Part01-On Writing-05

I was born in 1947 and we didn't get our first television until 1958.

The first thing I remember watching on it was Robot Monster, a film in which a guy dressed in an ape-suit with a goldfish bowl on his head—Ro-Man, he was called—ran around trying to kill the last survivors of a nuclear war.

I felt this was art of quite a high nature.

I also watched Highway Patrol with Broderick Crawford as the fearless Dan Matthews, and One Step Beyond, hosted by John Newland, the man with the world's spookiest eyes.

There was Cheyenne and Sea Hunt, Your Hit Parade and Annie Oakley; there was Tommy Rettig as the first of Lassie's many friends, Jock Mahoney as The Range Rider, and Andy Devine yowling, "Hey, Wild Bill, wait for me!" in his odd, high voice.

There was a whole world of vicarious adventure which came packaged in black-and-white, fourteen inches across and sponsored by brand names which still sound like poetry to me. I loved it all.

But TV came relatively late to the King household, and I'm glad.

I am, when you stop to think of it, a member of a fairly select group: the final handful of American novelists who learned to read and write before they learned to eat a daily helping of video bullshit.

This might not be important. On the other hand, if you're just starting out as a writer, you could do worse than strip your television's electric plug-wire, wrap a spike around it, and then stick it back into the wall. See what blows, and how far.

Just an idea.