Confession

I have a confession, of sorts. I like Stephen King. I think he's excellent. His writing, especially his more recent stuff, has the feel of a master craftsman. Each word feels as though it is selected not at random (like, say, my writing) but carefully chosen from a tool chest, each a perfect and precise fit. When I read his work I envisage him not so much drunkenly mashing away at a computer keyboard (again, much like yours truly) but working like a boatsmith, planing long boards of exquisite wood and fitting them together, crafting a thing of beauty and utility. Of course, that boat builder would then have to fill his boat with murderous clowns and blood to make the simile really work but whatever...
The reason that this feels like a confession is that when I was growing up King was pretty much only read by, well, weird kids. Smoking at 13, sleeveless denim jackets, listening to Megadeth rather than Metallica, that sort of thing. When talking about the books they'd fix you with the crazy eye and you could see that they were astounded that someone would write books just for them. Finally, they were clearly saying, someone is putting down on paper all my deepest thoughts and most heartfelt desires, like running over policemen with lawnmowers. I tried to read Cujo when I was about 13 but it felt like drinking Jim Beam straight from the bottle, something that only bad kids did. Reading American Psycho by comparison felt positively urbane and sophisticated. Which all goes to show that even a poor, small town Australian boy is capable of being a literature snob...But unless he wants his ass kicked he'll keep it to himself.