I don’t read Stephen King. Ever.
See, the thing is I did read him. Back a thousand years ago (possibly longer), I read a couple of his books. I read Carrie, Thinner and Fire Starter. They scared me, but the writing was good and easy to get into. So, I continued to look for his books.
I found a big book by him titled ‘It’. I thought since it was thicker, I would enjoy the book that much longer…Good theory but, as it turned out, not so good in practice.
Saying that ‘It’ is scary is like saying the sky is blue, winter is cold and water is wet. It doesn’t do it justice or explain the sheer, unadulterated terror those pages evoked. I was terrified doesn’t do it either. I was beyond scared, beyond terrified. I was so horrified that the mere mention of Stephen King still causes goosebumps on my arms today and the hairs on my neck to stand up.
His work is that scary. My brain simply can’t handle Stephen King. I can barely tolerate typing his name. So I don’t read him. Ever.
I heard him say once that he “had the heart of a boy…Kept in a jar in his basement.” That sums him up for me. He’s so obviously talented at horror, a mere mortal like myself can never hope to cope. So, I stay away.
It’s cheaper than therapy.