I got into Stephen King in the sixth grade and spent the summer that followed scouring the shelves of the public library for his novels; Pet Sematary, Carrie, the Tommyknockers, all of the Bachmann books — I read whatever I could get my hands on. And in spite of my over(hyper)active imagination, I remember how increasingly confident I’d become that these books were indeed works of fiction, if only because there was no way so much freaky shit could happen in the state of Maine and for Maine to still be on the map.
I’m rereading the Tommyknockers because I simply cannot remain focused on Anne Rice’s A Tale of the Body Thief. Self-editing was probably the single most idiotic decision that woman ever made. Yes, I am aware she is a born-again Christian.