On Writing

I'm sitting in Mugs on College and Olive, reading Stephen King's book On Writing: a memoir of the craft and laughing hysterically. People keep staring at me, looking at me as if something, more so than normal, is wrong with me. I'm looking around the room for another regular that I know because I want them to read the passage about Eula-Beulah, the farts, the eggs, but no one I know is here.
Now that my computer is out and open, I'm no longer laughing, and people are no longer staring at me, I'm reminded of some of my own funny childhood moments, similar to Mr. King. Why not write about them?
Pick up the book. Once it's open, you'll only want to put it down so you can write.