First of all, a confession. I gave Stephen King a go and… I’m not sure if he’s for me.
It’s not him, it’s me. I long ago lost the ability to read anything without my inner editor having a browse too. If I read a book that is over two hundred pages long I instinctively look for lines that could be shortened or cut. King’s writing style is conversational, almost, it has the feel of a story being told at a campfire, and I cannot cope with it. I want to run a red line through page after page of it. don’t need that, don’t need that, don’t need that. It is a matter of stylistic choice, not quality. Stephen King is obviously a good writer. But, blimey he takes his time getting to a point.
I probably chose badly too. Pet Sematary has an incredibly objectionable protagonist. A lazy selfish man who (long before the spooky stuff gets started) feels his hand readying to hit his child for being a child. A man who is psychologically abusing his wife. A piece of shit, essentially. Forgive me for not getting excited when he makes a friend. A kind reading would see the book as an examination of abuse, and I’m willing to be kind and say that is what it is, but spending nine million pages with the jerk was an ordeal.
And what the fuck was that scene in the bathroom? You know what I’m talking about. That was wrong on several levels.
I have another one of his books on order at the library. Maybe I’ll have better luck with that one.
It might have to wait though. We went to London last week and I may have bought a book or twenty. Lovely books, all waiting for a reader. Hello books. Hello.
Next week I will be trying to catch up on stuff after half term. I need to buy blu tack too. Remind me if I forget.