The first book by Stephen King that I read
was Pet Semetary – with its typo in the title.
And maybe I didn’t even know that was
wrong when I read it – everything seemed
so right, I’d found my new home.
The second book by Stephen King for me
was It. The cover as scary as the book. The
font so tiny, making the thousand pages
seem like two or three thousand or more –
great, because I didn’t want It to end.
Then it was Carrie – and from there the movie
versions of the books I’d read, and a whole
bunch after. There were other books too. Always.
But a new Stephen King felt like such an event.
There when Needful Things hit the shelf.
Reading Gerald’s Game instead of studying
for my exams. It was quiet in my room I guess,
so it counted towards something. And then
when The Green Mile was published in serial
it was a treat to buy and devour each tiny title.
These are the memories of reading I hold
closest. (Apart from pick-a-paths. Those
were the things that got me so hooked).
I’m buying back my memories by collecting
up King again. I gave away and sold them.
And now I want them back. Each new (old)
title that arrives is like a letter from a friend.
Each new reading possibility is tantalising
because I might not ever quite get there.
But the collector in me is strong with this.