You know that’s not a statement, right? At least not one of mine. It’s the cover headline of this week’s issue of Entertainment Weekly, which, by the way, I have not yet read. Except for the back page. Because, say what you want, I love Stephen King. If you’ve read the stuff I used to write for The Simon, you know that I’m not a very likely or remotely typical fan. But I seriously dig the guy!
I’ve been working on something for you about getting back on the bus and then I read his essay this week. You know when you’re piecing something together in your head and then you see the fully formed realization of that idea, rendered more artfully by someone else, how morbidly fascinating that can be? I don’t know how to put it exactly. It’s like you’re in Renaissance Italy and you’re thinking, ‘To Hell with doing the bidding of the Medici clan, I think I’ll try working with my hands…maybe I’ll tinker with some marble.’ Then you run into Michelangelo. It’s a punch in the gut and the realization of true beauty all at once.
It doesn’t stay like that. The feeling is momentary. I mean, don’t worry, I’m not going to cry or anything. The second time I read it, I was just plain giddy. And I’m still going to finish my version, which for all its inferiority isn’t really the same in anything but spirit.
I just really think you should read it: Confessions of a TV Slut by Stephen King. In your mailbox or on newsstands as we virtually confer.