, as if my whole lower body had been wrenched half a turn to the right.

I’m an alcoholic, I thought, and there was no dissenting opinion from inside my head—I was, after all, the guy who had written The Shining without even realizing…that I was writing about myself.

After all, as he writes, Writing fiction, especially a long work of fiction, can be a difficult, lonely job; it’s like crossing the Atlantic Ocean in a bathtub. There’s plenty of opportunity for self-doubt.

One day in the dentist's waiting room, I could swear I read an article about King's father being a manic depressive but I have not been able to corroborate that on the web to date.
Where is this man coming from, chart here ^^^


Each life makes its own imitation of immortality.

Fiction is the truth inside the lie.

Nobody was really surprised when it happened, not really, not on the subconscious level where savage things grow.

People think that I must be a very strange person. This is not correct. I have the heart of a small boy. It is in a glass jar on my desk.

Talent in cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work.

When his life was ruined, his family killed, his farm destroyed, Job knelt down on the ground and yelled up to the heavens, "Why god? Why me?" and the thundering voice of God answered, "There's just something about you that pisses me off.

You couldn't get hold of the things you'd done and turn them right again. Such a power might be given to the gods, but it was not given to women and men, and that was probably a good thing. Had it been otherwise, people would probably die of old age still trying to rewrite their teens.

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