Since this is my very first post - and I am of a generation that is not terribly comfortable with such public gushing - I hope that this is the right way to go about this. Having searched - without success - for an address or that of an agent to which this might be submitted, I decided that, if I really wanted to find a way to express my gratitude, this would have to do.
Thus - here we go, and apologies to anyone who has heard it all before or finds it ridiculously over the top.
Dear Mr. King,
Since I have been reading your work for more than forty years (Can it really be that long?) and never before taken pen in hand (figuratively) to express an opinion, you might wonder what would compel me to do so after such a long span of time. Truthfully, I'm wondering that myself - a little.
But let's set that question aside, for the moment, and allow me to tell you about our first acquaintance and why I remember it so vividly.
It was on the 11th of April in 1972 that I picked up my very first Stephen King novel. I could engage in a bit of flattery and say that I remember the date because your work changed my life, but that would be a blatant exaggeration. I remember it because it was the night after the birth of my oldest daughter, and I was propped up in a hospital bed. It was also the night that I realized how dark and creepy a hospital can be in the depths of midnight. The book was 'Salem's Lot, and it was the first novel I ever read that actually scared me enough that I couldn't sleep. The next day I went home with a new baby - and a new favorite author. To say that my life was different from that time forward is by no means an exaggeration, and while I won't pretend that immersing myself in the volumes of your work equaled the impact of raising my lovely girl, I will say that the quality of your writing and your love of the language had a dramatic impact on my own love for reading.
Like most young women, I had gone through the romantic drivel phase (You remember all those bodice rippers with gorgeous young men with long tumbles of blond curls on the covers, courtesy of Frank Yerby, etc.) and the gothic novels (latter-day descendants of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights and contemporaries of Rebecca, etc.) and the more shocking modern bestsellers - Peyton Place and Valley of the Dolls and so on. I had read - and loved - many of the classics; was then and still am a fan of Dickens and Hugo and Hemingway, and have never read anything that moved me more deeply than To Kill a Mockingbird. Obviously, I have loved fiction all my life, with a particular fondness for British mysteries, especially P. D. James and Simon Beckett, with an aside to the Canadian version, Louise Penny, and have had many favorite authors over a period of time, but I think I can honestly say that your work has always been at the very top of my list. I'm pretty sure I've read everything you've ever written, and have never once been disappointed.
Can you guess that I wanted to be a writer? Well, I did, but, unfortunately, life got in the way, and although I wrote quite a lot, it was only for my own amusement, and I realized, fairly early on, that one does not always get what one wants. I wanted to write; I did write; but I came to understand that what I really longed for - the ability to write, like you and Ms. Lee - was beyond my limits.
So why, do you suppose, I decided to sit down at my keyboard now, after all these years, to express my delight in your work? At the age of seventy, having finally retired and gained the time to catch up on all the wonderful novels that I missed over the years, I have just finished Joyland - and find myself rendered almost speechless by your talent. Again. And it occurred to me that I should speak up and say so, while I still can.
It is not the first time this has happened. You have stunned me many times over the years. You have scared me out of my wits; The Shining is the first thing that comes to mind in that context, but certainly not the last. You have inspired me and comforted me; 11/22/63 gave me an opportunity to come to terms with my own memories of that terrible, unforgettable day of horror which has been carved into my heart since the moment when a voice on the radio (I was 19 and at work in an accounting office) interrupted a replay of the Four Seasons Candy Girl to announce that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas, and a co-worker (keep in mind that I lived in the deep South at the time) responded by saying, "Oh, I hope he's dead." I have never - before or since - felt my blood turn to ice in my veins. And you have made me laugh and cry, which you just did again. Is it that your work is getting better - more touching - or is it just that I laugh or cry more easily these days?
Not sure. Maybe both.
But at any rate, I found that I just wanted to say thank you, for all the many, many hours of joy and inspiration you have given me. At this stage, it may be too late for me to realize those dreams I've had all my life, and I may find that I still don't have the talent to write the story I wish to tell, but I may yet try. And, if I do, it will be, in part, because I want to be able to touch the world around me, to emulate what you have done so beautifully and so effortlessly, and to demonstrate a love of the written word that might be a pale reflection of your own.
Finally, and most importantly, I write to beg you to never stop. I will continue to wait with bated breath for the latest work of Stephen King, until I'm not around for the wait.
Thus - here we go, and apologies to anyone who has heard it all before or finds it ridiculously over the top.
Dear Mr. King,
Since I have been reading your work for more than forty years (Can it really be that long?) and never before taken pen in hand (figuratively) to express an opinion, you might wonder what would compel me to do so after such a long span of time. Truthfully, I'm wondering that myself - a little.
But let's set that question aside, for the moment, and allow me to tell you about our first acquaintance and why I remember it so vividly.
It was on the 11th of April in 1972 that I picked up my very first Stephen King novel. I could engage in a bit of flattery and say that I remember the date because your work changed my life, but that would be a blatant exaggeration. I remember it because it was the night after the birth of my oldest daughter, and I was propped up in a hospital bed. It was also the night that I realized how dark and creepy a hospital can be in the depths of midnight. The book was 'Salem's Lot, and it was the first novel I ever read that actually scared me enough that I couldn't sleep. The next day I went home with a new baby - and a new favorite author. To say that my life was different from that time forward is by no means an exaggeration, and while I won't pretend that immersing myself in the volumes of your work equaled the impact of raising my lovely girl, I will say that the quality of your writing and your love of the language had a dramatic impact on my own love for reading.
Like most young women, I had gone through the romantic drivel phase (You remember all those bodice rippers with gorgeous young men with long tumbles of blond curls on the covers, courtesy of Frank Yerby, etc.) and the gothic novels (latter-day descendants of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights and contemporaries of Rebecca, etc.) and the more shocking modern bestsellers - Peyton Place and Valley of the Dolls and so on. I had read - and loved - many of the classics; was then and still am a fan of Dickens and Hugo and Hemingway, and have never read anything that moved me more deeply than To Kill a Mockingbird. Obviously, I have loved fiction all my life, with a particular fondness for British mysteries, especially P. D. James and Simon Beckett, with an aside to the Canadian version, Louise Penny, and have had many favorite authors over a period of time, but I think I can honestly say that your work has always been at the very top of my list. I'm pretty sure I've read everything you've ever written, and have never once been disappointed.
Can you guess that I wanted to be a writer? Well, I did, but, unfortunately, life got in the way, and although I wrote quite a lot, it was only for my own amusement, and I realized, fairly early on, that one does not always get what one wants. I wanted to write; I did write; but I came to understand that what I really longed for - the ability to write, like you and Ms. Lee - was beyond my limits.
So why, do you suppose, I decided to sit down at my keyboard now, after all these years, to express my delight in your work? At the age of seventy, having finally retired and gained the time to catch up on all the wonderful novels that I missed over the years, I have just finished Joyland - and find myself rendered almost speechless by your talent. Again. And it occurred to me that I should speak up and say so, while I still can.
It is not the first time this has happened. You have stunned me many times over the years. You have scared me out of my wits; The Shining is the first thing that comes to mind in that context, but certainly not the last. You have inspired me and comforted me; 11/22/63 gave me an opportunity to come to terms with my own memories of that terrible, unforgettable day of horror which has been carved into my heart since the moment when a voice on the radio (I was 19 and at work in an accounting office) interrupted a replay of the Four Seasons Candy Girl to announce that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas, and a co-worker (keep in mind that I lived in the deep South at the time) responded by saying, "Oh, I hope he's dead." I have never - before or since - felt my blood turn to ice in my veins. And you have made me laugh and cry, which you just did again. Is it that your work is getting better - more touching - or is it just that I laugh or cry more easily these days?
Not sure. Maybe both.
But at any rate, I found that I just wanted to say thank you, for all the many, many hours of joy and inspiration you have given me. At this stage, it may be too late for me to realize those dreams I've had all my life, and I may find that I still don't have the talent to write the story I wish to tell, but I may yet try. And, if I do, it will be, in part, because I want to be able to touch the world around me, to emulate what you have done so beautifully and so effortlessly, and to demonstrate a love of the written word that might be a pale reflection of your own.
Finally, and most importantly, I write to beg you to never stop. I will continue to wait with bated breath for the latest work of Stephen King, until I'm not around for the wait.
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