Stephen King refers to books as telepathy. An author thinks something, writes it down, and then months or years later, that sentence appears in the mind of the reader.
Sometimes a thought. Sometimes an idea. Sometimes an image.
He writes:
“Look- here’s a table covered with red cloth. On it is a cage the size of a small fish aquarium. In the cage is a white rabbit with a pink nose and pink-rimmed eyes. On its back, clearly marked in blue ink, is the numeral 8. The most interesting thing here isn’t even the carrot-munching rabbit in the cage, but the number on its back. Not a six, not a four, not nineteen-point-five. It’s an eight. This is what we’re looking at, and we all see it. I didn’t tell you. You didn’t ask me. I never opened my mouth and you never opened yours. We’re not even in the same year together, let alone the same room… except we are together. We are close. We’re having a meeting of the minds. We’ve engaged in an act of telepathy. No mythy-mountain shit; real telepathy.”
When I first read this in his book, On Writing, I found the concept amusing, and on a rational level, I believed him. It made sense.
But accepting something as rational and knowing something to be true in your gut are two very different things. I didn’t believe his telepathy argument in my gut until my books began making their way around the world, and readers began reaching out, talking to me about my stories and ideas.
Just this week, I heard from readers in six different states and four different countries. I also learned that one of my novels is included in the curriculum at my daughter’s school, and Storyworthy is being added to the curriculum in at least two universities this fall.
But my favorite email – the one containing telepathy – arrived yesterday from a reader who wrote (among other things):
“I also wanted you to know that your readership now includes a Mexican teacher (that would be me) working in an international school in northern Thailand, sharing stories with my daughters about Thanksgiving rabbits and LP records.”
That’s telepathy.
I wrote about things that happened to me long ago in a book on storytelling, and now Mexican girls living in Thailand are being told these stories by their father.
Stories about important events in my life are being transferred, second-hand, into the minds of others.
Stephen King was right.
No mythy-mountain shit. Real telepathy.
