One thing about Mr. Stephen King, he will never show you his closets. This is what the closet in my home office looks like. Here is where I keep my largest inventory of writing, and this represents about a fourth of everything I have written over my lifetime.
Here are novels (about twenty of them) that have never been published, hundreds of short stories and essays, and stacks and stacks of work I have had published in magazines, journals, and anthologies. My son once asked me, "Dad, what is all this junk?"
"This, my son, is your heritage," I told him. "Other fathers may pass along stocks, houses, cars, and the business model. When I die, you get to burn all of this!"
Mr. Stephen King has immaculately-groomed walk-in closets with hardwood floors. I have a closet loaded with kindling.
Mr. King remembers everthing he has written, and where it has been published. I can't remember what I had for breakfast yesterday.
Mr. King may have a few skeletons in his closet. I am getting poorer, and may have to resort to eating my work very soon.