In the fall of 1994, I quit Stephen King cold turkey. Mid-book, I threw up my hands (and the book) in frustration. “That’s it! I’m done with Stephen King!” And I brought the book back to the library unread.
Oh sure, I would later gobble up all the movies and “television events” I could get my hands on, like a reformed junkie sneaking back to the old digs for a little taste. I couldn’t miss out on
The Stand, The Shawshank Redemption, Storm of the Century, The Green Mile, and
Rose Red, not when everyone else was enjoying them. But for ten years, I never read another word the Master of Horror wrote.
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