I started reading King's works about thirty years ago. I have no idea where I laid hands on Salem's Lot at a wildly imaginative 12 or 13, but once I did, that was it. I remember coming outside into the darkness of an early winter morning where my grandfather waited to drive me to the bus (we lived in the country); he sat in the car, silhouetted in the half-light, and suddenly visions of Charlie Rhodes' bus full of dead and hungry children gripped me: for one adrenaline-filled moment I couldn't bring myself to get into the car.
I read a lot. Always have. And there are many, many fine writers out there. I've come to discover, though, that for me, there is no greater literary pleasure than the feeling of a new, unexplored Stephen King waiting for me to settle in and greedily crack its binding.
I've come to feel that I share a little ka with sai King. Not in an Annie-Wilkes-number-one-fan sort of way; I'm sure I bear no significance to him, but he certainly does to me. We share a birthday, and, among other small coincidences, he's used my last name for one of his characters; another (Dandelo as Joe Collins, Dark Tower VII) claimed to have been born of parents named Henry and Flora, who were my great-grandparents. Small things, but they're meaningful to me.
Years ago, when he went on his motorcycle tour after that fateful June 19th encounter with an out-of-control vehicle badly driven by a man who was paying more attention to his dogs than the road, he came to my city to give a reading. Afterward, my aunt, who has lots of cool, cultural connections here, said "Oh, I wish you would have told me you wanted to meet him! You could have come with me." She was friends with the owner of the independent bookstore that had orchestrated his visit, and had spent the evening with a small group of people having cocktails and dinner with him. That still smarts, all these years later. Augghh.
So, here I am, fresh from finally finishing the Dark Tower series (I really don't know what took me so long, when I've so voraciously read everything else) and suffering from the worst depression I've ever experienced after finishing a book or literary series. I don't know why, exactly. I just feel sad, and a little lost, and I miss them - mostly dear, valiant Oy. I don't know if I should feel silly about that; those who don't love to read might think so, but many of those who do can surely understand.
I read a lot. Always have. And there are many, many fine writers out there. I've come to discover, though, that for me, there is no greater literary pleasure than the feeling of a new, unexplored Stephen King waiting for me to settle in and greedily crack its binding.
I've come to feel that I share a little ka with sai King. Not in an Annie-Wilkes-number-one-fan sort of way; I'm sure I bear no significance to him, but he certainly does to me. We share a birthday, and, among other small coincidences, he's used my last name for one of his characters; another (Dandelo as Joe Collins, Dark Tower VII) claimed to have been born of parents named Henry and Flora, who were my great-grandparents. Small things, but they're meaningful to me.
Years ago, when he went on his motorcycle tour after that fateful June 19th encounter with an out-of-control vehicle badly driven by a man who was paying more attention to his dogs than the road, he came to my city to give a reading. Afterward, my aunt, who has lots of cool, cultural connections here, said "Oh, I wish you would have told me you wanted to meet him! You could have come with me." She was friends with the owner of the independent bookstore that had orchestrated his visit, and had spent the evening with a small group of people having cocktails and dinner with him. That still smarts, all these years later. Augghh.
So, here I am, fresh from finally finishing the Dark Tower series (I really don't know what took me so long, when I've so voraciously read everything else) and suffering from the worst depression I've ever experienced after finishing a book or literary series. I don't know why, exactly. I just feel sad, and a little lost, and I miss them - mostly dear, valiant Oy. I don't know if I should feel silly about that; those who don't love to read might think so, but many of those who do can surely understand.
