Because I never have anything interesting to say on Mondays (or any other day, but that’s another issue), here at Noodleroux headquarters we’re rolling out a new feature: I like Mondays. Each week, I’ll wax poetic about something I like.
Sort of leaves you breathless, doesn’t it?
This week, I’m pleased to talk about the King of Horror: Stephen King.
Now, before you dismiss this post as yet another rambling from a sci-fi or horror aficionado who lives in their parents’ basement and/or aspires to be a serial killer, let me clarify.
I’ve never read any of Uncle Steve’s novels. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
On Writing is part autobiography, part how-to manual. Its composition was interrupted by the author’s life-threatening run-in with a drunk driver, and really paints a portrait of the writing life and one man’s particularly interesting writing life. I had the good fortune to pick the audio version, read by the author. I’ve never before finished an audio book and thought, “OMG, I must run out and buy the hardcover of this book!” This is the one and only tome that had ever pushed me to this extreme.
Uncle Steve’s columns for Entertainment Weekly are timely, often hilarious and thought-provoking. My only annoyance is the comments section of the Web site where there’s usually at least one hater who says Uncle Steve needs to stick to horror. Puhleez. These comments are usually filled with typos, so that’s all you need to know right there.
The ET columns cover everything from great books you’ve never heard of to movie prognostications from Uncle Steve’s pal The Longhair. And the columns are smart. And don’t you feel compelled to weigh the opinion of a man who hatched Carrie while working in a laundry?
I admire Uncle Steve. I just don’t want to read his novels. Because I live alone. And I get spooked by anyone whispering, “Red rum! Red rum!”