I am officially closing this blog.

I am sorry to say that I just don’t have the time and heart for the upkeeping of it anymore. It’s been feeling more like a chore lately and all the fun’s out of it, ya dig? I am still super into Uncle Steve (I’ve read Black House since the last proper update, and am currently reading Nightmares and Dreamscapes), but I feel like you deserve better than the constant hiatus I’ve been on.

I want to thank each and everyone of you for following this blog over the past two years or so! If you’re still interested in keeping in touch you’re welcome to follow my personal blog, I do write about Steve sometimes, and you’re always welcome to strike up random conversations about him! Now that I won’t have this blog as outlet anymore I’ll most likely be posting about him more over there. For all your other Stephen King needs, The Tower Junkie has a nifty list of links.

Long days and pleasant nights,
T xx

I haven’t posted in almost a month, I am so sorry. Life and all. Come to think of it, I never even wrote about the reading of Doctor Sleep I went to in November! Shame on me.

I hope to get some time to dedicate to this blog soon, but meanwhile, happy holidays, fellow Constant Readers! Thanks for sticking around.

Most of us keep that inner-being lock up, hidden away. A fiction writer doesn’t have to do that. He doesn’t have to hide it. He doesn’t have to keep it from anything. He can let it out, bring it out into the open. Let it live, let it breathe. Hell, he can let it party - give it the car keys, let it ride!
- Stephen King. “The Dark Half”.
On a very hot day in August of 1994, my wife told me she was going down to the Derry Rite Aid to pick up a refill on her sinus medicine prescription - this is stuff you can buy over the counter these days, I believe. I’d finished writing for the day and offered to pick it up for her. She said thanks, but she wanted to get a piece of fish at the supermarket next door anyway; two birds with one stone and all that. She blew a kiss at me off the palm of her and and went out. The next time I saw her, she was on TV. That’s how you identify the dead here in Derry - no walking down a subterranean corridor with green tiles on the walls and long fluorescent bars overhead, no naked body rolling out of a chilly drawer on casters; you just go into an office marked PRIVATE and look at a TV screen and say yep or nope.
- Stephen King. “Bag of Bones”.
Wandering’s the most addictive drug there is, I think, and every hidden road leads on to a dozen more.
- Stephen King. “The Dark Tower V: Wolves of the Calla”.
I grew up in a house where we didn’t have a TV until I was 10. We couldn’t afford one. We used to go down the street and peek in the neighbors’ window to watch Your Hit Parade. Books were what we had — and the radio. My mother was a reader, and she read to us. She read us Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde when I was six and my brother was eight; I never forgot it. And we used to get Classics Illustrated comic books, which were also fairly bloody. I still remember the Oliver Twist one — there was blood all over that thing. Comic books were the closest we had to a visual medium.
- Stephen King. Parade Magazine interview.