(originally published on Novelicious )
Dear Stephen King,
I began reading your novels long before I had any business reading your novels. I’d hide them inside school bags, underneath pillows and craftily read them out of sight of disapproving parental eyes. You are the reason I love horror.
Growing up I’d read Tolkien, Enid Blyton and Judy Blume but after I read Carrie for the first time at twelve years old, I knew I’d never look at books in the same way again. From what I recall, I didn’t quite understand it all but it didn’t matter. The thrill was immeasurable.
Twenty four years later, that thrill hasn’t gone. Whether it’s a new novel or an old, worn one I’ve read countless times before, I’m still as wide eyed and bewitched as I was back then.
Your words send me to a place that is all mine. A place where I happily allow maniacs and monsters to roam freely, where I’m never certain that good will always triumph over evil and where, on occasion, I don’t want it to. It’s a place where I feel safe; scared shitless but safe. Your ability to create worlds and characters which crawl off the page and wait for me to sleep is remarkable. Your novels stay with me long after I’ve closed the book and turned off the light.
However, On Writing is the one book I return to time and time again. It’s a book which has helped me through many cases of writer’s block, self doubt and procrastination. It’s the one book I would advise any writer to own.
Stephen King, you are my literary hero. Not only do you inspire me to write; more importantly, you inspire me to read.