I should preface this post by saying it's completely uninformed, all things consider.
As you might have seen, if you've read this regularly for the past month, I dubbed Stephen King my personal "author of 2011." As honors go, that doesn't really mean much to anyone but me. Even so, there's a better chance for a "repeat" next year than there's ever been since I've started making those "personal best of the year" lists, 6 years ago. There have been a few repeat musical artists (mostly because I used to be obsessed with synth pop, when there are less than 10 really great, consistently creating, national synth pop groups)
So far, I've only read the first five "Dark Tower" books by Stephen King. As a writer, he's passable but nothing too special. He reminds me of a great American restaurant...even if it's the best American restaurant, it's still American, and for my taste, that means it's 4th best in the world, at best (because I'll always prefer Chinese, Italian, and French food). It's not King's nationality that makes him "nothing too special" (though I'd be dishonest to say that it plays something of a role in how I consider novels). It's his hearkening to Hemmingway in his simplicity without the "every-sentence-is-cathartic" sensation. He just tells a story. In a way, he's like the American J.K. Rowling for adults (though a better writer by leaps and bounds). He tells a great story, and that's his best quality. It's the story and the creativity that erases one's concern over the ever-present inelegantly simple sentences.
As an artist, I respect his ability to write the stories he writes- horror or not (and I'd argue he's more a Hitchcockian thriller writer than a purely fear-driven writer). Taking King's art as an expression of his inner being sheds light on a genius who seems to inhabit, mentally, a completely different world. King's persona-as-writer is enthralling to me- I envision him constantly holed up in a cabin by a lake in Maine, grinding out sense-of-place masterpieces on the daily. To think that an artist could stay in Maine (the place he loves) and attain his heights of accomplishment gives Cleveland artists hope, doesn't it?
As a writer, he's no Philip Pullman. Though the two have little to do with each other it's pertinent because Pullman constantly refuses to call himself a "Writer." "I tell stories" he says "When you think of yourself as anything but a storyteller, you begin to lose focus." And yet, Pullman is one of the greatest technical writers living today. He tells passable stories, but does so with structure, diction, and elegance unparalleled by most. As a writer, I'd rather read Philip Pullman's shopping list than Stephen King's non-fiction (seriously...read some of his book reviews- if it wasn't "Stephen King," I doubt they'd be published). And yet- His Dark Materials is brilliant, but did not keep me reading into the late hours (figuratively- I read primarily in the morning) nearly as often as The Dark Tower has over the past year or so.
It is a tyranny for me to write this. I'm as much a literary purist as you'll ever find. But there's something appealing, even so, about a story unfettered by human artistic artifice. For me, it's almost as if King's failings as a sentence-builder make the story that much more interesting because I'm not distracted from the plot by the beauty of the writing. It's easier for me to overlook the mundane- as it ought to be, in most things.
As time passes, it's true- I'll always consider His Dark Materials, Ulysses, and Wuthering Heights greater works of art, more ultimately meaningful to my life as a writer and student of language. But the works of the likes of King and Rowling have worth as well- as interesting, riveting stories- inaccurately told, to be sure, but full of an enjoyment I'd miss if the same story were told by a better writer.
And yet- that's not possible. Sometimes, I beat myself up for not being able to come up with ideas as creative as King or Rowling. But it's not my place to write those stories. Faulkner couldn't write The House on Pooh Corner. Though I don't have an unending tolerance for less-than-perfect writing in the face of a great story (sorry Twilight, you just don't make the cut), I'm glad to be able to say that finally, I can enjoy a story for a story despite how it's told. I'll always be more Stephen Dedalus than Leopold Bloom; an aesthete incapable of seeing sentences as nothing but functions toward pleasures- but so was James Joyce, and that's company I don't mind.
-Zack
"So come to me, come to me now, lay your arms around me"
-The Decemberists
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