Can Stephen King Even Twerk?

I don’t think I am equipped to be a stripper, but I didn't think I could be a writer either, so who knows what the future holds.

My social media algorithm has decided I need to learn how to twerk, and I do watch every video with great attention, for scientific, non-horny reasons. There are different styles: straight twerking, twerking on the side, jiggling the ass, jiggling the thigh meat… it’s a lot! Have I tried any of them?

No.

Well… I did once, to see if I would pull a Tina Belcher or if I could actually move my hips. I am doubly disabled: I am white, and also disabled. Among other fucked up things that don’t work properly in my body, I have less than great coordination and proprioception (sensing the position of your body in space).

Tina Belcher, folks

I was not properly diagnosed as a child, because that would have ruined the fun of reminiscing about our family ski “vacations” - calm down, it wasn’t fucking Aspen, it was a two hour drive from our home and we went about once every two years. Just enough to make sure I never got good at cross country skiing, but often enough so my parents could take series of pictures of me falling - watch the kid go, still going, losing her balance, one leg in the air, actually falling, crying on the ground in a bright snow suit.

Sure, the physical pain was temporary, but at least the humiliation lasted for years, every time we sat together to look fondly at photo albums, filled with pictures of me crying. I was a very annoying child. Always crying for small things, like falling, or getting beat up. Sensitive.

The fun we had. It’s really strange that I’ve had no contact with my parents for two decades.

Anyway, turns out, I can move my pelvis. Not very well, and with zero grace or sex appeal, but I can feel the difference between my butt and my back. Those hips only talk about trauma and being a dumb bitch, but at least, they do not lie, I guess.

Remember how a year ago, I wrote about how I didn’t get into the Lambda Writers Retreat? Well, this year, I did. Can I be friends with Jane Espenson and Ben Edlund already?

You’d think getting into the only MFA I applied for and feeling pretty comfortable in the program would give me some sense of legitimacy. Not that I’m a good writer, but at least, that I’m a writer – since I’m doing it now. I write. I tricked myself into writing. But I receive emails with subjects like “Welcome to Lambda Literary's 2025 Writers Retreat for Emerging LGBTQ Voices” and I think, Oh god, WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Maybe this is a bit of a humblebrag – disgusting. But that too, is new, so pardon me. I’m barely starting to believe in myself just a little – on good days. In the past year, I’ve made some new friends, and developed deeper relationships with some creative people I already knew - funny, generous people. Who knew that could happen, when you actually write things and put yourself out there, or even just talk to people, instead of just living in your head?

Not me. I didn’t know that.

I was too scared, thinking that if I tried anything, others would take pictures of every step just so they could laugh while watching me fall on my ass. It’s taken me a long time to believe that some people genuinely want to see you succeed.¹ I still have to work hard to believe it. It’s a strange mental gymnastics but I’m making progress.

You contract those gluteus medius, okay?

Last winter I took a pole dancing class. My second class, I felt like I pulled something, but I was taught that I should stop being annoying and get back up since my pain isn’t real. And hey, I have another arm! So I went to two more classes, even if I was barely able to use my left arm.

I’ve been doing physiotherapy for four months now, and I can finally start lifting my arm to wash my hair with my dominant hand again, by twenty seconds increments.

I remember the first time I read Stephen King’s On Writing - a mix of memoir and craft advice for aspiring writers. It was almost fifteen years ago. I remember the context. I remember some of the advice that stayed with me all this time (I have re-read that book several times since and I always pick up on something new). What I absolutely can’t remember, or understand, is why I decided to read that book.

I had no intention of ever writing. Especially not in English, which I was starting to understand pretty well, could speak a little, but certainly didn’t master enough to produce any kind of coherent thought in writing. I had tried writing in French, my first language, just a little, and had quickly let all the inner critics’ voices win. I couldn’t be creative or liberated in French. French is the language of contempt, of elitism, of meanness disguised as humour, which you have to take like a champ unless you want to be called a party pooper.

Fuck that party.

As a child and a young adult, Stephen King was who I went back to when I needed to get out of a reading rut.² So when I picked up On Writing, Stephen King had been a presence in my life for decades. Uncle Stephen might be the most stable relationship in my life, and no, that’s not weird or sad at all!

When I was a teenager skipping school, after doing a convincing enough impression of my mother on the phone to inform the school I was sick, I usually headed to the public library. There, I would pick the longest novel of his available, sometimes without even bothering to read the blurb at the back. It was King? It was long? Perfect. I was ready to spend many hours in Maine with a bunch of kids who were about to learn that people are both the worst and the best, and that friendship would save them from evil.

My reading spot. If you squint, you might see the ghost of a very angry teenager whose only friends were fictional characters.

I’ve always been curious about how things are made and even more than that, about why people do what they do, love what they love. I suppose I was curious about Stephen King’s craft. Maybe I wanted to understand why he was my go-to? I’m trying to imagine a plausible reason and it’s hard to do that without adding meaning in retrospect - it’s tempting to say “see, I was always a storyteller, I just wasn’t ready yet,” or some romantic shit. Some days, I manage to convince myself. Other times, I think it’s pure coincidence I didn’t become a mechanic or a stripper instead.

There’s still time for me to learn about engines.

I suppose it would be nice, at some point in my life, to find something I’m kinda good at. I could never be a stripper. Not because of any kind of moral hangups, but because I’m both ugly and, as we’ve already established, athletically challenged. Just one of the two, it could be worked on, I suppose. I’ve heard often enough that any kind of physique can be attractive if you’re confident enough, or that men would fuck anything. But I’ve sprained my ankle just walking. Twice. More importantly, I would not have the patience and the smarts to deal with the cheap dudes, the ones who can’t control their hands, the ones who are sure the stripper is in love with them, the ones with a savior complex. And there’s the late hours, the marketing, the constant surveillance, the discrimination. All the bullshit these women put up with.

“But, dumbass, instead of talking about becoming a stripper or a writer, don’t you already have a real job?”

Shut up. Yeah I do, and it’s so fulfilling that I’m wondering if I can learn to clap my cheeks.

I guess I’m gonna have to get decent at that writing thing real quick. Because we all know that’s where the real money is.

I’m very nervous about attending the Lambda Writers Retreat, but I’m so, so excited.

You can find the whole video of Pennywise pole dancing. You’re welcome.

1. THANK YOU: Zac, Ivana, Andrea, Caitlin. You’ll be mentioned in my Emmy speech.

2. Someday, I’ll write about how I thought for the longest time that I wasn’t into horror. It’s a funny story.