I love Stephen King.
There, I said it. Out loud and proud. I read his books all through junior high and high school, not only because I enjoyed the secret thrill of being scared shitless, but also because I loved the way he crafted his words and stories. I spent years in college, as an English minor, denying this fact. Because as an English student, you're supposed to be "scholarly" and into "real literature".
When did "literature" become restricted to things that were boring and depressing and stale?
As a person who dabbles in writing (and I do just dabble), I was intrigued when a friend recommended King's non-fiction book "On Writing". It is simply magnificent, the straightforward honesty and ethic the man uses. It made me want to go back and re-read all of his classic stories. You know, the ones that made me stay up all night, first because the man knows how to keep the pages turning, and second because I was too dang scared to turn off the light.
But when I took a visit to Half-Price Books, I realized that there was simply no time to go back. I had serious catching up to do.
This week, I read a book of short stories so fascinating that I didn't mind beginning my nightly reads until I'd finally made my way to bed well after 1AM. And while I was mildly terrified at his sinister sentences, I was also fascinated at his construction. The man's mind must never stop.
And for those who doubt me, who snicker or roll their eyes at my "literary" choices, I offer Exhibit A, "Shawshank Redemption" which plays on my tv as I write, or "Stand By Me", one of my favorite coming-of-age stories ever. Both were products of that ever-flowing mind.
And a good story, no matter who tells it, makes me deliriously happy.