Bring me all the Stephen King novels in the land. Yes, all of them. I know, I know. I'll build a new bookcase. I'll buy a bigger house.
This is not the first time I have enjoyed a King book. You'd think the surprise would wear off. I long ago learned that he writes lucid sentences, tells gripping stories, creates vivid characters ... but much, much longer ago I formed the view that horror fiction is not my thing. The reasons for this prejudice are complex and fundamentally boring; I mention it only so I can tell you that no previous King novel has managed to drive a stake through its heart.
"Hmm," I would mutter, nonplussed to discover I had just had a great time reading The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, or 11.22.63, or Joyland. "That man can really tell a story."
But each of these books has its particular minor weakness, and somehow these always registered as sufficient reason to go back to my long-time policy of King-avoidance.
Paging Doctor Sleep, the miracle cure for anti-King bigots. I would have devoured this book in a day, except for three things: it's so good that I wanted it to last longer. The likelihood of my favourite characters coming to bad ends seemed so high that I wanted to put off finding out. And I needed to go on Twitter to ask the world at large which King books I should read next.