Arthur Joe - It came from Ohio! : my life as a writer

R .L. Stine was not one of Americas bestselling authors when I met him. And he wasnt called R.L. Stine.

The name is Stine, he said. Bob Stine.

The meeting took place when we were college students at Ohio State University. I can still see him, typing at a desk in the back of the Sundial office.

Sundial was the campus humor magazine. Written and edited by students, Sundial s cartoons, comics, jokes, and articles all made fun of college life.

Bobs official title at Sundial that year was Contributor. Contributors turned in stories and jokes to the magazine.

I came to the office because I had written an incredibly funny spoof about a space flight. I could hardly wait to give it to the editor.

The editor had other things on his mind. He was in a panic. He said the printing company had moved up the deadline to three oclock that afternoon.

Bob, are you going to have that story finished? the editor wanted to know. The editor was so nervous he had chewed his fingernails completely off. I thought any moment he was going to start on his toes.

Bob just nodded and kept on typing.

I thought the editor was kidding me when he said Bob was writing the whole magazine. Turned out he wasnt kidding. This was nothing new to Bob. He had been writing and editing his own magazines since he was in fourth grade. And it was very funny stuff. Thats important in humor magazines.

With time running out, Bob really hammered away on that typewriter. Except maybe hammer isnt the right word.

Not too many people know thisbut R.L. Stine is a one-finger typist! Thats not to say he has only one finger. He has five of them on each hand. What I mean is, R.L. Stine types his stories with one finger.

Luckily for me that day at the Sundial office, Bob suddenly grabbed that one finger. He was hurt! In a frantic last-minute rush to finish the issue, Bob had jammed his finger between two keys. The typewriter was fine, but Bob had a serious injury. His typing finger was scratched!

It was lucky for me only because there was now space in the magazine for my piece.

And so, on that same day in 1962, an article of mine was printed and I met R.L. Stine.

He has been my best friend ever since.

Bob never forgets my birthday, and I never forget to remind him of his. When Bob was writing funny books and magazines, his choice in birthday gifts ran mostly to rubber chickens.

Now that hes the king of scary stories, Bob is beyond rubber chickens. Now he sends me rubber eyeballs .

Ive followed Bobs writing career from his years as editor of Sundial , through his jobs with fan magazines, trade magazines, and funny books. Ive been with Bob when he was just another face in the crowd. And Ive seen the traffic-stopping celebrity who is swamped by thousands of fans wanting his autograph.

He sure stopped traffic when he came back to his hometown of Columbus, Ohio, for a book signing.

You should have seen the mob of people and cars trying to get into the bookstore parking lot! Streets were tied up in all four directions. The store manager told us he had never seen such a large crowd to meet an author. It was amazing, he said.

R.L. Stines life as a writer is pretty amazing. And it is a pretty good story. Its the story of how my frienda young man with a portable typewriter and a lot of crazy ideaswent from making up little magazines at home in his room to becoming one of Americas bestselling authors of all time.

Hes written over 330 books.

And hes done it all with one finger!

But Ive gone on long enough. All the rest of this story is in Bobs words. I have written it down just as he told it to me. Enjoy

Joe Arthur

I was born October 8, 1943, in Columbus, Ohio. My parents called me Robert Lawrence Stine (now you know what the R.L. stands for). One of my earliest memories is a scary one. Its about Whitey.

Whitey was our dog. In pictures, Whitey looks like he was half husky, half collie, and half elephant. He was so big that when we allowed him in the house, he knocked over vasesand the tables they were on! Thats why we kept him in the garage.

When I was four, it was my job to let Whitey out of the garage every morning. As soon as I stepped outside, I could hear him scratching at the inside of the garage door.

Slowly, Id push up the heavy door. And Whitey would come charging out at me. His tail would wag furiously and he would bark like crazy. He was so glad to see me!

Barking and crying, he would leap on meand knock me to the driveway. Every morning!

Down, Whitey! Down! I begged.

THUD! I was down on the driveway.

THUD! Every morning.

Whitey was a good dog. But I think he helped give me my scary view of life. I wonder if I would have become a horror writer if I didnt start every morning when I was four flat on my back on the driveway!

I grew up in the town of Bexley. Bexley is a suburb of Columbus, and Columbus is right in the middle of Ohio.

When I was little, we lived in a three-story house. We had a big yard with a lot of shade trees.

My brother, Bill, is three years younger than me. He and I shared a bedroom on the second floor. The third floor was an attic. It was strictly forbidden. Mom told us never to go up there.

I asked her why. She only shook her head and said, Dont ask.

That attic from my childhood is also one of the reasons why I write Goosebumps and Fear Street today.

I used to lie in my bed at night and stare at the ceiling. What terrible thing is up there in the attic? I wondered. I pretended I could see through the plaster. Of course I couldnt see anything. Except plaster. But my imagination sure could.

In my imagination, a coatrack stood at the top of the attic stairs. Next to it, a three-legged table, several cardboard cartons, and an old windup record player. That dark shape back in the corner was a mysterious old trunk. Oh, and there was a dusty moose head. I could see this stuff as clear as day. But it was only furniture. It wasnt scary.

The scary part was the monster in the attic. I made it up. And I made up stories about the monster with trunks and moose heads. These stories seem silly to me now, but at the time they were the best answer I could come up with to the question, Whats in the attic?

I knew it had to be something truly awful. Otherwise my mom wouldnt make such a big deal about it.

So I didnt go up to the attic. Not right away.

This doesnt mean I had a weird, haunted childhood. I didnt.

My family was a typical family. Dad worked for a restaurant supply company, and Mom was a housewife. We didnt have much money. But my parents worked hard to make sure we never felt poor. There were three of us kidsme, Bill, and my sister, Pam, who came along when I was seven.