Salon’s John Marks recently talked with Stephen King on the occasion of The Stand‘s 30th anniversary, where King has revealed that he has written “a very long book” called Under the Dome that deals with themes similar to his 1978 opus.
The Q&A has led Splice Today‘s John Lingan to likewise reconsider King’s place. Lingan points out that King has a distinctly American “avoidance of bullshit at all costs” and that he writes “purely for the visceral thrill of storytelling.” But this assessment fails to take into account King’s undeniable literary aspirations, seen in Lisey’s Story and some of his New Yorker stories, which have detracted from his knack for writing can’t-put-down novels for the average Joe. (This tendency was, in part, why I recently stopped reading Just After Sunrise, a muddled collection of tedious short stories that had me pining for the visceral energy within Night Shift and Skeleton Crew.)
It is indeed King’s high concepts and straightforward storytelling quality — Richard Matheson’s unshakable influence — that has made him a compelling writer. But when he strays from his “country don’t mean dumb” philosophy, he’s nowhere near as enthralling. I suppose the last three volumes of The Dark Tower didn’t sit as well with me because these books were written more with the rabid fan base in mind. I’ve remained long convinced that King has a satirical novel in him — and argued this in my review of Blaze. And it’s worth noting that King’s aborted Web serial, The Plant, revealed the roots of this juicy promise. When King stops listening to what the fans want and stops striving for a “literary” territory that, by his own confession, he can’t hack, he’ll evolve naturally and organically as a novelist. Perhaps in ways that none can portend.
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (