The Stephen King Companion

by George Beahm

  King, J. K. Rowling, and John Irving applaud at the end “Harry, Carrie, and Garp” at Radio City Hall in NYC.

  After the event, Stephen King left by a side entrance, where a limousine waited for him. But fans immediately congregated around him, thrusting papers to be autographed; he dutifully signed two or three, and then got in the limo and left.

  The two-night event sold out every ticket, and King’s Haven Foundation benefitted from the generosity of fans who attended and supported it.

  What struck me most from all three of their readings was that it reminded us of the oral tradition of storytelling. There’s authenticity to the source material when the author reads his or her own work, because you’re hearing it the way the author had intended: every inflection, every accent, every word carefully pronounced. It explains why King is so enamored with audiobooks. It also explains why his stories, especially the ones told in first person, sound like campfire stories; it’s as if King is there telling you a story himself. The oral tradition of storytelling is intimate and connective; it’s one reason why his readers feel he is talking directly to them, one on one, especially in his varied nonfiction.

  Cinefantastique cover with King, and Kathy Bates as Annie Wilkes (Misery), cover-dated February 1991.

  56

  WHERE DO YOU GET YOUR IDEAS?

  Over the years King has responded to The Question with various responses. Here’s a few from his grab bag.

  “I really don’t know.” (Insomnia book tour, Manchester, Vermont, October 4, 1994)

  “Well, there’s a great little bookstore on Forty-second Street in New York called Used Ideas. I go there when I run dry.” (University of Massachusetts at Amherst, 1985)

  “I get them at 239 Center Street in Bangor, just around the corner from the Frati Brothers Pawnshop.” (“On The Shining and Other Perpetrations,” Whispers 17–18, 1982)

  “The Question boggles most writers of fiction because it is so general.… So what writers mean, I think, when they say that they hate The Question is that it’s impossible to answer. Twenty different sexual encounters may result in twenty different children, and twenty different ideas may result in twenty different books, brothers and sisters, but each individual in itself. There is no idea-bin, no general case, so the writer is left groping, trying to answer an unanswerable question without looking too dumb.” (King, “On The Shining and Other Perpetrations,” Whispers 17–18, 1982)

  “I do research. I get different ideas from one source or another. You know, a lot of the phenomena, the case histories you read of psychic phenomena, things like telekinesis or telepathy or pyrokinesis. Those things fascinate me. If you read a few case histories you get a kind of feel for it. Then I’ll sit down and write the book.” (“An Evening with King,” Billerica, Massachusetts, public library, 1983)

  “So where do the ideas—the salable ideas—come from? For myself, the answer is simple enough. They come from my nightmares. Not the nighttime variety, as a rule, but the ones that hide just beyond the doorway that separates the conscious from the unconscious.” (interview with Joyce Lynch Dewes Moore, 1981)

  “Where do you get your inspirations? It comes from nowhere, it comes from every place. Something just hits. For me, writing is like walking through a desert and all at once, poking up through the hardpan, I see the top of a chimney. I know there’s a house under there, and I’m pretty sure I can dig it up if I want. That’s how I feel. It’s like the stories are already there.” (Larry King Live, April 10, 1986)

  “Utica! No, really, I don’t know. There is no way to answer that question so I just say the first thing that comes to mind. They come from every place. When people ask, ‘Where do you get your ideas?,’ the reason that question is so frustrating for a writer is because he knows they do come from some central source, but there’s no way to pinpoint that because it is somewhere deep down inside. It is some subconscious thing.” (interview with Loukia Louka, Maryland Coast Dispatch, August 8, 1986)

  DAVE BARRY’S CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH STEPHEN KING

  (from “Name of the Chapter, Broadway Chapter,” in

  Mid-Life Confidential (1994)

  We also got to know each other better, and got to share our ideas about the craft of writing. For example, on our first lunch break, Stephen King, whom I had never met, walked up to me, leaned down to put his face about an inch from mine, and said, in a booming, maniacal voice, “SO, DAVE BARRY, WHERE DO YOU GET YOUR IDEAS??”

  Stephen was making a little writer’s joke. He hates this question. Like most writers, he has been asked this question nine hundred squintillion times.

  57

  THE TOMMYKNOCKERS

  1987

  As King has readily admitted, The Tommyknockers is not one of his best efforts. It is a bloated novel written under trying circumstances when he was struggling with substance abuse issues. As he told Rolling Stone (November 2014):

  The Tommyknockers is an awful book. That was the last one I wrote before I cleaned up my act. And I’ve thought about it a lot lately and said to myself, “There’s a really good book in there, underneath all the spurious energy that cocaine provides, and I ought to go back.” The book is about 700 pages long, and I’m thinking, “There’s probably a good 350-page novel in there.”

  Sold to Putnam for $5 million as part of a two-book deal, the wordy novel ended the year with 1.4 million copies sold, making it third in a listing of bestselling novels for 1987. In other words, it’s a remarkable achievement for a lackluster book that reviewers panned with glee.

  A Publishers Weekly review (October 7, 1987) summarized the feeling of many reviewers, who felt it was the print equivalent of a Rube Goldberg device:

  The Tommyknockers is consumed by the rambling prose of its author. Taking a whole town as his canvas, King uses too-broad strokes, adding cartoon-like characters and unlikely catastrophes like so many logs on a fire; ultimately, he loses all semblance of style, carefully structured plot or resonant meaning, the hallmarks of his best writing. It is clear from this latest work that King has “become” a writing machine.

  With the benefit of hindsight, King judged the novel to be one of his less successful efforts. But at the time The Tommyknockers was published, in a newsletter from Waldenbooks, King said, “That book’s a really good read and a fast read and a monster story.… In the case of The Tommyknockers, what I was writing about were gadgets. I had to write this book to realize that all of these things—the Minuteman [missile], the Skyhawk [fighter jet], the Polaris submarine—are nothing but gadgets. If we kill ourselves, that’s what we’re going to do it with: a lot of Disney World gadgets of the sort that kids build with chemistry sets.”

  MICHAEL COLLINGS ON THE TOMMYKNOCKERS

  When it appeared, The Tommyknockers confirmed the fact that King’s perennial concern for children had largely been resolved. Both Misery and The Tommyknockers are about adults, and it is not coincidental that key adults in both novels are writers at crux points in their respective careers. Or that whatever happens in the narrative challenges their perceptions of themselves and their art. But the central point is that they are adults.

  In addition, The Tommyknockers refurbishes the dark fantasy of earlier novels with a science-fictional overlay. King almost immediately thrusts his readers into a world where alien spacecraft might lie hidden under tons of soil … but still reach out to disrupt hundreds of lives. Equally rapidly, however, it becomes clear that this fundamentally science-fictional premise merely becomes the vehicle for quintessential horror. Aliens may influence humans, but after a while, it is difficult to tell whether the motivation for horrific acts is truly to be blamed on the aliens, or more properly on unacknowledged pools of darkness within us (a theme expanded upon in Needful Things). And on a more fundamental level, the novel has more in common with Cycle of the Werewolf than with stories about flying saucers and alien technology providing almost unlimited power sources; in The Tommyknockers, an unexpected evil simply materializes. As with the abr
upt appearance of the werewolf in Cycle, there is no reason why Bobbi Anderson should stumble onto an exposed piece of the ship and thus set in motion the destruction of everything she loves.

  The Tommyknockers not only seems to shift genres, but also incorporates more self-referential allusions than any other of King’s major works. The frequent mention of previous novels and previous characters can be read either as part of the summation he intends The Tommyknockers to provide, or as merely self-inflating. Critics who see the novel as overly long, underedited, and careless in its particulars are especially savage about the intrusion of Jack Sawyer from The Talisman; Pennywise the Clown from It, appropriately enough as a hallucination; David Bright, John Smith, and the dead zone itself from The Dead Zone; the Shop from Firestarter; and more generalized but nevertheless recognizable allusions to Silver Bullet, Thinner, Pet Sematary, Cujo, Roadwork, and ’Salem’s Lot, as well as echoes of several short stories. At one point, in fact, King even includes himself as an allusion, when one character refers to stories “all full of make-believe monsters and a bunch of dirty words, like the ones that fellow who lived up in Bangor wrote.” If It suggested an encyclopedia of horror and monsters, The Tommyknockers equally suggests an encyclopedia of Things-King.

  The charge of self-indulgence these references elicited, coupled with the sense that the novel was wordy even by the standard set by King’s other novels, has given The Tommyknockers the general reputation of being among his weakest works. Certainly its bleak ending keeps readers from any sort of deep empathy; by the end, only two major characters remain alive, and they are children who have no understanding of what has gone on. As with ’Salem’s Lot, an entire town (and the area for miles around) has been destroyed. There has been more than a full measure of grief and suffering and death (and a living form of death that is even more horrifying, since it is inflicted not by aliens but by humans in the process of transforming).

  In spite of this, it is not as unreservedly dark as Pet Sematary. Bobbi Anderson and Jim Gardener learn what Louis Creed refuses to acknowledge: that there are things worse than death. While probably not among King’s most effective works, The Tommyknockers nevertheless repays the five years King spent working through its themes, tying together disparate strands that had accumulated in over fifteen years of storytelling and endbracketing one segment of his progress as a writer that began with the appearance of Carrie.

  Stephen King on The Tommyknockers

  It’s science fiction of a type. But the people who write science fiction are going to look down their noses at it and say, “This is crap because it doesn’t say how anything works.” There’s a suggestion that the spaceship in The Tommyknockers is propelled by mental power. There are also suggestions made that there are physiological and psychological changes going on with these people called “the becoming.” But it’s never explained how those things happen. It’s not a book like The Legacy of Heorot by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle, and Steven Barnes, which is about colonists in a faraway world. That book’s a really good read and a fast read and a good monster story. But I would say that The Tommyknockers is science fiction of a different type.

  The science fiction people like to categorize what they do. They even talk about it in the sense of hard science fiction, like Larry Niven does, and soft science fiction, like The Invasion of the Body Snatchers. My own philosophy has always been that I don’t care how the gadgets work; I care how the people work.

  —Stephen King, in the Waldenbooks in-house publication WB

  58

  BAG OF NERVES:

  MEETING STEPHEN KING

  BY KEVIN QUIGLEY

  Kevin Quigley gets a King novel signed at a Betts Bookstore signing in Bangor.

  Kevin Quigley gives King a book, which he peruses.

  It’s 1998, and King’s number one fan, Kevin Quigley, has traveled with King’s number two fan, Bob Ireland, to Bangor, Maine, to attend a Stephen King book signing at Betts Books. Keyed up with anticipation, after a previous day crowded with sightseeing, Kevin arrives at Betts Books with Bob just as it gets dark. The line outside goes down the street. It’s cold, but Stuart Tinker, the proprietor, thoughtfully provided refreshments for people patiently waiting in line.

  King shows up in a Mercedes and parks it roadside right by the back exit of the store, probably just in case he needs to have a quick get-away.

  This is a big event for Betts Books. Its best customers have come from all over the United States to attend, including the “super-collectors” who were interviewed by the local media; they are the ones who have virtually every signed King limited edition published and have spent a small fortune building their collections. But for most of the people attending, they’re just happy to get a minute or two with King in person and get a book or two signed.

  It’s going to be a long night. Nobody’s going to get rushed through the line. It’s a hometown book signing, and King doesn’t want anyone to go away disappointed. If it means staying a little later than usual, King’s game.

  I’m not there to get a book signed, though; I’m there to photograph the event for Betts Books, and when Kevin had his moment with King, I captured it on film.

  What follows is Kevin’s recollection of his close encounter with the Writing Man who is King.

  Stu Tinker has set up the signing table in the back with a large display of nearly every King book set up behind that. Nervously, some of us take turns posing behind the table, sitting in the seat that King will sit in [in] a few short hours, which is in no way weird. My heart has begun its jittery little jump. The reality of the signing is hitting me. I have been a Stephen King fan my whole life, and I will be one for the rest of my life, but twenty-three is an apex of fan intensity for me. I’d met King once before, but I was a teenager and my Mom had been there and I was all dumb about it. This is my chance to be smart. This is my chance to make meeting Stephen King an awesome thing that I don’t screw up. God, I hope I don’t say anything stupid.

  Some of us wait at the tableau between Betts and the Phoenix Inn instead of jumping in line immediately. We know there’s a space for King’s car beside the building, and we wanted to catch the first glimpse of him. I need to underline that none of this is creepy. We’re talking some, burning off our nervous energy, the excitement and tension growing in our bellies. Suddenly, shouts like a clarion bell behind me, “There he is!”

  There he is. Oh my God, seriously, there he is, just being like a person who walks and does stuff and is around people. King turns to us, smiles, and waves. Some of us, stunned, raise our hands in return. Then, he favors us with a thumbs-up. Way to go, kids. Welcome to Bangor. Then he’s was gone, into the bookstore and out of sight.

  I can’t believe it. Stephen King had walked right past me and I. Couldn’t. Talk. What’s wrong with me?

  My friend Jay Torreso turns to me and says, “Wow, that was really him.”

  I grab him by the sleeves of his jacket. “You need to help me.”

  Wide-eyed, he says, “Okay, Kev. Anything you need, buddy.”

  Here’s what I need: Something simple that won’t fly out of my mind the second I see King. Something I can say that isn’t stupid, and isn’t, like, one of those dumb fan questions like, “How are you so scary?” or “When’s the next Dark Tower book coming?” Then I hit on it: I’d ask about Alan Pangborn and Polly Chalmers from Needful Things, two of my favorite characters of all time, folks I really want to see in a book again. Great, that was simple and direct, and absolutely not the type of question Stephen King is sick of, despite the fact that much later he said it was exactly the type of question he was sick of and I would be mortified all over again. But I don’t know any of that now. Alan and Polly, Alan and Polly. You’ve got this, Kev. You’ve got this.

  We make our way into line then, where we’re treated to cookies and cocoa and hot cider. I eat when I’m nervous, so on top of the large meal from Oriental Jade, I stack a few cookies and a cup of cocoa, too. And a few more cookies. An
d why not some cider? It’s all sloshing in my belly like I’m carrying a half-deflated kiddy pool after a rainstorm. My copies of Misery and The Dark Half are tucked under my arm, ready for the signature. Because Bag of Bones is a book about writing, and these are books about writing, and Stephen King will surely notice I’m being thematically consistent.

  “Hey!” I look around to Bob and Jay, with me in line. “Maybe I can talk to King about writers and writing. You know? Like a whole discussion, and I can pick his brain, and I can learn something about the mysteries of the universe and stuff.”

  “Kev,” Bob says. “You know you’re going to be up there a total of, like three minutes, right?”

  “Also,” Jay adds, “I have literally never seen a human this nervous about anything. Alan and Polly, Kev. Stick with Alan and Polly.” Okay, yes, Alan and Polly. Simple. Direct. You can do this.

  Soon, it’s Bob’s turn to meet King. I hear him talking with King about the Rock Bottom Remainders concert Bob had seen that Thursday. Mute envy rose in me. Bob, as usual, seems so calm, so collected. Should I talk about the Remainders concert I’d seen earlier in the year? King had sung, “Stand By Me” and Warren Zevon had been there and we could talk about Warren Zevon, maybe? I—

  Oh my God. It’s me. It’s me. It’s my turn. Oh God.

  I move up, lightheaded glee going off in my head like fireworks. I can’t blink. My heart is racing. My brain is a heap of images and misfiring synapses. It is quite honestly a miracle of autonomic response that I am able to breathe. Then Stephen King smiles at me.

  “Nervous?” he asks, sticking out his hand. Automatically I grip it in my own numb hand, shaking a little.