20 Authors You Should Read (Instead of Stephen King): Part I
This will be an occasional filler post (continuing, at least, until I reach the number of 20). You should know three things about this list:
1. These are fiction authors I highly recommend.
2. The reasoning behind creating such a list is, at least in part, vindictive (see below).
3. These authors really are better than Stephen King.
Now for the bitter part.
I grew up a child (and young man) reading Stephen King. As an aspiring writer, you could say he was my hero (he was). No, I wasn’t raised on the classics, which is unfortunate. I find books like The Iliad and The Odyssey tough reads (which is why I am not a better writer, plain and simple).
Even later in life, as an always-writing, forever-cutting-my-teeth, college student, I idolized King. Eventually I joined the day-job workforce, as most aspiring artists do – which is in part what keeps us aspiring, I suppose. I spent the better part of 15 years providing for my family in a job about as distant from writing for a living as the sun is from the moon.
So flash forward to me at 36, living here in Denver. Having just read On Writing, King’s own definitive book which details his personal trek as an aspiring writer, I was presented with a Golden Opportunity: I read in a local paper that The Rock Bottom Remainders, a band consisting mostly of famous writers (of which, at the time, King was a member), was coming to the Gothic Theater. Further, for a paltry sum of $300 (“paltry” being used with the most dripping sarcasm I could find lying around at the time this was written) a person could attend a “meet and greet” before the show, throwing back hors d’oeuvres and mingling with the writers.
Wow.
Not only did I pay the exorbitant price, I bought two VIP tickets – one for me and one for my then-wife (after all, who was going to snap the picture of me and my newfound compatriot)?
I won’t keep you in suspense. King was a complete ingrate. He was as disingenuous as they come, couldn’t have wanted to be there less and was making sure everyone knew it. Turns out when it comes to his fans, he doesn’t believe in idolatry (don’t get me started on celebrities who make millions off their fan base and then decide they don’t like their fan base).
He was so unapproachable I had to force myself on him to get a picture (not something I am proud of, nor something I would normally even do). I was in a state of shock. I had wanted so much to talk trade with him, maybe garner a small table scrap of hope from one who has fought for sustenance in the rough and tumble world of literary impossibilities and come out sated on the other side. In other words, I really just wanted to have a conversation with the man (not sure whether that was the meet or the greet but for $600 I was sure it fell in there somewhere between).
I brought only one book for him to sign (others brought stacks of all his classics: Carrie, Cujo, Christine, It, The Stand). I brought On Writing. I was the only one there who did. But do you think Stephen King, through even something as trivial as a twinkle in the eye, recognized that here before him, Dear Reader, was a fellow hopeful, a man who was still living in the ethereal dream of one day becoming a writer like himself? Do you think for even one nanosecond of time he acknowledged the fact that some had paid money they couldn’t afford to actually meet the filthy rich author?
Don’t hold your breath. King placed his scrawl on my book with so much disdain he might just as easily have been signing his own death warrant.
The night, however, was not a total bust. I met sports columnist and Tuesdays with Morrie author Mitch Albom, as well as humorist Dave Barry. Albom and his wife were gracious and talkative, posing for pictures and asking about Denver, while Stephen King conveniently disappeared after devouring a plate of grub.
Dave Barry, in addition to being just as gracious as Albom (and, later, stealing the show), actually wrote me back from his paper in Miami after I sent a note thanking him for the opportunity.
My apologies for the long, drawn out explanation of why I have bitterly included King in my design of this continued post. I promise future posts on this subject will focus exclusively on the recommended authors.
Now, since I have wasted most of my time here, and since I am not listing these authors in any particular order, let me just recommend one author this go around – one of my favorite contemporary reads:
Thom Jones.
Jones has written several collections of short stories (The Pugilist at Rest, Cold Snap, and Sonny Liston Was a Friend of Mine).
Once you get past the heavy ex-fighter thread that ties many of these tapestries together, you will find an author who grabs you by the shorts hairs, drags you around the room like a rag doll, tosses you in an exhausted, disheveled heap, and apologizes for nothing. Jones is, in my opinion, one of the most talented writers of this generation.
And finally, in the spirit of offering up credit where credit is long overdue, let me thank my good friend MF, who in light of my sheltered existence in the dark, chewing on the rind of Stephen King all those years, offered me up a flashlight and the fruit of his “reading list” (and oh what a juicy, delectable fruit it has been to sink these hungry teeth into). I owe much of my current list of contenders to him.
Boodles and Ice to you, MF.
And to Stephen King?
A highball of turned milk, straight up. Choice beverage of the sophistical hack.
The back seat is quiet.
posted by Commish at 8:19 AM
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