“Here, read this,” my mother said and plopped a book down next to me.
It was The Shining, by Stephen King.
I was ten years old.
A few minutes before that, I had been whining about having read all my Scholastic Book Club books and library books and, I imagine, doing everything I could to express how my life was over because I didn’t have a book to read.
Having just finished the book herself, she tossed the horror novel to me like a lifeline to a drowning victim. I grabbed on with both hands. The book drew me in and pulled me out of my despair…
…and into abject terror.
Well, no. Not really. But the book did creep me out a little, while many other parts just confused me (I mean, come on, I was ten for goodness’ sake!). Although initially intimidated by the thickness of the dog-eared paperback and the small print, I burned through that book like a flame to tissue paper.
Two things came out of that bizarre—some might argue inappropriate—gesture made by my very prudish and Catholic mother: one, I became a rabid Stephen King fan; and two, I began to learn that my mom was a lot more cool than I thought.
Cujo would come next, followed by Salem’s Lot, The Dead Zone, and King’s Magnum Opus, The Stand. Talisman, It, The Gunslinger and others would keep my attention idling and my imagination revving all through grade school and into high school.
Once in high school, I was introduced to Hawthorne and Austen and Steinbeck and Golding and Bradbury. By college, I was treading the deeper waters of Shakespeare, Faulkner, Atwood, Hesse and Vonnegut. I also fell in love with Adams and Poe, Doyle and Dumas. By college end, Mr. King and I parted ways, though mostly on amicable terms.
And now, an important question, the hard 24-dollar-and-95-cent question ($15.95 in paperback): Was my ten-year-old self wrongly subjected to and thus corrupted by inappropriate reading material irresponsibly supplied to me by a degenerate mother?
Or, did my mother, knowing me and where I was in my development, believe I was ready to tackle something heavier that would keep my interest and further encourage and develop my love of reading?
Sorry, I’m not going to answer that—or did I already?
I guess you’ll have to decide. I just find it interesting that a seed was planted which, though some might warn could only germinate a noxious weed in the unsullied soil of a ten-year-old’s mind, instead grew into an arboreal wonder with deep roots and expansive branches.
It’s also a story about a mother who I dearly miss, who could break out of her staunch Catholic upbringing to amaze her young son by how hip she could be, and how one casual action not only rocketed my love of literature to new heights, but also my love for writing...
…not to mention a love for being scared.
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