Sold in Drugstores

My name is Ann Mayhew, and I like genre fiction.

Now to be fair, I’ll say straight out that I don’t like just any old genre fiction. Those romance novels sold in drugstores look like they would make my brain hurt. No. I’m a horror genre kind of girl. Supernatural, thrillers, even the occasional sci-fi—that’s what makes me tick.

It all started when the summer after the 5^th grade, when a friend and I were going to our first sleep-away camp together. I bought a used copy of It by Stephen King, with the intention of reading it during camp. Now, I didn’t read it, for obvious reasons such as I was only 11 and that nothing’s scarier than killer clowns when you’re in the middle of northern Minnesotan woods at night. But exposure is exposure, and at a young age, it stuck.

I eventually read the tattered paperback a year or two later—and loved it. It was creepy, page-turning, and well-plotted, with awesome characters and the occasional word I didn’t understand but believed to be sexual in nature.

But it wasn’t just straight genre fiction from there on out. No, it was gradual. In the next few years, I was to read my classics, go through my Beat phase, and be mildly obsessed with Tom Wolfe.

Every time I stepped into the local Half-Priced Books, however, I was drawn to the shelves marked ‘Horror’ like a moth to a flame. I would skim over the spines of Stephen King novels, soaking in the titles, picking them up, cradling them, coveting them. Sometimes, I would splurge and buy one. His books were like a rich chocolate cake: easy to swallow, always satisfying, leaving me guilty yet hungry for more.

I was so far gone that even his trashier books tasted good to me.

I’ve managed to keep up a front. I still love “literary” literature. I’ll always have a soft spot for Joseph Conrad, even after having Heart of Darkness forced on me three times already. I devoured Thomas Wolfe. I get giddy over Toni Morrison. I read my “literary” scary stories too: The Turn of the Screw, “The Yellow Wallpaper,” “The Great God Pan,” Dracula. But it still comes out. At school, my friends have labeled me the Stephen King-obsessed Cat Lady who drinks too much coffee.

My collection has grown. I have everything from an English/French bilingual Stephen King book bought in France, to a first edition of Nightmares & Dreamscapes, to On Writing, to two different copies of It—one at school and one at home. I once considered buying a Stephen King mousepad, advertising The Stand, but then common sense kicked in.

I’m even thinking of doing my senior thesis on Stephen King.

In recent years, I’ve decided to embrace this love. I will admit to you that he is my favorite writer, if you ask. If I’m ashamed, it’s more because addiction in any sense is not ideal, not because I find the writer to which I am addicted shameful. I will defend him if you call him a bad writer. And, honestly, I’d much rather be the next Stephen King, writing a series of possibly trashy horror novels, than the next any “literary” writer.

I’ve accepted it, but it’s still lonely, this life. Barely anyone else I know reads Stephen King. I tell someone about my love for King’s books, and their usual response is: “Really? I’ve never read him.” Or worse: “Really? Isn’t he sold in drugstores?”

Another result of embracing this love is that I have felt a desire to expand it. I can’t say I love the horror genre if I only know Stephen King. I mean, I swear I could just stick to him if I wanted too. There’s no actual need to up the dosage. But now that Dean Koontz, Peter Straub, and Robert McCammon are on my mind, it’s hard to get them out. At the bookstore, my fingers twitch near those spines just as much as by the King.

Last night, I gave in to this craving. I cracked open a Dean Koontz novel. It was my first time with him.

I felt guilty though. There was Jonathan Franzen, calling to me from my bookshelf. I had considered going for him. James Joyce was next to Dean Koontz, and if I had moved my hand a little to the left I would’ve grabbed The Dubliners. Toni Morrison was buried in there somewhere, too. Hell, I could’ve even chosen Harry Potter—at least everyone does that one. Not only that, but I felt like I was cheating on Stephen King. I was betraying my first love.

Settled in between my sheets, though, it soon became clear that it is worth it. So far, Watchers is frightening, quickly paced, and intriguing. It’s no Stephen King, but maybe I’m biased. I can’t wait to finish writing this so I can back to my air-conditioned bedroom, far away from the TV blaring in the family room, and begin consuming it again, sentence by sentence, word by word.

I guess I’m not quitting anytime soon.