Dear Mr. King,
A friend who came by to visit the other day was checking out the shelves in my office and noticed something she thought was weird. “You have, like, every book Stephen King ever wrote in here. Why don’t you do some book reviews on his work?”
Simple answer. I’m not worthy.
Mr. King, I have been a devoted fan since I was in high school and I skipped out on a football game to finish reading Christine. I flunked my Calculus midterm, thanks to an overnight binge-read of The Stand (and I loved your cameo in the movie, by the way). There were the years of nightmares about giant turtles after It. My youngest child was inconsiderate enough to decide to enter this world three weeks early–I carried my copy of Desperation to the delivery room. On Writing has been on my nightstand since the day I pulled it out of the Amazon box.
In short, I’ve read almost every word you’ve ever written, multiple times in most cases. So please don’t be offended that I opted not to include any reviews of your books on this blog. There are thousands, if not millions, of amateur reviews of your work. Does the world need to read about how I, the girl who commuted into New York City for fifteen years, now refuse to go into the Lincoln Tunnel? Ummm, nope.
But, whenever some website asks me to enter my secret answer to, “Who is your favorite author?” The answer is always Stephen King. You beat out Jane Austen.
And not because you’ve scared the bejeezus out of me more times than I can count. Because you weave characters of such depth and complexity, no matter how tangential they were to the story. I still find myself thinking about Baby Jenkins, locked forever in the refrigerator. She took only a page and a half in my copy of The Stand, but I will never forget her.
So, Mr. King, forgive my lack of attention to you on my blog. Know that you fill the shelves in my home, and there is always room for the next volume. And, luckily, I don’t have any more Calculus tests to flunk.