First, a disclaimer: I haven’t kept up with this blog the way I meant to. I’ve skipped posts on Falconer and Money, even though I have strong opinions about certain aspects of both. Well, skipped may be the wrong word. Postponed. That’s more accurate. I really will post about them. Soon. Skeptic.
For right now, though, I’m too focused on Stephen King’s Under the Dome to write about much else. I mowed my way through all 1,100 pages of this book in just under 36 hours, and I’ve been trying to work through my “official” reaction to it since I closed it yesterday evening. Now, I’ve read a lot of Stephen King books in my time; I’ve certainly read enough to know how much he clearly enjoyed writing this one, and how it fits so snugly into the world he’s created up there in almost-fiction Maine. For that, I adored reading this book.
For a lot of other reasons, however, I didn’t. My biggest problem with Stephen King, and with the majority of the authors that have written more books than the number of years I’ve been alive, is that they don’t take risks. I don’t just mean big risks, either – I’m talking no risks. None. Zero. It’s safe city. Reading novels like these is like watching a person who’s poor but think he’s rich. He follows the same routine, gets by, but doesn’t stretch out of the comfort zone. It’s a problem with The Bestseller, which I’ll address in a later post. Let’s get back to The Dome.
I’ve read reviews in different outlets that I normally respect that raved about this novel. King writes great characters. I can’t deny that, and I wouldn’t try. They stay with you long after the novel is done. You can predict their actions and their thoughts. They’re almost always uncomplicated, but that’s part of what makes them so lovable. They’re black and white. Two-dimensional. Simple, with only a hint of complexity. The plot itself was an amazing idea. I was able to read this novel so quickly because I felt like King was sitting there next to me on the sofa, just telling me the story as he thought of it. It was filled with phrases like “and this guy said XXX and that guy said YYY and then they started fighting!” The simplicity was endearing, and the length made the simplicity seem deeper.
All those pluses are, oddly, also the downsides of this novel. King didn’t take the time to polish the prose. He didn’t develop the characters to the point of empathy, he stopped at likability. He gave the reader exactly what we always want, on the basest level: entertainment. This novel was palatable, and likely enjoyable, to anyone literate. That’s a talent, don’t get me wrong. But what bothers me is that King clearly has the potential for greatness. If he pushed, even just a little bit, his writing could be amazing. If he bucked the routine and said “Man up, reader. Deal with the unexpected,” his novels would elevate to another level, to a place where they could reach people beyond sheer entertainment. They could be…dare I say…literature.
This post is first in a series entitled The Bestseller Epidemic.
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