Stephen King

I grew up on Stephen King. For most of my teenage and young adult life, he was the only author I'd read, and I read everything that man put out--devoured every word, lived in every world, shivered through every nightmare. More than anything I wanted to go to Bangor, Maine, to (stalk) meet this master of horror. His imagination sheer genius, utter brilliance! He, should the truth be known, is the real reason I want to be a writer. To create such realistic characters and drama on paper, worlds that draw you in and suck the very breath from your lungs, leave you hanging precariously on the edge of your seat, gnawing nails, afraid to turn the page but even more afraid to not turn the page, scared witless and breathless. He leaves me in awe.

I have to confess, I haven't read any of his books lately. I gave up the horror genre several years back. Though I think Dean Koontz is more to blame, I found it left me paranoid and sleepless, the language too coarse for my taste anymore. I felt like I had grown out of that phase of my life. I simply let it go.

But looking back, those were some of the most fun books I had ever read. No matter how unrealistic or bizarre, the ride was always unforgettable. He has a new novel just recently released earlier this month, 11/22/63. If I didn't have an already daunting stack of books to read, I think I might be tempted to give it a whirl for old time's sake. I just might put it on my wish list to pick up at the library later on...why not?

I still dream of going to Bangor and hanging out groupie style by the King estate...maybe some day...Thanks for the passion, Mr. King!