In 1967, I didn’t have any idea what my kind of story might be, but that didn’t matter; I felt positive I’d know it when it passed me on the street. I was nineteen and arrogant. Certainly arrogant enough to feel I could wait a little while on my muse and my masterpiece (as I was sure it would be). At nineteen, it seems to me, one has a right to be arrogant; time has usually not begun its stealthy and rotten subtractions.
– Stephen King, “On Being Nineteen (and a Few Other Things)”
I just started Stephen King’s The Gunslinger and I couldn’t help but smile at this segment in the foreword. I know this feeling completely, of youth, of confidence, of arrogance. I’m eight years past nineteen and I still get the feeling.