With Apologies to Stephen King

(or, how I got over my literary snobbishness)

Writer and phenomenal person, Elizabeth Kaye Cook, and I are letting readers eavesdrop on our bookish correspondence. This month, I write about how it felt to go to KingCon after we’d been beaten up for defending satire, which you can read about here if you like.

Dear Liz,

My sister has loved Stephen King for decades. She had, until very recently when she decided to downsize, a big collection of King first editions on her shelves and always told me what a great writer he was. I shrugged off her recommendations. I liked literary fiction, not horror mysteries.

Several years ago I noticed that my tastes were changing. When I looked back on my favorite contemporary novels and writers (Ruth Ozeki, Jess Walters, Carmen Maria Machado, Margaret Atwood, Lynn Coady), I realized that many of today’s literary writers were no longer appealing to me. I simply couldn’t get through books by Rachel Kushner, Zadie Smith, Sally Rooney, and Douglas Stuart. I tried, I really did. It mostly had to do with issues of plot and stakes (as in, both were largely absent). It’s hard to care about a protagonist thinking all the time. As a reader it felt like watching paint dry. There is such a thing as too much interiority. But obvs, that’s just me. Many people love these writers and to that I say: I’m okay, you’re okay. What’s a private letter between us without a little of my personal beef?

So when you and I decided to go to the first ever Stephen King convention last fall, it was more about meeting you in person for the first time, not any true love of Stephen King. My sister was graciously not annoyed that I was going to KingCon, and for the record, I did invite her.

I had read Firestarter a year earlier, determined to finally open my mind to someone who had over sixty books to his name, and I wasn’t disappointed. A little girl who sets fires with her mind? Uhm, yes please. What had I been thinking, shunning King’s wild imagination all these years? I loved Atwood and Machado but hadn’t delved into Stephen King? It didn’t make any sense.

In the week leading up to the convention, I listened to the only King audiobook available at my library: The Outsider (so much male angst in there, right up my alley – loved it). One thing that really struck me was how beautiful the language was in The Outsider compared to Firestarter. I think it’s fair to say that Firestarter is quite plot-based, very high-concept, and relies on simple sentences, while The Outsider feels more textured and lush in terms of its language, mood, themes, and characterizations. Firestarter was published in 1980 and The Outsider in 2018. That’s a lot of years for King to evolve as a writer.

So anyway, that’s how I arrived at KingCon: with very limited knowledge. What I thought going in was that I would meet you in person, get some Las Vegas sunshine, and dip an introductory toe into the world of Stephen King.

Yes, and a whole lot more.

I remember sitting with you in that one panel about the history of bookbinding going back to the very first use of vellum in ancient times, moving through the invention of moveable type and the Gutenberg press, and winding its way up to King’s oeuvre. Waves of WOW and astonishment flashed through me as audience members called out the publication dates of King’s earliest special bindings, their designers, and the spontaneous applause that erupted when Firestarter’s “asbestos” cover was beamed onto the projection screen. These folks were bringing pure, unadulterated, gung-ho-bananas joy to their reading and collecting of King.

At Saturday night’s Shining Ball, when you and I dressed up as the Grady Sisters only to meet twelve other women, and one man, in the same costume, I thought, I have found my bookish weirdos. Yes to standing ovations for cover art. Yes to waiting in hours-long lines to purchase King-related artwork from the artists themselves. Yes to coveting the vintage Cujo and Pet Sematary t-shirts. All hail the King!

Of course I went home determined to read more Stephen King. Several people at the convention told me to start with the Dark Tower series given my interest in bonkers and twisted, but King’s latest novel, Holly, was the only one at my local bookstore. The character Holly Gibney had appeared in The Outsider, so I happily laid down my cash and went home with her. (Hmm, that doesn’t sound right.)

Holly is a detective with a complicated past. I’d say her vibe is somewhere between Wallander and Stephanie Plum, though I’m certainly no expert in this genre. Some have said Holly is neuro-divergent, but I’m not sure that is ever explicitly stated in the text (hoping a Constant Reader – King’s nickname for his most devoted fans – will correct me here if I’m wrong). Holly is reserved and can be blunt, but she’s also gentle and vulnerable. She sets off to find out who is picking off people in a small college town during the time of Covid and…drama ensues. There is plot. There are stakes. There are beautiful sentences such as these from the novel’s opening:

It’s an old city, and no longer in very good shape, nor is the lake beside which it has been built, but there are parts of it that are still pretty nice. Longtime residents would probably agree that the nicest section is Sugar Heights, and the nicest street running through it is Ridge Road, which makes a gentle downhill curve from Bell College of Arts and Sciences to Deerfield Park, two miles below.

Such languid, dreamy prose! I felt ashamed reading it back just now and realizing what a snobby snot I’ve been to my sister. Hopefully she’s forgiven me as the younger and dumber of us. We all have to find our way, in life and in literature. Thankfully, I’ve come around.

Writers develop and change, as do readers. And what a delightful thing that is.

The next Holly novel is coming out at the end of May and you can bet I’ll be eating it up. After that I have sixty more to go.

With love from a basement (Holly reference, couldn’t help myself),

-mel

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