There was a ruined church along the way, an old Methodist meeting house, which reared its shambles at the far end of a frost-heaved and hummocked lawn, and when you walked past the view of its glaring, senseless windows your footsteps became very loud in your ears and whatever you had been whistling died on your lips and you though about how it must be inside - the overturned pews, the rotting hymnals, the crumbling altar where only mice now kept the sabbath, and you wondered what might be in there besides mice - what madmen, what monsters.
Stephen King, "Salem's Lot"
THAT is what is missing from my writing so far. Those poignant moments in text where the imagery is just slammed into you and the subtle nuances in what is said can leave quite the chill up your spine. I know I gave it a crack in one of my earlier scenes, trying to write something that was atmospheric, descriptive, really attempting to set a mood with the reader, and it was OK in a fashion. I won't really know how effective it is until I do a full reading. But I'm always humbled by what Stephen King has been able to make me feel with his writing over the years and Salem's Lot was only his second published novel.