This arrived in an email early this morning. Why me and what it means I have no idea.
Bachman returns?
Think about it, deeply. I'll be waiting, compadre.
I am Richard Bachman. I am what you might call Mr. Stephen King's alter ego. I do not apologize for my condition. I know I was a pawn, a victim of circumstances. Useful one moment, discarded the next. I was good for seven novels. Just seven. Let me expand on this.
Mr. King has a fondness for penning Forewords. I refer Constant Readers to the one he has quaintly titled "Why I Was Bachman," which can be found online or in The Bachman Books. (Notice the title has my name, not his.) In it he explains why he was me. It's the same as me explaining why I was him. Confused? I'll elaborate.
The novels I have referenced above Mr. King published under a pseudonym (me) between 1977 and 1984. He describes these early efforts as be being "bad," "indifferent," and "pretty good." In hindsight we know they are all masterpieces of modern fiction. So why Bachman?
One reason Mr. King gives is "to turn down the heat a little bit." It's like asking Elvis to "turn down" his sex appeal "a little bit." Frankly it doesn't wash. As a writer, why would he want to be someone other than himself? It was "fun" he says. Yes, for him maybe. While he was having fun rocking and reeling, I, Dicky, was writing the books. (And for your elucidation, Mr.King, the author photo on the back of Thinner is a decent likeness, and my so-called bogus wife, Claudia Inez, is hot in bed.)
He says he thought his publishers thought he was overpublising the market. Rubbish. What do publishers know other than red numbers on a ledger sheet?
He says he was asked if he did it because he felt typecast as a horror writer. And his answer to this is, "I don’t give a s---- what people call me as long as I can go to sleep at night." Well I do, Mr. King. And lately I haven't been sleeping very well, no thanks to you.
He says he did it because "Everybody tries to ... make sense of your life." Poppycock. I've tried making sense of my life, and all I've got to show for it is seven novels, raging (no pun) headaches, and him.
He says, "But there's another part that suggests it's all a lottery." Chance, a roll of the dice maybe? Yes, I'll grant there might be some truth in this. He bet on me, and lost. I bet on him, and won.
He describes the Bachman novels as "just plain books." Well, I've got news for him. Though he loaded the dice against me from the start (his words), first edition Bachman books now sell for hundreds of dollars. That might tell him something, huh?
These so-called reasons aside, the motivation for him wanting to be Bachman---and me wanting to be Stephen King---can be reasonably explained. Ultimately, it's a conundrum: like the theory of the quantum world, it defies common sense explanation but can be approached using rigorous mathematical procedures. Not that either Mr. King or yours truly is a mathematician. In a word, it's "spooky." It's a mystery, and a "spooky" mystery is fun to contemplate in and of itself.
I will end with these words (mine, not his): yes, there is more prose left in me. More horror, if you will. If only he could see that. But he is currently too involved in domesticity, too wrapped up in the day-to-day to know, too feel, what I feel.
Horror, Mr. Stephen King. Horror is what the reading masses want: unadulterated, unapologetic, grossed-out, and creepy. Remember Rage, The Regulators, The Plant, "Survivor Type"--Carrie?
To paraphrase Descartes: If you think, therefore I am. But what if I think? If I think, will you then be?
Mr. King has a fondness for penning Forewords. I refer Constant Readers to the one he has quaintly titled "Why I Was Bachman," which can be found online or in The Bachman Books. (Notice the title has my name, not his.) In it he explains why he was me. It's the same as me explaining why I was him. Confused? I'll elaborate.
The novels I have referenced above Mr. King published under a pseudonym (me) between 1977 and 1984. He describes these early efforts as be being "bad," "indifferent," and "pretty good." In hindsight we know they are all masterpieces of modern fiction. So why Bachman?
One reason Mr. King gives is "to turn down the heat a little bit." It's like asking Elvis to "turn down" his sex appeal "a little bit." Frankly it doesn't wash. As a writer, why would he want to be someone other than himself? It was "fun" he says. Yes, for him maybe. While he was having fun rocking and reeling, I, Dicky, was writing the books. (And for your elucidation, Mr.King, the author photo on the back of Thinner is a decent likeness, and my so-called bogus wife, Claudia Inez, is hot in bed.)
He says he thought his publishers thought he was overpublising the market. Rubbish. What do publishers know other than red numbers on a ledger sheet?
He says he was asked if he did it because he felt typecast as a horror writer. And his answer to this is, "I don’t give a s---- what people call me as long as I can go to sleep at night." Well I do, Mr. King. And lately I haven't been sleeping very well, no thanks to you.
He says he did it because "Everybody tries to ... make sense of your life." Poppycock. I've tried making sense of my life, and all I've got to show for it is seven novels, raging (no pun) headaches, and him.
He says, "But there's another part that suggests it's all a lottery." Chance, a roll of the dice maybe? Yes, I'll grant there might be some truth in this. He bet on me, and lost. I bet on him, and won.
He describes the Bachman novels as "just plain books." Well, I've got news for him. Though he loaded the dice against me from the start (his words), first edition Bachman books now sell for hundreds of dollars. That might tell him something, huh?
These so-called reasons aside, the motivation for him wanting to be Bachman---and me wanting to be Stephen King---can be reasonably explained. Ultimately, it's a conundrum: like the theory of the quantum world, it defies common sense explanation but can be approached using rigorous mathematical procedures. Not that either Mr. King or yours truly is a mathematician. In a word, it's "spooky." It's a mystery, and a "spooky" mystery is fun to contemplate in and of itself.
I will end with these words (mine, not his): yes, there is more prose left in me. More horror, if you will. If only he could see that. But he is currently too involved in domesticity, too wrapped up in the day-to-day to know, too feel, what I feel.
Horror, Mr. Stephen King. Horror is what the reading masses want: unadulterated, unapologetic, grossed-out, and creepy. Remember Rage, The Regulators, The Plant, "Survivor Type"--Carrie?
To paraphrase Descartes: If you think, therefore I am. But what if I think? If I think, will you then be?
Bachman returns?
Think about it, deeply. I'll be waiting, compadre.
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