Thanks to Stephen King, I remembered why I love the story. I sipped my tea and read from his collection, Everything's Eventual, and felt the thrill of reading again.

Heart rated increased.

Sat up straight in the chair, even leaning forward eagerly, at times.

Laughed out loud.

Eyes bugged out at times.

Re-read some wonderful phrases and sentences and descriptions.

Re-read some utterly shocking twists I did not foresee.

Gasped and muttered to myself.

Looked up at times to share my joy? disbelief? terror? understanding? with my fellow patrons.

The man knows a story. He fully appreciates its dying form. Better, though, is that he has an innate ability to draw you into his worlds and entertain you with a little ditty.

I lapped up his words so quickly I couldn't read some of them fast enough.

Thank you, Stephen King, for letting me remember why I write, why I read, why I teach. Thank you for "The Little Sisters of Eluria," "The Road Virus Heads North," "Lunch at the Gotham Cafe," and all the others.

A million stories want to burst forth from my fingers and I wish for only the simple ability to entertain others with my stories as Mr. King as entertained, and thrilled, me.