I’ve had a serious case of… readers block? Is that what it’s called? A rut? Eh. Anyway, I just haven’t felt like listening to my audiobooks and I’ve been reading my physical books even more slowly than usual. And that’s how I ended up reading one, solitary book in March. Which is actually great because I need space to air my grievances. In this essay, I will…
‘Salem’s Lot by Stephen King
Buy the paperback here.
Download the audiobook here.
Three Truths from My Life:
1. From my calculations, 75% of the people I’ve met, describe themselves as “huge” Stephen King fans.
2. When I explain that I’ve never read a Stephen King horror book before and ask each of these people what I should start with, every single person told me a different title. And he has written enough books that, mathematically, this fact adds up.
3. When I figure I can’t go wrong with anything (due to the vastness of answers), and then tell people which book I settled on, without fail, everyone made a face like they were swallowing a burp and said, “Oh no.”
So that felt cool!
First of all, it’s “APOSTRAPHE Salem’s Lot”. Because the town is actually called Jerusalem’s Lot. Which means, is this book actually pronounced “suh-lem’s lot”?
Secondly, even though every single one of you (I guess I’m just writing this as a letter from me to the whole Church of Stephen King) told me (way too late I might add), that you hated this book, no one explained to me why they hated it. If it was the story, I actually didn’t mind the story at all. If I had known it was a vampire novel, I never would have picked it up (I can not emphasize how much research I did not do before deciding on this book–I literally picked the one that felt best in my hand). That being said, the story was captivating! I really liked the primary characters (and even a few of the side characters–those that I could keep straight. Even the baddest bad guys were compelling). But UGH I hated his writing style.
You could rip off the first 200 pages of this book and not miss a thing. I can sum up the whole Part 1 in two sentences: This story takes place in Maine. It is gloomy.
I was prepared for 1970’s sensibilities and tried not to hold them against him. The f-slur is very prominent. The way he talks about women, fat people, gay people, Black people, Asians, Mexicans, disabled people, old people… (almost) all people is straight up gruesome.
I like to read dark and twisty thrillers. I’m not too sensitive to read a brutal scene every now and again if it serves the story. But this was on another level. The excruciating detail that he included in one particular scene where a man is beating his wife made me feel like if I was Stephen King’s wife and I read that, I’d sleep with one eye open. But when it was over, I thought for sure that with that much detail, this was going to come back into the story to play an important role. I even predicted how it could potentially serve the story. But no. Nothing much really even happens with those characters. That was more or less the end of their story. I just felt like the author really wanted to feel what it was like to hit a woman. And then make millions off of it.
The insistence on explaining the minutia of every single thing really obliterated any momentum or even tension that happened to build. We’ll be in a really wild part of the story and in the middle, the character catches a whiff of something that reminds them of, I don’t know, a tuna fish sandwich that he saw his fifth grade teacher eating one day. So, now we have to dedicate the next six pages to this fifth grade teacher and her life story and where she moved to once she retired and what it looked like as she chewed. Or whatever. And then when you’re nearly falling asleep, you remember we were in the middle of the climax of this story! So we get back to that. And that happens over and over and over and over again for 662 pages.
Sure, there’s an argument to be made for over explaining everything but this is an essay on why I don’t like Stephen King. I honestly think it all comes down to I don’t like the way this man wastes so much of the reader’s time. It doesn’t feel like this man writes with the reader or even the story in mind–it feels like he does it all for himself. Which is his prerogative, I suppose. It’s all so he can prove that he can get in there and experience what it’s like to touch this tree or beat the ever loving shit out of a pretty girl.
NOW, I say all of this with the full understanding that this book was not only written in 1975 but that King was coked out of his mind and that this was only his second book, and that authors grow and change in their craft like any other artist. If his current Twitter presence is any indication, I’m sure that he has grown and changed as the culture has shifted and as he’s gotten sober. I’m sure as a person he’s excellent. But I don’t feel compelled to pick up another one of his books any time soon.
I think that if I had discovered Stephen King’s writings in the 1990’s like all my peers did, I’d probably have a really nostalgic place in my heart for him and collect him like they do. And I don’t begrudge anyone for having that at all. But having sampled him in 2024, there are a lot of other places that I’m going to turn for my horror needs moving forward. Authors like Tananarive Due, Toni Morrison, and Stephen Graham Jones are where I’m going to be looking.
I’ve never written this much about a single book outside of school. The irony is not lost on me.
PS: In the spirit of “I’ll try anything twice,” a friend at book club did convince me to give The Shining a try and I believe I’ll do it. Not any time soon. But one day.
XOXO, Lib 